Stepsister(92)

“The grand duke,” Ella said. “He and his guards were supposed to be escorting me to a manor east of Saint-Michel. I was going to see if it could house war orphans. Halfway there, we turned off the road. He ordered his men to bind me and bring me here. Volkmar—”

“I know,” Isabelle said grimly. “I heard him and the grand vizier talking. I’m going to get the king’s map. Then we’re going to leave.”

“How, Isabelle?” Ella asked. “There are hundreds of soldiers in this camp!”

“I got in. I can get out.”

“But my restraints …” Ella lifted her hands. She tried to say more but dissolved into sobs again.

Isabelle took her face in her hands. “Listen to me, Ella,” she said sternly. “You need to trust me. You have no reason to, I know, but I’ll get you out of here. I promise. I—”

“Where is that blasted boy? No matter, I’ll fetch it myself …” a voice bellowed.

It was coming from right outside the tent. And it belonged to Volkmar.





One Hundred and Seven


Simple is the opposite of hard, Isabelle thought. Easy is also the opposite of hard. But simple is not the same as easy. Not at all. I bet Tavi has a theorem for that.

Isabelle was babbling to herself. Silently. To calm her crashing heart. To force her lungs to pull air in. To distract herself from the fact that Volkmar von Bruch’s big black boots were only inches from her face.

What she had to do was simple—get Ella and herself out of here—but it was far from easy. And Volkmar coming into the tent had just made it ten times harder.

The instant she’d heard his voice, she put the gag back on Ella. Then she dived under the cot and pulled her skirts in after herself. She froze, barely breathing, as he opened the tent flap and walked in.

“Ah, Your Highness. Comfortable, are we? No? Well, you won’t have to endure it for much longer. Tomorrow the grand duke and I attack your husband’s encampment and barter your life for his surrender. Of course, I have no intention of upholding my end of the deal. But don’t worry. Neither of you will suffer. The men on my firing squad have excellent aim.”

A very valuable bargaining chip, the grand duke had said. That chip was Ella.

Isabelle’s hands knotted into fists. She could smell Volkmar—alcohol, sweat, and the greasy mutton he’d just eaten.

“Now, where is that brandy?” Isabelle heard him say. Then, “Ah! There it is!”

Volkmar left the tent. In a flash, Isabelle was out from under the cot and on her feet. She unknotted Ella’s gag again, then found a dagger on the table and used it to slice through the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. Ella stood unsteadily.

“Walk!” Isabelle whispered. “Get the feeling back in your feet! Hurry!”

While Ella took a few steps, Isabelle snatched the map off the table and rolled it up. As she did, a document that had been lying underneath it caught her eye. It was another map—one that showed the locations of Volkmar’s troops. Isabelle’s pulse raced as she saw it. This would turn the tables on Volkmar and that viper of a grand vizier.

She rolled the second map around the first one, then silently beckoned to Ella. The two girls slipped out of the tent the way Isabelle had come in. Once outside, Isabelle held a finger to her lips and listened. The camp was quiet. The gathering for Volkmar and the grand duke had broken up. Most of the soldiers were in their tents—most, but not all. Some still moved between the rows. Isabelle could hear them talking.

When she was certain no one was nearby, she took Ella’s hand and started off. Staying low, they hurried, ducking behind the tents, careful to avoid any twigs, eyes peeled for movement. They had to double back and find a new route when a tent flap opened and a soldier put his boots outside, and again when they nearly ran out in front of a group of men smoking under a tree.

Scared, disoriented in the deepening darkness, Isabelle nonetheless managed to work her way towards the outskirts of the camp. Just as they reached the edge of it, though, an alarm was raised. Terse voices quickly spread the message that the queen had escaped and must be found. Crouched behind the same tree that had hidden Isabelle when she first discovered the camp, they watched as soldiers hurried out of their tents, clutching swords or rifles. Then Isabelle grabbed Ella’s hand and blindly ran to the riverbank. Half skidding, half stumbling, they made their way down it.

When they reached the water, Isabelle hiked her skirts with one hand, held the maps up high above the water with the other, and waded in. Ella, who was wearing delicate silk shoes, took them off, gathered her skirts, and followed. The river rocks were treacherous. After taking only a few steps, she slipped on one and fell. As she went down, she lost her grip on her dainty shoes and the fast-flowing water carried them away. Drenched, weighed down by her wet clothing, she struggled to her feet, lurched after her shoes, and fell again.

“Leave them!” Isabelle hissed.

Ella’s falls had made loud splashes. Had anyone in the camp heard them? Isabelle anxiously wondered. She stuffed the maps down the front of her dress to keep them dry, nervously glancing back at the bank. Then she walked to Ella and held out her hand. Ella took it. Isabelle pulled her up, and together the girls carefully picked their way over the stones.

They were halfway across the river, when a harsh voice rang out.