Stepsister Read online

  “We’ll be fine. We’ll manage. Stepfather left us money, didn’t he?”

  Maman laughed. It was a tired, hopeless sound. “Your stepfather left us nothing but debts. I’ve sold the Rembrandt. Most of the silver. Several of my jewels …”

  Isabelle was exhausted. Her head hurt. “Hush, Maman,” she said. “Go to sleep now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  When she returned to the kitchen, she found Tavi kneeling by the hearth, staring into the fire. Isabelle took the poker from her hand and tried to pull the book out of the grate, but it was too late.

  “Stop, Iz. Leave it. It’s gone,” said Tavi, with a hitch in her voice.

  Isabelle’s heart ached for her. Steady, logical Tavi never cried. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help,” she said, putting the poker down.

  “Do you? Dress my hair, then,” Tavi said brokenly. “Rouge my cheeks. Make me pretty. Can you do that?”

  Isabelle didn’t reply. If only she could make Tavi pretty. And herself. How different their lives would be.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Tavi, staring at the ashes of her beloved book. “I could solve all the Diophantine equations, extend Newton’s work on infinite series, complete Euler’s analysis of prime numbers, and it wouldn’t matter.” She looked at Isabelle. “Ella is the beauty. You and I are the ugly stepsisters. And so the world reduces us, all three of us, to our lowest common denominator.”

  Deep within the Maison Douleur, a tall grandfather clock, its pendulum sweeping back and forth like a scythe, ticked the minutes away.

  Maman and Tavi were both in bed, but Isabelle couldn’t sleep. She knew she’d only toss and turn if she tried, so she stayed in the kitchen and sat by the hearth, picking at the supper she’d fixed for Maman.

  Once, she welcomed the night. She would climb down the thick vine that grew outside her bedroom window and meet Felix. They would gaze at the night sky and count shooting stars, and sometimes, if they were as still as stones and lucky, they would see an owl swoop down on her prey or a stag walk out of the Wildwood, his antlers rising over his noble head like a crown.

  Now the darkness haunted Isabelle. She saw ghosts everywhere. In mirrors and windows. In the reflection of a copper pot. She heard them in the creak of a door. Felt them fluttering in the curtains. It wasn’t the darkness that was haunted, though; it was Isabelle herself. Ghosts are not the dead, come back from the grave to torment the living; ghosts are already here. They live inside us, keening in the ashes of our sorrows, mired in the thick, clutching mud of our regrets.

  As Isabelle stared into the fireplace at the dying coals, the ghosts crowded in upon her.

  She saw Ella, Tavi, Maman, and herself riding in their carriage. Maman was complimenting Ella luxuriantly. “How pretty you look today!” she purred. “Did you see the admiring glance the mayor’s son gave you?”

  Other images flickered to life. Maman frowning at Tavi’s needlework, telling her she should practice until she could sew as nicely as Ella. Maman wincing at Isabelle’s singing, then asking Ella for a song.

  Envy, resentment, shame—Maman had rubbed these things against Isabelle’s heart, and Tavi’s, until they were raw. Maman was subtle; she was clever. She’d started early. She’d started small. She knew that even tiny wounds, left untended, can fester and swell and turn a heart black.

  More ghosts came. The ghost of a black stallion. The ghost of a boy. But Isabelle couldn’t bear these, so she stood up to carry her plate to the sink.

  The clock struck twelve as she did, its chimes echoing ominously throughout the house. Isabelle told herself it was time for bed, then remembered that she hadn’t locked the door to the stables or closed the chickens in their coop. With all the upset Maman had caused, she’d forgotten.

  As she hobbled back to the fireplace to bank the coals, a darting movement caught her eye. A mouse had ventured onto the hearth and was digging in a crack between the stones. As she scrabbled furiously, two tiny mouselings scurried to her side. An instant later, the mouse stood up on her hind legs, squeaking in triumph. Clutched in her paw was a small green lentil. She bit it in two and handed the halves to her children, who nibbled it greedily.

  Guilt’s thin, cold fingers gripped Isabelle as she remembered how that lentil got there.

