And handed him the torch.
Isabelle, legs tucked underneath her in a window seat in her bedroom, was blinking up at a silvery crescent moon that was playing peekaboo behind filmy, drifting clouds.
She was so tired, but she couldn’t go to bed. She hadn’t even undressed.
People had come again tonight, to shout and jeer and throw things at the house. They would stop after a while, when they saw that no one was coming to the door, when they finally grew bored, but until then, she would not sleep. Until then, she would remain wakeful and watchful, peering out between the slats of her shutters every so often to make sure the crowd did not drift too far into the yard, or go down the hill toward their animals.
Isabelle hoped the noise wouldn’t wake Maman and upset her. Tavi would be fine. Unlike Isabelle’s window, which faced the front yard and the drive, hers overlooked the back gardens. She wouldn’t hear a thing.
Isabelle yawned. Her body craved sleep. She’d worked from the moment she’d arrived home from the Château Rigolade to sundown, only stopping for a bit to eat at midday.
She’d scrubbed the kitchen floor. Beat the dust out of rugs. Washed windows. Swept steps. Weeded the garden. Pruned the roses. Did anything and everything to keep from thinking about Felix, to keep from remembering his kind eyes and lopsided smile. His gentle hands. The way tendrils of his hair, worked loose from his ponytail, curled down the back of his neck. The stubble-covered line of his jaw. The freckle above his top lip.
Stop it, she told herself. Right now.
It was treason, this wanting. How could you long for the very person who’d hurt you worse than you’d ever been hurt in your entire life? It was like longing to drink a glass of poison, pick up a cobra, hold a loaded gun to your head.
She forced herself to think about something else, but soon regretted it, for only memories of the day’s other disaster came to her. The taunts of the children at the orphanage rang in her ears. So did the outraged shriek of the mother superior.
She was no closer to finding a piece of her heart, and Tanaquill’s gifts weighed heavily in her pocket, reminding her of her failure.
She still had hope, no matter how fragile, of becoming pretty. She just had to find another way of earning the fairy queen’s help.
Tavi made jam, she thought now. I could bring some to an elderly shut-in … if only I knew one. I could knit socks to bring to Colonel Cafard’s soldiers … but I never learned how to knit. I could make some soup and bring it to a sick person, or a refugee, or a poor family with lots of children … but I’m not a very good cook.
Still looking out of the window, Isabelle heaved a deep sigh. “How’d you do it, Ella? How did you always manage to be so good? Even to me?” She leaned her weary head against the wall. Shouts and laughter and ugly words drifted up to her from outside. She knew she mustn’t sleep, but she didn’t think there would be any harm in closing her eyes. Just for a minute.
Isabelle was out instantly. As she drowsed, she dreamt of many things. Of Tanaquill. The marquis. The magician dangling from her silk noose. A monkey in pearls. Felix.
And Ella.
She was here again, in the Maison Douleur. She was standing at the hearth, wearing a threadbare dress. Her face and hands were smudged with cinders. Isabelle was so happy to see her, but Ella wasn’t happy. She was pacing back and forth fearfully.
“Wake up, Isabelle,” she said urgently. “You need to leave.”
A fire was burning in the hearth, and as she spoke, it grew. Its flames curled around the sides of the hearth and up to the mantel. Isabelle coughed. It hurt to breathe. Her eyes stung. Smoke, thick and choking, billowed through the air. Tongues of flame licked the walls and ceiling. The room began to blacken and curled at its edges, as if it were not a real room at all, only a picture.
“Isabelle, wake up!”
“I am awake, Ella!” Isabelle cried, turning in frantic circles. The flames were devouring everything in their path. An oil lamp exploded. Windowpanes shattered. The curtains ignited with a thunderous whoosh.
“Go, Isabelle! Hurry!” Ella shouted. “Save them!”
And then Isabelle watched, horrified, as the flames engulfed her stepsister, too.
“Ella, no!” she screamed, so loudly that she woke herself up. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She could still feel the heat of the fire, hear wooden tables and chairs crackling in the flames. It was hard to see; her vision was blurry from sleep. She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, trying to clear them.
