Now Gabrielle’s hands were soft, her nails perfectly manicured. It was her eyes that seemed in danger of turning hard and brittle.
“Ah, there you are. I have been looking for you everywhere,” she complained. Gabrielle rarely visited the hidden workshop, and Ariane was disturbed to realize that she had not made any effort to close the concealing door above them.
“Gabrielle, I do trust that you remember this is supposed to be a secret room.”
“It is not as if all our servants don’t know that the room is here and that we are witches.”
When Ariane frowned at her, Gabrielle rolled her eyes and amended, “Oh, pardon me, I forgot. Witches is a bad word. I should have said wise women.”
“And what about any chance visitor?” Ariane demanded.
“There is no one here. Not unless you count your noble suitor.”
“What! Renard is here?” Ever since Ariane had awakened that morning to discover the mist burned off the island, she had feared his return.
“Just teasing,” Gabrielle grinned.
Ariane recovered her breath. “Blast you, Gabrielle. It is nothing to jest about. You know I have been dreading the comte’s return.”
“Ah, well, if you will persist in rescuing these stray men—”
“He was lost in the woods. All I did was point him to the right path,” Ariane retorted. The first time she had met Renard was on the mainland and he hadn’t seemed frightening or intimidating, only a man who had lost his way in the woods. The Deauville forest covered many acres and could be a treacherous place, full of wild boar and the occasional wolf. Ariane had simply led him back to safety.
She had fully expected that to be the end of the matter, never dreaming that the next time she saw Renard, he would coolly inform her that he had selected her to be his comtesse and he was arranging their wedding. Ariane had puzzled over Renard’s actions so much, it threatened to bring a permanent crease between her eyes.
Gabrielle noticed the familiar frown gathering on Ariane’s brow. “Oh, do stop worrying, Ariane. After the wedding gift we sent Monsieur le Comte—”
“The gift you sent,” Ariane corrected. “You should not have done it, Gabrielle. I don’t think it was wise to insult the comte.”
“Pooh! Insults are the only way to be rid of a man as overbearing as Renard. I doubt he’ll trouble you again.”
Gabrielle’s prank of the straw bride might have temporarily forestalled the comte, but Ariane feared that Renard, like the Deauvilles before him, was not a man to be easily defied.
Ariane turned to clean up the rest of the potion spattered across the table. As it cooled, it turned darker, assuming the appearance of spilled blood.
Gabrielle sashayed around Ariane, glancing down at the mess and wrinkling her nose. “What in the name of all the saints have you been doing down here?”
“Nothing of any success. I was trying to develop a potion to add to the soil and hopefully double our grain crop this year.”
“I thought Maman said we should never attempt to perform black magic.”
“This is science.” Ariane lifted the sopping rag and tossed it into the dustbin. Gabrielle peered at the scorch mark on the table.
“It looks to me like the kind of science that destroys crops instead of growing them.”
“I don’t seem able to get the formula right, but I have to do something to generate more funds.”
Funds that were badly needed to pay off the debts their father had left and insure that her sisters had dowries if Papa did not return. But that was not something that ever concerned Gabrielle.
She shrugged. “Why don’t you try turning lead into gold instead of attempting to burn the house down?”
Ariane glared. Repenting of her teasing, Gabrielle sidled closer to wrap her arm around Ariane’s shoulders and give her a light hug.
“Your fretting is going to give you permanent wrinkles. I have told you before, a woman’s fortune is in her face. You would be better off trying to develop some new skin creams. I could certainly use a new perfume.”
“Another perfume is the last thing you need, Gabrielle. I remember a time when you were far more interested in concocting new shades of color for your palette.”
“Childish stuff, my dear sister. Dabbling with paints certainly won’t ever do anything to make a woman rich and famous. No one is ever going to commission me to paint their portrait or design frescoes for their palace. There is only one way a woman can succeed in this world.”
Gabrielle tossed her head, smoothing one hand down her generous curves. “A girl has to learn how to best employ her other talents. How do you like my new gown? I just finished it this morning.”
“It is far too opulent for this island.”
“I have no intention of remaining buried on this island the rest of my life.”
Ariane hated it when Gabrielle talked in such cynical fashion, even though she knew the cause of it, the deep hurt that lay behind Gabrielle’s bitterness. But any attempt to draw Gabrielle out would only lead to another of their quarrels and Ariane didn’t have the heart for that at the moment.
