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  To her astonishment, Isabelle found that she was holding a sword, one that was finely balanced and lethal. As she was marveling at the weapon, the man reemerged from the chicken coop. Immediately she advanced on him. “You’re going to put my hens down and leave. That’s how it’s going to be,” she said.

  He looked up, laughing, but his laughter died when he saw the fearsome sword in her hand. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

  But Isabelle was in no mood for questions. She struck at him, and the blade bit, opening a gash in his arm. He yelped and dropped the sack.

  “That was for Bertrand,” Isabelle said. Her blood was no longer running cold. She felt like she had fire in her veins.

  The man pressed his palm to the wound. When he pulled it away, it was crimson. He raised his eyes to Isabelle’s. “You’re going to pay for that,” he snarled.

  “Isabelle? What’s going on? Is that … is that Bertrand? What happened to him?”

  “Stay back, Tavi,” Isabelle warned. Her sister had picked the wrong moment to appear.

  “Get out of here. Go,” she said to the man, keeping her sword trained on him. When he didn’t move, she charged at him again. He stepped back just in time. Slowly, he raised his hands. “All right,” he said. “You win.”

  He’s leaving, Isabelle thought. Thank goodness.

  Which was exactly what he wanted her to think.

  Isabelle had been so outraged to discover a man raiding the coop, she hadn’t noticed the satchel in the grass a few feet away or the sword lying next to it. The man lunged for his sword, pulled it free of its scabbard, and turned to face her, his weapon drawn.

  Fear sluiced down Isabelle’s spine like cold rain through a gutter. Her nerve almost gave way. He had been a soldier in the king’s army, trained in the use of a sword. She had dueled with Felix. As a child. With a mop handle.

  “I’m going to slice you to bits. When I’m finished with you, the vultures will carry you off, piece by piece. What do you say to that, you stupid little bitch?”

  Isabelle swallowed hard. Deep inside her, the wolf, asleep under her heart for so long, opened his eyes.

  She hefted her sword and stared the man down. “I say, en garde.”

  There are those who believe that fear is an enemy, one that must be avoided at all costs.

  They run at its first stirrings. They seek shelter from the storm inside the house only to get crushed when the roof falls in.

  Fear is the most misunderstood of creatures. It only wants the best for you. It will help you if you let it. Isabelle understood this. She listened to her fear and let it guide her.

  He’s faster than you! it shouted as the chicken thief rushed her. So she retreated under low-hanging tree branches, which scratched his face and poked his eyes, slowing him.

  He’s stronger than you! her fear howled. So she led him over the tree’s knobby roots and made him trip.

  She parried every thrust and jab the deserter made and managed to land another blow herself, swiping a bloody stripe across his thigh. Cursing, he scuttled back, away from the tree, pressing on his wound. Out of the corner of her eye, Isabelle saw Tavi trying to get around them, to get to the pitchfork.

  No, Tavi, no! she silently shouted.

  But it was too late. The man saw her, too, and went after her.

  “Run, Tavi!” Isabelle screamed, breaking from the cover of the tree to chase after him.

  He heard her and pivoted. Now he had her out in the open. With a roar, he ran at her, swinging for her head.

  “No!” Tavi screamed.

  Isabelle caught his blade with her own. The crash of steel sent shock waves down her arms.

  Using all her strength, she managed to turn his blade, stumble away from him, and open a few feet of distance between them. The man wiped sweat from his face, then charged her again. He feinted left, then lunged right. Isabelle jumped back but caught her heel on a jutting rock and fell. Instinctively, she rolled to her right as she hit the ground. Sparks flew as her attacker’s sword struck the rock.

  As Isabelle staggered to her feet, the man raised his sword once more. Winded, the muscles in her arms screaming with exertion, Isabelle lifted her weapon high to block him again, but he was stronger and sure-footed, and she knew that this time, the force of the blow would knock her sword right out of her hands. She would be defenseless when that happened, completely at his mercy. She braced herself for the worst.

  But just as the man swung at her, a gunshot ripped through the air. Isabelle dropped into a crouch, her heart hammering. The blade whooshed over her head harmlessly; the sword fell to the ground.

  Where did the shot come from? she wondered wildly.

  She looked up at her assailant. He was holding his sword hand up. Blood was running down his palm. Two of his fingers were gone. He wasn’t looking at Isabelle, but at something, or someone, behind her. His eyes were huge.

  “I’m leaving. I—I swear,” he stammered. “Please … let me take my things.” He raised his wounded hand in surrender and picked up his sword with his other one. Backing away step-by-step, he scooped up his belongings and ran.

  Isabelle put her weapon down and her hands up. A sword was no match for a gun. Chest heaving, she stood, then slowly turned around, certain that another deserter had come up behind her and was pointing the pistol straight at her head.

  Or maybe a burglar. A brigand. A cold-blooded highwayman.

  Never, for a second, did she expect to see a monkey wearing pearls.

  It took Isabelle a full minute to believe what her eyes were telling her.

  A small black monkey with a ruff of white around his face was sitting a yard away from her. A rope of pearls circled his neck. He was brandishing a small silver pistol.