“It was so real,” she whispered.
She stood. The floor was hot beneath her bare feet. Her eyes were stinging. With a sickening jolt of fear, she realized it wasn’t sleep that had blurred her vision; it was smoke.
The fire … it wasn’t a dream. It was real. Dear God, it was real.
Terror sent her flying across the room. “Maman! Tavi!” she screamed, wrenching open her door. “Get up! Run! Run! The house is on fire!”
“Isabelle?” Tavi murmured. “What is it? What’s—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence.
“Fire!” Isabelle shouted, pulling her bodily out of her bed. “Get out! Go!”
She ran out of Tavi’s room and down the long hallway that led to her mother’s chamber.
“Maman! MAMAN!” she called, bursting through her doors.
Maman was not asleep. She was seated at her vanity table, trying on a necklace.
“Stop shouting, Isabelle. It’s unladylike,” she scolded.
“The house is burning. We have to go,” Isabelle said, grabbing her mother’s hand.
Maman wrenched it free. “I can’t go out like this. I’m not dressed properly.”
Isabelle took her mother by the wrist and half cajoled, half dragged her down the hallway. At the top of the stairs, they met Tavi. Her arms were full of books. She was gazing down the stairwell at the conflagration below, paralyzed by fear.
“It’s all right, we can make it,” Isabelle said. “Look at the door, Tavi. Not the flames.”
Tavi nodded woodenly, then followed Isabelle as she started down the steps. Windows shattered in the heat. Air ran into the house through the broken panes, feeding the fire, bellowing flames into the foyer. The three women had to cross it to get to the front door, and safety.
“We can do it. Stay close,” Isabelle said.
“I don’t want to go outside!” Maman protested. “My hair’s a fright!”
“It’ll look far worse burnt to a crisp!” Isabelle shot back, tightening her grip.
Isabelle continued down the curving staircase, pulling Maman behind her, forcing Tavi to keep up. By the time they got to the foyer, the flames were halfway across it.
“What do we do?” Tavi shouted.
“We run,” Isabelle replied. “Go, Tavi. You first.”
Head down, Tavi bolted across the floor. Isabelle heaved a sigh of relief as she watched her disappear through the front door. Now it was her turn. She tightened her grip on her mother’s wrist and took a few steps across the floor.
As she did, a gust of wind blowing through a shattered window billowed a burning drapery panel at them. Isabelle instinctively raised her hands to protect herself against it, letting go of her mother.
Maman saw her chance. With an animal cry, she shot back up the stairs.
“Maman, no!” Isabelle shouted, darting after her.
She found her back in her room, frantically brushing her hair. Isabelle tore the brush away from her. “Look at me!” she said, taking her mother’s hands in her own, forcing Maman to meet her eyes. “The fire is destroying the mansion. You must come with me.”
Maman stood. She raked her hands through her hair. “What will I wear? What, Isabelle? Tell me!” She picked up a gown off the floor, and a pair of shoes, and clutched them to her chest. Then she lifted her heavy mirror off its hook on the wall. The gown and shoes fell to the floor as she did. “No!” she cried, snatching at them. She lost her grip on the mirror. It toppled forward, pin
ning her to the floor.
“Stop this!” Isabelle pleaded, pushing the mirror off her.
But Maman would not. She abandoned her finery but took hold of the mirror once more and carried it out of her room. She made it to the landing before dropping it again. It fell to the floor with a loud, echoing boom. Weeping, she sat down next to it.
Isabelle glanced over the railing. Her stomach clutched with fear as she saw that the fire was climbing the walls to the first floor. It was licking the staircase, too.
“Maman, we cannot take the mirror,” Isabelle said, her panic rising.
But her mother only stared at the glass sorrowfully. “I can’t leave it. I’m nothing without it. It tells me who I am.”
Isabelle’s heart was battering her ribs. Everything inside her was telling her to run. But she did not. Instead, she sat down next to her mother.
“Maman, if you don’t leave the mirror, you will die.”
