Stepsister(91)

“That’s not a worry,” Volkmar said. “The king’s days are numbered. He will not live long enough to sire a child.”

The grand duke drained his glass. “Unless he already has.”

Volkmar was silent as he leaned forward to pour more brandy for his guest. Then he sat back in his chair and said, “I can have no heirs to challenge my claim to the throne. You know what that means.”

The grand duke took a sip of his drink, then lifted his eyes to Volkmar’s. “It means the queen must die, too.”





One Hundred and Five


Isabelle climbed up to a higher branch and sat down, her back against the trunk, her hands wrapped around smaller branches, her feet dangling.

It is said of great commanders that their blood runs cold in the fiery hell of battle. That the cannons’ roar, the screams of the dying, the smoke and sweat and blood, only serve to sharpen their perception, the better to see where advantage lies.

Isabelle felt that clarity now.

She was in a tree, only yards above two bloodthirsty men who would kill her without a second thought if they were to discover her, yet she sat quietly, calmly considered her options, and determined the way forward.

Volkmar wanted to kill the king, and the queen, too; she had to find a way to stop him. She could try again to get to Paris and see Ella, or to get to the king and tell him what she’d learned, but she had no idea how she would do that, or if either of them would believe her if she did somehow manage to gain access to them.

A memory surfaced in Isabelle’s mind now, like a fish jumping in a lake. She was back at the Maison Douleur. Blood dripped into the dirt from her maimed foot. The grand duke was walking towards Ella, carrying the glass slipper on a velvet cushion when he suddenly stumbled and dropped it. Isabelle remembered the sound of it shattering. It was an accident, he said. Except it wasn’t. He tripped on purpose; she’d seen it.

Because he didn’t want Ella to marry the prince. Because she wasn’t highborn. She wasn’t good enough. Ella, who was kind and good. Ella, who was more beautiful than the sun. With a few cold words, the grand duke had defined her and dismissed her.

Then Isabelle heard another voice: the old merchant’s voice. He had done the same thing to her. He’d called her ugly. Defined her before she ever had a chance to define herself. In the space of a moment, he’d decided everything she was and ever would be.

But now Isabelle saw something she’d never seen before—that the merchant hadn’t acted alone. He’d had an accomplice—she, herself. She’d listened to him. She’d believed him. She’d let him tell her who she was. And after him, Maman, suitors, the grand vizier, Cecile, the baker’s wife, the villagers of Saint-Michel.

“They cut away pieces of me,” she whispered in the darkness. “But I handed them the knife.”

The merchant’s voice still echoed in her head. Others joined it.

… just a girl … ugly little monkey … ugly stepsister … strong … unruly … mean …

Isabelle sat, listening to the voices, trying so hard to hear her own.

And then she did. The map, it said. You have to get the map.

The voice was not shrill or fearful. It was clear and calm and seemed to come from the very core of her being. Isabelle recognized it. When she was a child, it was the only voice she’d ever heard. It had never led her astray then, and it didn’t now.

If she got the map, she could stop Volkmar’s attack. She would read it, then ride like the wind to the closest loyal army encampment. The camp’s commander would certainly want to know how she’d come into the possession of a secret map with the king’s seal on it. She would tell him, and he would send his troops to Saint-Michel’s rescue. She had until tomorrow, at dusk. That’s when Volkmar was going to attack.

Volkmar’s servant had put the map inside his tent. Isabelle knew she had to get into the tent, snatch it, and get out again. Looking down, she saw that Volkmar and the grand vizier were still deep in conversation. Volkmar’s servant had set up a table for them outside the tent and had brought them supper. They weren’t even halfway through it.

It’s now or never, she thought, then she climbed the rest of the way down the tree. Crouching low, she crept to the back of the tent. She listened for a moment, to make sure no one was inside it; then lifted the canvas flap and ducked under it. A large campaign table stood in the middle of the space. Spread across it were quills, an inkpot, letters, a telescope … and the map.

Her heart leapt. You can do this, she told herself. Just take it and go.

She’d been so focused on finding the map that her eyes had gone straight to the table instead of sweeping around. As she dashed towards it, a movement to her right caught her eye. She stopped dead, her heart in her mouth.

There, sitting on a canvas cot, her wrists bound, her mouth cruelly gagged, was a girl. Isabelle’s eyes widened. She took a step towards her.

Then she whispered one word.

“Ella?”





One Hundred and Six


Isabelle half dropped, half skidded to her knees by the cot. She fumbled the knot out of Ella’s gag.

“Isabelle!” Ella whispered, choking back a sob.

“What happened? How did you get here?” Isabelle whispered back, horrified to see her stepsister tied up like an animal.