  As she stared at him, he hammered the pistol on the ground, peered down the barrel, then scampered off around the side of the stables, still holding the firearm.

  Isabelle pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart.

  “Tavi!” she called out. “Be careful!” She took a hesitant step forward. “There’s a monkey … he—he has a gun …”

  “I see him!” Tavi called out, rushing to Isabelle’s side. She’d gotten hold of the pitchfork and was clutching it for dear life.

  Isabelle’s foot was throbbing, but she limped after the monkey nonetheless, worried that he might shoot himself with the pistol, or Tavi, or her.

  “Monkey? Little monkey, are you there?” she called out, following the creature’s path.

  The monkey ran out screeching from a water trough, bolted across the drive, and made a beeline for a birch tree. A woman, her hair swept up with jeweled combs, her bosom rising up out of her sprigged gown like brioche, was standing at the base of the tree, looking up into its branches. She turned as she heard the monkey’s screech.

  “There you are, Nelson! Give me the pistol! You’ll kill someone!” she scolded. The monkey darted around her and climbed up the trunk. Three more monkeys were already in the tree. The four made a game out of tossing the pistol back and forth while the woman stood below, shaking her fist at them.

  Isabelle blinked. I’m hallucinating. I must be, she told herself. She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again. The woman was still there.

  “Are you seeing this, too?” she asked her sister.

  Tavi nodded, speechless.

  Isabelle approached the woman carefully, hoping she wasn’t here to steal chickens, too. She didn’t think she had another sword fight in her.

  “Madame, pardon me, but what are you doing in our stable yard? With a monkey?” she asked. “How did you get here?”

  “How do you think?” the woman called over her shoulder, hooking her thumb behind her. “How else does one convey oneself to a godforsaken backwater in the middle of nowhere?”

  Isabelle’s eyes followed the direction of her gesture. Her mouth dropped open. There, standing a little way down the drive, but with a clear view of the chicken coop, was the most magn
ificent carriage she had ever seen.

  In front of the enormous, painted coach, four dapple gray horses stood, tossing their heads and stamping their hooves.

  Up high in the driver’s seat sat a man wearing a jade-green jacket and pink trousers. A teardrop-shaped pearl dangled from one ear. He nodded at Isabelle and Tavi.

  Goggle-eyed, they nodded back. Behind the driver, a dozen trunks were lashed to the carriage’s roof. On top of them sat a troop of acrobats, one of whom was juggling knives blindfolded. Next to her a fire-breather blew lazy smoke rings; a magician caught them and turned them into coins. Musicians held their instruments as if at a concert hall awaiting their conductor. Isabelle was spellbound.

  The carriage door opened, and a man stepped out. Isabelle glimpsed a pair of mesmerizing amber eyes, a sweep of black braids, the flash of a gold earring. The man started to clap. The others joined him. The applause was thunderous. Then the man waved his hand and it stopped.

  “That was quite the duel, mademoiselle!” he said to Isabelle. “We saw you from the road and pulled in to help, but before I could even get my door open, Nelson took matters into his own hands. Paws, I should say. Though I shouldn’t have left my pistol lying on the seat. Have you ever met a monkey who could resist a silver pistol?” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself.”

  He took off his hat, bowed, then straightened again, and with a smile—one so beguiling that in a single day in Marseille it had inspired three sea captains to set sail for Cape Horn, a duchess to run off with her gardener, and two brothers named Montgolfier to invent the hot-air balloon—said, “The Marquis de la Chance, at your service.”

  As the words left his lips, the musicians shot to their feet atop the carriage and played a rousing fanfare.

  The marquis winced. Turning to them, he said, “A bit much for the country, don’t you think?”

  The music stopped. The French horns looked down at their shoes. The trumpeter polished an imaginary speck off his instrument.

  Isabelle, who’d dipped a curtsy, and pulled a stunned Tavi down with her, now rose. “Isabelle de la Paumé, Your Grace. And this is my sister Octavia. We are …” What? she wondered. Shocked? Stunned? Utterly astonished? “… pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I wonder if you could tell me how to get to the Château Rigolade,” the marquis said. “I’m under the impression that it’s somewhere around here, but we’re a bit lost. I won it.”

  “You won it?” Tavi echoed, clearly baffled.

  “Yes, in a game of cards. I needed somewhere to go. I and my household.” He gestured to the carriage. “Paris is chaos at the moment, with that beast Volkmar on the rampage. And I require peace and quiet. I’m writing a play, you see.”

  “You’re a playwright, sir?” Isabelle asked.

  “Not one bit,” the marquis said. “Never even put pen to paper before. But I’m always doing things I can’t do. Otherwise, I’d never get to do them.”

  As Isabelle tried to follow that logic, the marquis said, “Now, about the château …”

  Isabelle quickly gave him directions. “It’s not far. Turn left at the end of our drive. Follow the road for a mile. When you come to a fork in the road …”

  The marquis’s eyes lit up. “A fork in the road! How wonderful! I love forks in the road! They lead to opportunity!”

  “Change!” shouted an acrobat.

  “Adventure!” trilled a musician.

  “Excitement!” crowed the fire-breather.