Her mother stubbornly shook her head.
“Maman,” Isabelle said, her voice breaking, “if you don’t leave the mirror, I will die.”
Would it matter to her mother if she did? Isabelle didn’t know. She was nothing but a disappointment. Was there ever a time she’d pleased Maman instead of making her angry?
Maman looked at Isabelle. In the icy depths of her eyes, something was shifting and cracking. Isabelle saw it and saw that her mother was helpless to stop it. “You are strong. So strong,” Maman said. “I saw that in you when you were a tiny baby. It has always frightened me, your strength. I would rock you in my arms and wonder, Where is there a place in the world for such a strong girl?”
Below them, a giant wooden ceiling beam gave way. It crashed down to the foyer, bringing much of the second floor with it. The noise was deafening. The dust and smoke it threw into the air were blinding. Isabelle covered her head with her arms and screamed. When the dust cleared, she peered over the railing again and saw a jagged, gaping hole in the foyer floor, next to the stairwell. In the darkness, with fire raging all around it, the hole looked like the gateway to hell.
“Maman … please,” she begged.
But her mother, still gazing at the mirror, didn’t seem to hear her.
Isabelle’s stomach squeezed with terror. But another emotion rose inside her, pushing the terror down—hatred.
How many times had her mother summoned her to her room, stood her in front of that very mirror, and looked over her shoulder? Frowning sourly at the way her dress bunched here or puckered there? Disapproving of her freckles, her crooked smile, her wayward hair?
How many times had Isabelle lifted her eyes to her own reflection only to see a miserable, awkward girl looking back at her?
That mirror, and all the others in her house, had stolen her confidence, her happiness, her strength and courage, over and over again. It had stolen her soul; now it wanted her life.
From deep within the house, another window exploded. The sound of breaking glass told Isabelle exactly what she had to do. She stood, tore the mirror from her mother’s hands, and, with a wild yell, threw it over the banister. It hit the stone floor below and shattered into a million glittering pieces.
“No!” Maman screamed, reaching through the balusters. She stared into the flames for a few long seconds, then looked at Isabelle helplessly.
“Get up, Maman,” Isabelle ordered, taking her hand. “We’re leaving.”
Together they started down the stairs once more. When they got to the bottom, they saw that most of the foyer floor was gone. Only a narrow strip remained, running along one wall and supported by burning joists. One misstep, and they would fall to a fiery death.
Isabelle led Maman along what remained of the floor, hugging the wall the whole time. When they got close to the door, they had to jump across a two-foot gap where the floor was gone completely, and then they were outside, and a sobbing Tavi was running to them.
Isabelle quickly pulled her mother and sister away from the inferno to the sheltering safety of the linden tree. From under its branches, their clothing singed, faces stained with soot, their arms around each other, the three women watched as the fire raged, collapsing the Maison Douleur’s walls, bringing its heavy slate roof down, destroying everything that they owned, their past and their present.
“And, with any luck,” whispered an old woman dressed all in black and watching from the shadows, “their future.”
As the sun rose the next morning, Isabelle stood under the linden tree, gazing at the smoldering heap that had been her home.
Her dress was soaked. Tendrils of wet hair stuck to her skin. A heavy morning rain had doused the fire, but not before a strong wind had swept glowing embers across the yard, to the chicken coop and the open window of the hayloft.
Tavi had wrenched the door of the coop open and had chased the birds out of the yard to safety. They were gone now, vanished into the woods. Isabelle had gotten Martin out before fire took the stables. He stood under the linden tree with them, shaking raindrops out of his mane. Tavi and Maman sat huddled against the linden’s trunk, asleep under some horse blankets Isabelle had managed to save from the stables.
Everything in the mansion had been destroyed. Clothing. Furniture. Food. Any paper money Maman had had was ashes; any coins or jewelry had likely melted or were hopelessly buried under piles of hot stone and smoking beams.
Not one neighbor had come to help them. To see if they were hurt. To offer food or shelter. They were utterly alone. Destitute. Friendless. That terrified Isabelle even more than the fire had.
