Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(54)

Isbe is about to duck out when she remembers something.

“Josette?” she whispers.

There’s a stirring. “Yes?” comes the voice of a young girl.

Isbe slowly makes her way toward that voice, careful not to bang into any of the other beds and awaken the snoring nun. She kneels down beside Josette’s bed and takes the girl’s hand. It is icy cold.

Josette coughs. “What is it? Are you one of the travelers?”

“I am,” Isbe tells her. She wants to say more, but she can’t tell her that it’s her fault the convent is owed money, that it might be her fault Josette hasn’t gotten better care.

“And are you really going all the way to the palace?” There’s awe in the girl’s voice.

“Yes.”

“But aren’t you afraid of the sickness? Or the evil faerie queen?” she whispers.

“I suppose I should be,” Isbe replies, realizing it’s true.

“You remind me of Mother Hildegarde,” Josette whispers.

Her words send a shiver down Isbe’s spine. “Tell me about her.”

“Reverend Mother knows about everything. She is said to have visions. I have seen her roll through fire and come away unburned.” Josette’s whispers get more excited with every detail. “She has stood in freezing water in the winter for hours and not caught even a chill. She sometimes goes away for days, and we discover she has been meditating all that time within a tomb under the ground.”

“What stories!” Isbe says with a smile.

“They aren’t stories. It is all true. There is something special about Mother Hildegarde. Like you.”

“There’s nothing special about me.”

“Yes,” Josette says simply. “There is. I heard Sister Agnes whispering that you arrived here in a hearse. Is it true? Have you come from . . .” The girl’s voice drops lower. “The other side?”

“No,” Isbe whispers, a mixture of laughter and sadness bubbling in her throat.

“Are you dead?”

“Not that I know of.”

Josette coughs again. “I’ve read stories of the dead coming back.”

“You know how to read?” Isbe asks, startled.

“Of course!” she cries, a little too loudly. Then, more quietly, she goes on. “Mother Hildegarde teaches all of us to read, and to write too. She is very . . . political.”

Isbe stifles a smile.

Josette doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you afraid to die?”

Isbe thinks for a minute. “I suppose I am. But I’m more afraid of all I have to do before then.”

“Me too,” Josette says.

“Then you’d better get your sleep.” She leans over and kisses Josette’s forehead.

“What was that for?” the girl asks.

“You remind me of someone too,” Isbe whispers.



William is not as easy to awaken. She has to physically shake him before he comes to with a startled intake of breath.

“I was dreaming,” he explains. “It was so real. I dreamed you had no sister, that you were the princess of Deluce but were pretending not to be. That you had invented the idea of the sleeping sickness as a cover so no one would find out you had fled the palace in search of adventure.”

Isbe doesn’t know what to say to that at first. “I assure you, I’m not clever enough to have invented any of it. It’s all too serious and all too real.”

“I realize that. It was only a dream,” William replies, though he seems to be saying so as much for his own benefit as for hers. “It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“No, tell me what you were going to say,” she presses.

“I can’t shake the feeling, Isabelle, that there’s something you haven’t told me.”

“You think I’m lying to you?” Isbe asks, truly surprised.

“Maybe not,” William answers. “I just have a sense that there’s more to you than I yet know.”

“Well, of course there is. We’ve only known each other a short time.”

They pause for a moment, their breath coming and going and neither one saying anything.

Then William grabs her hands. “I should have done this before, when you first asked me.” He guides her palms to his face.

The gesture is startling, but Isbe eagerly seizes the opportunity to scan his expression, to memorize his features, to fully take him in. Her fingers dance lightly across his full lips—much more pronounced than Gilbert’s. His eyes are big and widely spaced. He has a prominent forehead. A regal forehead. His skin is smooth . . . except for a slight scar along his jaw.

“Like I mentioned,” he whispers, by way of explanation, “my brothers weren’t very nice.”

They sit there in the unlit guest quarters, a room hardly larger than a closet, Isbe taking in what he has said, and not said.

Finally she breaks the silence. “You’re probably wondering why I woke you.”

She hurriedly explains that she needs him to scan through the convent’s stored documents, and to her relief, he readily agrees to help. “I won’t be falling back to sleep anytime soon anyway,” he says. She can’t help but wonder if it’s more than that—maybe he’s the one who longs to pretend he’s someone else. Maybe he’s the one who was looking for a reason to flee from his life in search of more.