  Isabelle looked between the marquis and his friends uncertainly. “Yes, well … when you come to this fork, make a right. Keep on for another half mile or so, and you’ll see the drive. The château itself sits on a rise. You can’t miss it.”

  “We are forever in your debt,” said the marquis. “But before we leave, I would like to offer you a bit of advice …”

  The marquis walked up to Isabelle and took her hands in his. She caught her breath. His touch felt as though lightning had just ripped through the air. Like she’d stolen a bag of diamonds. Found a trunk full of gold.

  But as they stood close, Isabelle saw that the merriment that lit his eyes, the ebullience that animated his every movement, the teasing challenge that sparkled in his voice, were all gone, replaced by a sudden, unnerving ferocity.

  “You are good with a sword, but not good enough,” he said to her. “Practice. Become faster. Better. There are worse creatures afoot in France than chicken thieves. Far worse. Promise me, young Isabelle. Promise me.”

  It seemed very important to him that she learn to protect herself. She had no idea why, but he was clearly not going to let go of her until she agreed to his demand. “I—I promise, Your Grace,” she said.

  “Good,” the marquis said, releasing her. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me—”

  Ka-blam!

  Another bullet whistled through the air. It hit the weather vane on top of the barn and sent it spinning. It sent Tavi running for cover.

  It also spooked the horses.

  Whinnying and wild-eyed, they lurched forward in their harnesses, wrenching the carriage around the circular drive so violently that it went up on two wheels and teetered there for a few heart-stopping seconds. The driver threw himself across his seat. Everyone on the roof leaned over. The marquis ran for the carriage, caught hold of the open door, and hung his full weight on it. Finally, the wheels slammed back down. The carriage careened under the birch tree, and as it did, the monkeys dropped out of the branches onto its roof. The marquis, safely inside now, stretched across the magician and the cook and leaned out of the window.

  “Thank you!” he shouted. “Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye, Your Grace!” Isabelle and Tavi called back.

  They stood by the stables waving until the carriage sped down the drive, turned into the road, and disappeared.

  In all the commotion, they never saw the monkey unhook the pearls from his neck, stretch a furry arm out over the carriage’s roof, and drop them into the grass.

  After the excitement of the morning, the rest of the day passed slowly for Isabelle, full of chores outside of the mansion, and inside it, too.

  Nightfall found her sitting at her kitchen table. Tavi had made them a delicious omelet with tarragon in it. Isabelle had cleaned her plate and was now staring at the sword the fairy queen had given her, lost in thought.

  She’d hung the sword on a hook by the door. Tavi had asked her where she’d gotten it. Isabelle had fibbed and said she’d found it in a trunk in the stables some time ago, and had grabbed it as soon as she’d seen the chicken thief.

  Tanaquill’s voice drifted through her mind. Cut away piece by piece by piece … She’d said the word piece three times. Is that a clue? Isabelle wondered. Are there three pieces that I’m supposed to find? “We should wash the dishes, Iz,” Tavi said now.

  “Yes, we should,” Isabelle agreed, but she made no move to do so.

  Tavi followed her gaze. “You’ve been frowning at that sword all through supper. Why?”

  Isabelle’s frown deepened. “I’ve been wondering, Tav … what is a heart, exactly?”

  “What a strange question. Why are you asking?”

  “I just …” Isabelle shrugged. “Want to know.”

  “A heart is a four-chambered, pump-like organ that circulates blood throughout the body via rhythmic contractions.”

  “I meant besides that. In poems and songs, the heart is the place where goodness comes from.”

  Tavi gave her a long look. “Are you writing poetry now?”

  “Yes! Ha. Yes, I am. How did you guess?” Isabelle said brightly. It was another fib, and she felt bad about telling it, but it was the perfect cover for asking what she wanted to know without mentioning why she wanted to know it. “In my poem, the main character—”

  “Do poems have main characters?”

  “This one does, and she’s lost her heart. Or rather, pieces of it. I need to find them. In the poem, I me
an. For my main character. What would you say pieces of a heart could be?”

  Tavi sat back in her chair, an expression of grave concern on her face. Then she picked up a candleholder that was standing on the table and moved the flame past Isabelle’s eyes.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Isabelle asked, shrinking away from it.

  “Seeing if your pupils dilate and contract properly. I’m worried you’ve taken too many falls off Martin. Hit your head once too often.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I haven’t lost my wits, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Answer my question, Tavi. Theoretically.”

  “Well, let’s say—theoretically—that it was you we were talking about. I’d say that sword you’ve been staring at is a piece of your heart.”

  Isabelle stubbornly shook her head. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “Why not? You used to love swords. You loved fencing and … and Felix. Why, the two of you—”

  “Yes, I did,” Isabelle said, brusquely cutting her off. Tavi’s words were salt in a deep wound that had never healed. “And what did it get me? Felix made a promise and then he broke it. And me along with it.”

  “We’re not talking theoretically anymore, are we?”

  Isabelle inspected her hands. “No,” she admitted.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”

  Isabelle waved her apology away. “Whatever the pieces of my heart are, they don’t include him. Or swords.”

  “Then what do they include? And how are you going to find them?” Tavi asked.