Stepsister(96)

Isabelle ignored his grousing. “You’ve come in the nick of time,” she said. “We need you.”

“Who needs us?” Tavi said, looking around.

“The village of Saint-Michel. The king. All of France. And Ella.”

“Ella?” Tavi echoed.

“Enemy soldiers are trying to kill her. And me.”

She quickly explained what had happened since she’d left them. Tavi and Hugo listened; then Tavi, eyes sparking with anger, said, “We have to stop them. They can’t do this. They won’t do this.”

“Come upstairs. Hurry,” said Isabelle.

Tavi climbed down out of the wagon and rushed to Felix’s room. Hugo quickly tied Martin to a hitching post and followed her.

“Ella, is that you?” Tavi said as she entered the room.

Ella nodded. Tavi’s habitually acerbic expression, the one she used to keep the world away, softened. Her eyes glistened. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d get the chance to … oh, Ella. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Tavi,” Ella said, reaching for her hand.

“Hello, Ella,” Hugo said shyly, staring at the huge, battered cast-offs she was wearing. “Should I bow or something?”

“Maybe later, Hugo,” Ella said.

“We need to get Ella and Isabelle out of here before the whole village wakes up,” Felix explained, handing out cups of hot coffee. “What if we hid them in the wagon, under the potatoes, and headed to a camp that’s loyal to the king?”

“According to the map I stole, the nearest one is fifty miles away,” said Isabelle. “Martin wouldn’t make it.”

Ella had released Tavi's hand; she was sitting at the table again, looking out of the window, a troubled expression on her face. Hugo said, “Could we use Nero?”

Isabelle shook her head. “He’s never pulled a wagon. He’d kick it to pieces.”

Ella covered her face with her hands.

For the second time, Isabelle noticed her distress. “Ella? What’s wrong?” she asked, putting her coffee down.

“You are all so kind to me. So good,” Ella replied, lowering her hands. “Isabelle, you saved my life. But I … I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabelle said. “You deserve that and more. You—”

“No, listen to me!” Ella cried. “You apologized to me, Isabelle, back in the Devil’s Hollow, and now you have, Tavi. And that was brave of you both. Very brave. And now it’s my turn to be brave. As I should’ve been years ago.” The words came out of her mouth as if they were studded with nails. “Isabelle, earlier you asked me to forgive you and I said you didn’t know what you were asking. I said that because I’m the one who needs to be forgiven.”

“I don’t understand …” Isabelle said.

“The note,” Ella said, her voice heavy with remorse. “The one Felix left for you in the linden tree.You said Maman found it and destroyed it, but you’re wrong. I’m the one who found it. I took it and burned it and ruined your life. Oh, Isabelle, don’t you see? I’m the ugliest stepsister of all.”





One Hundred and Twelve


Isabelle sat down on Felix’s bed. She felt as if Ella had kicked her legs out from under her.

Ella had destroyed the note. Not Maman. Ella. No matter how many times Isabelle repeated this to herself, it still made no sense.

“Why” she asked.

“Because I was jealous, too.”

“Jealous? Of whom?” Isabelle asked.

“Of you, Isabelle. You were so fearless, so strong. You laughed like a pirate. Rode like a robber. And Felix loved you. He loved you from the day my father brought you, Tavi, and Maman to the Maison Douleur. He was my friend and you took him away.”

“I was still your friend, Ella. I was always your friend,” Felix said, wounded.

Ella turned to him. “It wasn’t the same. I didn’t jump over stone walls on stallions. I didn’t race you to the tops of tall trees.” She looked at Isabelle again. “You and Felix were always having adventures. They sounded so wonderful and I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear that he liked you better than me. Couldn’t bear to be left behind. So I made sure I wasn’t.”

Isabelle remembered how upset Ella would get when she and Felix rode off to the Wildwood and how relieved she always was when they returned. I should be angry. I should be furious, she thought. But she wasn’t—just deeply, achingly sad.

“I was so sorry afterward,” Ella continued. “When I saw how miserable you were. But I was too afraid to tell you what I’d done. I thought you would hate me for it. But then everything changed between us and you hated me anyway.”

Ella got up, crossed the room, and sat down next to Isabelle. “Say something. Anything,” she pleaded. “Say you hate me. Tell me you wish I was dead.”

Isabelle exhaled loudly. Raggedly. As if she’d been holding her breath not for seconds, or minutes, but years.

“It’s like a fire, Ella,” she said.

“What is?”

“Jealousy. It burns so hot, so bright. It devours you, until you’re just a smoking ruin with nothing left inside.”