  Ella had overheard Maman telling Isabelle and Tavi that the prince was holding a ball and that all the maidens in the realm were invited. She’d asked if she could go, and in response, Maman had picked up a bowl of lentils and thrown them into the fireplace.

  “There were a thousand lentils in that bowl. Pick them all out of the ashes and you can go,” she’d said, a cruel smile quirking her lips.

  It had been an impossible task, yet Ella had managed it. Isabelle had just discovered how: the mice had helped her. When she had presented the full bowl, Maman had snatched it out of her hands, dumped it out on the kitchen table and counted the lentils. Then she’d triumphantly announced that one was missing and that Ella could not go to the ball.

  What was it like for Ella to be so alone, to have no friends except for mice? Isabelle wondered. Then, with a sharp stab of pain, she realized she didn’t have to wonder—she knew.

  The mouselings finished their meal, then looked at their mother, but she had nothing more for them. She’d eaten nothing herself.

  “Wait!” Isabelle said to the mice. “Wait there!” She hurried back to the supper tray but moved so clumsily that she scared the creatures. They scampered away.

  “No! Don’t go!” Isabelle cried, heartbroken. She snatched a piece of cheese off the tray, then limped back to the hearth, but the mice were nowhere to be seen.

  “Come back,” she begged, looking for them. “Please.”

  Kneeling by the fireplace, she placed the cheese on a hearthstone. Then she sat back down in her chair. Waiting. Hoping. But the mice did not return. They thought she meant to hurt them. Why wouldn’t they? That’s what she did.

  Unbidden, voices from the market echoed in Isabelle’s head. Tantine telling her that people wouldn’t forget or forgive. Cecile calling her ugly. Worst of all, the words of the baker’s wife: You were cruel to a defenseless girl.

  Remorse curled around Isabelle’s heart like a snake and squeezed. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her head bowed, she did not see the shadow fill the kitchen window. Or the hand, pale as moonlight, press against it.

  By the time Isabelle lifted her head again, the shadow was gone. Wiping her eyes, she stood. The barn and the chicken coop were still waiting for her. She shuffled to the door, lit the lantern that was resting on a hook next to it, and walked out into the night, sorrow hanging off her like a shroud.

  Had Isabelle waited just a few more seconds, she would have seen the mother mouse creep out of the shadows and back to the hearth. She would have seen the hungry creature pick up the cheese. She would have seen her, whiskers quivering, blink up at the window where the shadow had passed.

  Then shudder. And run.

  Isabelle was glad of her lantern.

  The moon was full tonight but had disappeared behind clouds. Once, she could navigate the grounds of the Maison Douleur in the dark, but it had been a long time since she’d ventured outside after midnight.

  The outbuildings were located to the west of the mansion. Isabelle followed the path of flat white stones that led over the lawns, around the linden, through a gate in a wooden fence, and down a gentle hill.

  Bertrand the rooster opened one suspicious eye as Isabelle shined the lantern into the chicken coop. After a quick head count, she latched the door and continued to the stables. Martin was dozing in his stall. He woke briefly as she checked on him, snorted with irritation, then settled back into sleep. Isabelle secured the stable door and started back for the mansion.

  It was as she was closing the gate that it happened.

  Out of nowhere, the gentle night breeze stiffened into a vicious wind. It ripped her hair loose, slammed the gate shut, and snuffed out her lantern. And then it was gone.


  Isabelle pressed a hand to her chest, startled. Luckily, the wind had also scattered the clouds. Moonlight now illuminated the white stones snaking across the grass, making it possible for her to find her way. As the path carried her past the linden, the tree’s leafy branches swayed in the breeze, beckoning to her.

  Isabelle walked closer to the linden, thinking of the dove who had warned the prince of her deception. Was it roosting in those branches now? Watching her? The thought made her shiver.

  She put her lantern down and stared up at the tree, remembering the days she’d spent climbing in those branches, pretending she was scaling the mast of a pirate ship or the walls of an enemy’s fortress, going higher and higher.

  The ghosts she’d tried to banish earlier crowded in on her again. She saw herself as a child, fearlessly threading her way through the tree limbs. She saw Tavi with her slate and her equations, and Ella with her daisy chains. They had been so innocent then, the three of them. So happy together. Good, and good enough.

