Stepsister(88)

“I have to go back,” she said, her heart heavy. It was the right thing, the only thing, to do.

It was just as those words left her lips that she heard the voices, drifting towards her across the river, from deep within the trees.

She stood perfectly still, listening. Fear plucked at her nerves. Were the old ones right? Was the Hollow haunted? Or could it be a band of outlaws or deserters?

Or maybe the voices belonged to Cafard’s men, out hunting for her? No, that wasn’t possible. There was another way to get to the Hollow, but it involved a long ride around the mountain on a narrow, rutted road. It was unlikely his soldiers could have gotten down it so quickly.

Isabelle waited for the voices to speak again, but Nero’s breathing was the only sound she could hear.

“Stay here, boy,” she said, looping his lead over his neck.

She ventured closer to the water and looked across it. In the dying light, she could make out the far riverbank, and dense line of trees along it, but nothing else. Here and there leaves rustled, but that could be the breeze. Just when she’d convinced herself she’d imagined the voices, she heard them again. And then the strong smell of tobacco wafted to her.

Isabelle had never seen a ghost. She did not know much about them, but she was certain of one thing: Ghosts did not smoke cigars.





Ninety-Nine


Nelson crept quietly through the partly open window.

He dropped down to the bench underneath it, then threw an anxious glance back at Chance.

“Go!” Chance mouthed at him from outside the window. “Fetch the map!”

He could see it, open on Fate’s table, from where he stood; the skull at the bottom was as black as ebony.

Fate, busy digging in her trunk, her back turned to the window, didn’t see the little creature scamper across the floor.

But Losca, roosting on top of the wardrobe, did.

With an ugly shriek, she launched herself at him. The monkey jumped from the floor to the bed. The raven wheeled about and flew at him again. Nelson rolled across the bed, dodging her, then threw himself on her back.

Fate whirled around. Her eyes went to the tangled animals.

“What on earth—” she started to say, but a high, rusty screech cut her off. It was the hinge on the casement window. Chance had just climbed through it. He rushed to the table and the map lying rolled up upon it. But Fate got there first. She stood in front of it, blocking him, a long silver stiletto in her hand.

“Step aside. I don’t want to fight you,” Chance warned.

A viscious smile twisted Fate’s lips. She snapped her wrist and a split second later, the stiletto was flying straight at his heart.

Chance leapt to the right. The stiletto sank with a thuk into the wall behind him. He was about to advance again, but at that instant, a fox leapt through the window. She lunged at the fighting animals. The monkey, terrified, catapulted himself into Chance’s arms. The raven flew high, circled the room, then landed back on top of the wardrobe.

Growling and snapping, the fox jumped onto Fate’s table. With a sweep of her tail, she sent Fate’s inks flying. Bottles smashed on the floor; lurid colors seeped into the cracks between the boards. She jumped down, and a few seconds later, a woman stood where the fox had been, clutching the map in her hand.

“Enough,” Tanaquill said, tucking the parchment deep within the folds of her cloak.

“That map is mine,” Fate said, starting towards her. “Give it to me.”

Tanaquill bared her teeth, snarling. “Come, crone. Take it,” she dared her.

Chance stepped forward. “Keep the map, Tanaquill. But help Isabelle. Save her.”

“The girl will make her next move herself. Neither of you will make it for her. There is only one person who can save Isabelle now … Isabelle.”

With a swirl of red, she was through the open window and gone. Fate and Chance were left standing by themselves.

Chance pulled the stiletto out of the wall. He handed it back to Fate. She put it down on the table, then looked around the room, at the havoc Tanaquill had wreaked. Losca was already down off the wardrobe, in her human form, cleaning up the broken glass.

“I have a bottle of port,” Fate said with a sigh. “At least the fairy queen did not break that.”

“A good vintage?”

“I am too old to drink bad ones.”

Chance rocked back on his heels, weighing her offer. “I do enjoy a good port.”

Fate crossed the room and dug in her trunk once more. A pair of hand-blown goblets emerged. A porcelain platter. The port. A box of dried figs dipped in dark chocolate. Roasted almonds flecked with salt. A hunk of crumbly Parmesan wrapped in waxed cloth.

“Do something useful,” Fate said. “Pull the chairs up to the fire.”

One chair, short with soft cushions, was already near the fireplace. Chance pushed it closer; then he carried over the wooden chair that stood by the table. He spied a stool and positioned it between them. Fate arranged the treats on the platter and set it on the stool. She poured two glasses of port and handed one to Chance.

“This changes nothing,” she cautioned. “No quarter asked—”

“None given,” Chance finished.

“The skull is jet black. I doubt she will survive the night.”

“As long as she still breathes, there is hope,” said Chance defiantly.