Chilled from the rain, numb inside, Isabelle did not know how they would eat that day or find shelter that night. She did not know how to take the next step. She could not see a way forward.
She stood, cupping her elbows, mutely watching wisps of smoke spiral up into the air for over an hour. Until she heard the sound of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels, and stepped out from under the tree to see who it was.
“Isabelle, is that you?” a voice called. “My goodness, child! What happened here?”
Isabelle saw an old horse and an even older farm wagon, piled high with cabbages, creaking toward her. Holding the reins was Avara LeBenêt. Seated next to her, her face creased with concern, her dark eyes as bright and busy as a vulture’s, was Tantine.
“It was a fire,” Isabelle said dully. “It took everything.”
Tantine pressed a wrinkled hand to her chest. “That’s terrible. Just terrible, child!”
“What goes around comes around,” sniffed Madame LeBenêt.
“How did it start?” Tantine asked.
“I don’t know,” Isabelle said, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I woke up, and the downstairs was in flames.”
“It must’ve been a spark from the fireplace. Or an ember that rolled out of the grate,” Tantine said. “Where is your mother? Your sister?”
“They’re under there, asleep,” Isabelle replied, pointing to the linden.
“This is dreadful. You’re soaking wet. Cold, too, from the looks of you. Have you nowhere to go?”
Isabelle shook her head but then had a thought. “Perhaps the marquis could help us. His château is so big. All we would need is a room in the attic. We could—”
Tantine paled. She shot to her feet, startling Madame LeBenêt and Isabelle. “Absolutely not!” she declared. “I won’t hear of it. The marquis is a man of loose morals, my dear. He lives with several women, not one of whom is his wife. I will not stand by and see two young women corrupted by that scoundrel!”
“But he seems so very—” Nice, Isabelle was going to say.
But Tantine held up a hand, silencing her. She turned to Madame LeBenêt. “They must stay with us, Avara. We are their closest neighbors.”
Avara LeBenêt nearly choked. “Three more mouths to feed, Tantine? With a war going on and food so scarce?”
Isabelle thought of the rows of cabbages in the LeBenêts’ fields. The plump chickens in their coop. The branches of their plum trees ben
t to the ground with heavy fruit. She did not relish the idea of accepting charity from this harsh, stingy woman, but she knew she had no choice. Please, Tantine, she begged silently. Please convince her.
“It’s a burden, yes,” Tantine allowed. “But you are an unselfish woman, Avara. A woman who always puts others first.”
Madame LeBenêt nodded vigorously, as one does when accepting praise, or anything else, that does not belong to one. “You’re right. I am far too kind. It’s my undoing.”
“Look at what you will gain from the arrangement: three desperately needed farmhands,” Tantine said. “All yours have joined the army. Only Hugo remains because of his poor eyesight. Your cabbages will rot in the fields if you can’t get them to market.”
Avara looked Isabelle up and down. Squinted. Worked a piece of food from her teeth with her thumbnail. “All right,” she finally said. “You and your family may come to the farm and I will feed you, if”—she held up a finger—“if you promise to work hard.”
Isabelle nearly wept with relief. They could dry themselves off. Warm themselves by the farmhouse’s hearth. Maybe there would even be a bowl of hot soup for them.
“We will work very hard, madame. I promise,” she said. “Me, Tavi, Maman, Martin … all of us.”
Madame LeBenêt shook her head. “No, absolutely not. The offer does not include your horse.”
Isabelle looked from Madame LeBenêt to Tantine pleadingly. “But I can’t leave him here,” she said. “He’s old. He needs his oats. And a dry stall to sleep in.”
“You see, Tantine? I’m being taken advantage of already,” Madame LeBenêt said, flipping a hand at Isabelle.
“I doubt the animal will eat much,” Tantine assured her. “And you can use him, too.”
Madame relented. “I suppose that’s true,” she said. She gestured at her own cart horse. “Louis here is on his last legs.”
Because you worked him to death, Isabelle thought, looking at the poor bony creature. And you’ll do the same to us. The realization sat heavily on her.
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