  The remorse that had squeezed her heart now crushed it.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered to the three little girls, aching with longing and loss. “I wish things were different. I wish I were different.”

  The leaves murmured and sighed. She almost felt as if the tree was speaking to her. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she went on her way.

  She’d only taken a few steps when she saw it … a movement in the darkness.

  Isabelle froze. Her heart stuttered with fear.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Someone was standing in the shadow of the linden tree.

  Watching her.

  The figure stepped out of the darkness.

  Isabelle, her heart still battering against her ribs, saw that it was a woman—tall, lithe, pale as bone. Long auburn hair floated around her shoulders. She wore a high crown of twining blackbriar. Living forester moths, their blue-green wings shimmering, adorned it. A yellow-eyed hawk sat perched on her shoulder. Her own eyes were emerald green, her lips black. The gown she wore was the color of moss.

  The woman was clutching a struggling rabbit by the scruff of its neck. As Isabelle watched, she lifted the animal to her face, breathed its scent, and licked her lips. Her sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

  Isabelle had never seen her before, yet she recognized her.

  When Ella was small, she’d woven fanciful tales about a magical creature who lived in the hollow at the base of the linden tree. She was a woman sometimes, and sometimes a fox. She was a wild thing, majestic and beautiful, but sly and fierce, too. Isabelle had always thought Ella’s stories were just that—stories.

  Until now.

  The woman gave her a smile, the same smile she’d given the rabbit right before she snatched it from a patch of clover. Then she started toward her, step by slow step.

  Everything inside Isabelle told her to run, but she couldn’t, she was mesmerized. This was no gossamer-winged creature sipping dew from flower petals. Nor was she a plump, cozy old godmother, all smiles and rhymes. This was a being both dark and dangerous.

  This was Tanaquill, the fairy queen.

  “You summoned me,” the fairy queen said, stopping a foot away from Isabelle.

  “I—I didn’t. No. I don’t think. D-Did I?” Isabelle stammered, saucer-eyed.

  Tanaquill’s eyes glittered darkly. Her teeth looked sharper up close. She had long black talons at the end of her fingers. “Your heart summoned me.” She laughed dryly. “What’s left of it.”

  She pressed a pale hand to Isabelle’s chest and cocked her head, listening. Isabelle felt the fairy queen’s talons curve into the fabric of her dress. She heard the beat of her heart amplified under Tanaquill’s palm. It grew louder and louder. For a moment, she feared that Tanaquill would rip it, red and beating, right out of her chest.

  Finally, Tanaquill lowered her hand. “Cut away piece by piece by piece,” she said. “Ella’s heart was not.”

  How would she know that? Isabelle wondered, and then, with a jolt, it came to her: “It was you,” she whispered in amazement. “You’re the one who helped Ella get to the ball!”

  She and Tavi had tried to puzzle out how their stepsister had acquired a coach, horses, footmen, a gown, and glass slippers. And how she’d escaped from her room after Isabelle had locked her in it when the prince had come to call. Now she knew.

  “A pumpkin transformed into a coach, some mice into horses, a lizard or two for footmen … child’s play,” Tanaquill sniffed. She regarded her rabbit again.

  Isabelle’s pulse quickened. If the fairy queen can make a coach out of a pumpkin, what else can she do? she wondered. For a moment she forgot to be scared. Hope kindled inside her.

  “Please, Your Grace,” she said, “would you help me, too?”

  Tanaquill tore her gaze from the rabbit. “It was easy to help Ella, but I cannot help a girl such as you. You are too full of bitterness. It fills the place where your heart used to be,” she said, turning away.

  Isabelle lurched after her. “No! Wait! Please wait!”

  The fairy queen whirled around, her lips curled in a snarl. “For what, girl? Ella knew her heart’s deepest wish. Do you?”

  Isabelle faltered, frightened, but desire made her bold. A dozen wishes welled up inside her, all born from her happiest memories. In her mind’s eye, she saw swords and books, horses, the Wildwood. Summer days. Daisy chains. She remembered a promise and a kiss.

  Isabelle opened her mouth to ask for these things, but just as the words were about to leave her tongue, she bit them back.

  All her life, everything she’d wanted, everything she’d loved … they were always the wrong things. They got her into trouble. They broke her heart. They weren’t for her; the world had said so. So why ask for them? They’d only bring more heartache.

  There was one thing, though, that could fix everything. It could make people stop hating her. It could make her what Maman wanted her to be, what the baker’s wife and Cecile and the villagers and the old merchant and all the suitors who came to the house and the whole entire world demanded that she be.

  Isabelle looked Tanaquill in the eye and said, “I wish to be pretty.”

  Tanaquill growled low in her throat and Isabelle felt as if she’d given the wrong answer, but the fairy queen didn’t refuse her. Instead, she said, “Wishes are never simply granted. They must be earned.”

  “I’ll do anything,” Isabelle said fervently.

  “That is what all mortals say,” said Tanaquill with a scornful laugh. “They’ll do anything. Anything but that which must be done. Only one thing can rid you of the bitterness inside. Do it, and perhaps I will help you.”

  “I’ll do it. I swear,” Isabelle said, clasping her hands together. “What is it?”

  “Find the lost pieces of your heart.”

  Isabelle blinked. “Find the pieces of my heart?” she repeated, as if she hadn’t heard the fairy queen correctly. “I—I don’t understand. How do I find pieces of a heart? How did Ella?”

  “Ella did not have to.”

  Isabelle scowled. “Of course not. I bet all she had to do was smile.”

  Her words, prompted by resentment, were tart and disrespectful. Tanaquill’s emerald eyes hardened; she turned away.

  Panic exploded inside of Isabelle like a dropped glass. Why could she never control herself? “I’m sorry. Tell me what the pieces are. Tell me how to find them. Please,” she begged, running after her.

  Tanaquill relented. “You know what they are.”

  “But I don’t!” Isabelle protested. “I have no idea!”

  “And you must find your own way to them.”

  “How? Show me,” Isabelle implored, growing desperate. “Help me.”

  Still clutching the struggling rabbit, Tanaquill bent down by the base of the linden tree and, with her free hand, raked through the small bones scattered in the grass around it. She picked up a small, slender jawbone that had belonged to
a darting, wily animal—a weasel or marten—and the empty half shell of a walnut, and gave them to Isabelle. Next, she reached into the thick blackbriar climbing the linden’s trunk, drew a prickly seedpod from between its sharp thorns, and handed that to her, too.

  “These gifts will help you attain your heart’s desire,” Tanaquill said.

  Isabelle looked down at the things she was holding, and as she did, the emotions she’d tried to hold down spiked like a fever, weakening everything strong and sure inside her. Her blood felt thin, her guts watery, her bones as crumbly as old mortar. The apology she’d made only moments ago was forgotten. Angry, jealous words burst from her lips.

  “Gifts? These things?” she cried, staring at the bone, the nutshell, and the seedpod. “You gave Ella a beautiful gown and glass slippers! A carriage and horses. Those are gifts. You’ve given me a handful of garbage!”

  She looked up, but Tanaquill had turned away again. As Isabelle watched, the fairy queen disappeared into the hollow in a swirl of red hair and green skirts. Isabelle hobbled after her, but as she did, a thin, high-pitched scream rose and was abruptly cut off—the rabbit’s death cry. She took a wary step back.

  Her gaze returned to the objects in her hand. The fairy queen was mocking her with them, she was certain of it, and that certainty was painful to her.

  “Ugly,” she said as her fingers touched the jawbone. “Useless,” she said as they brushed the nutshell. “Hurtful,” she said as the seedpod pricked them. “Just like me.”

  She would toss the objects into the hearth in the morning. They could at least help kindle a fire. She shoved them into her skirt pocket, then walked the rest of the way to her house, convinced that there was no help for her, no hope. There was only despair, heavy and hard, weighing on what was left of her cutaway heart.

  Most people will fight when there is some hope of winning, no matter how slim. They are called brave. Only a few will keep fighting when all hope is gone. They are called warriors.