If she emptied the cauldron and started all over, she might have another chance at brewing the formula before supper. But she would accomplish nothing with Gabrielle hovering at her elbow.
“You said you were looking for me,” Ariane reminded her sister. “Was there something particular you wanted?”
“I just thought I should tell you what Miri has done now.”
“Oh, Gabrielle, please!” Ariane’s younger sisters had once been inseparable, but of late, Gabrielle and Miribelle’s constant bickering was enough to drive her to distraction. With all her other worries, she was in no humor to mediate another quarrel.
“Aren’t you getting a little too old to come tale-bearing to me about Miri?” Ariane asked.
Gabrielle flushed, her sophistication deserting her, her lower lip jutting into a childish pout. “Very well. I only thought you would want to know, but never mind.”
Pivoting on her heel, she flounced back to the stairs with the dignity of an offended princess. Carefully gathering up her skirts, she marched upward, all the while proclaiming, “I simply believed you would want to be told if Miri stood in danger of being arrested, even hung—but oh, well, forget I said a word.”
Ariane suppressed a groan. Gabrielle had a penchant for melodrama, but it was not nearly as great as twelve-year-old Miribelle’s flair for landing herself in trouble.
Ariane hastened to the foot of the stairs and peered up anxiously. “All right. Perhaps you had better tell me. She hasn’t been trying to set Madame Pomfrey’s doves free again, has she?”
Gabrielle had already scrambled through the trap door, but she glanced back down. “Even worse. She has freed someone’s horse.”
“Oh, Lord, not again.”
Ariane paused long enough to extinguish the torches and make all secure before following Gabrielle up the stairs.
Ariane blinked as she emerged into the bright sunlight of the courtyard. The man-made pond sparkled, the reflection of the ivy-covered stone manor behind her shimmering in the blue waters. A fine solid building with a single square tower, Belle Haven was nowhere near as large and grand as the château on her father’s estate in Brittany or his elegant town house in the heart of Paris. But Maman had far preferred the snug dwelling on the Faire Isle, something that had always mystified Papa.
Papa had wanted to pull down Belle Haven and erect instead a fairy-tale castle of whimsical proportions, soaring turrets, and costly glistening windows, but Maman had managed to gently discourage him.
What Louis Cheney had never realized was that all his wife had ever wanted was his love, his constancy, and his presence by her side . . . especially when she had lain dying.
Ariane hastened past the herb garden, chasing away a straying hen as she did so. Most of the outbuildings—the chicken house, the granary, and the milking shed—were like the main house, simple and unpretentious.
Only the stables had been reconstructed on a grander scale to house Papa’s horses. But the horses were gone now, sold off to help finance the building of Papa’s ships, leaving the stables largely empty, at least of horses.
As Ariane slipped through the stable’s broad double doors, she was assailed by the scent of sweet hay and horse sweat, mingled with other animal odors. The first stall played host to a litter of abandoned bunnies Miri had tucked cozily into a wooden crate. A sparrow whose wing she hoped to mend chirped in a cage above the door.
Farther down the row, Miri’s pony champed its hay, oblivious to the shrill whinnies emanating from the last stall. Ariane headed toward the spot where Miri had housed her latest acquisition.
Dear lord! This new guest to the stables hardly fit into Miri’s usual category of injured strays. A sleek thoroughbred with a glossy coat of dapple-gray pranced restively. Ariane’s youngest sister was in the stall, comforting the creature.
Clad in a tunic and rough wool breeches, Miri could easily have been mistaken for a peasant lad, but for the straight lengths of white-blond hair that shimmered down to her waist. She barely came up to the horse’s shoulder and as the stallion attempted to wheel away from Miri, Ariane feared seeing her petite sister trampled. But of course Miri was quite adept at handling horses.
Miri moved in carefully, crooning words of endearment in an enchanting, silvery voice. The horse pricked up its ears, twitched a little, and then stilled. Miri held out her delicate hands as though begging leave to touch. Continuing her low song, she melted closer, patting the stallion’s neck. The horse nuzzled against Miri’s brow, its soft breath stirring the moon-gold tendrils of her hair.
Ariane watched, spellbound. Miri, unaware of her presence, continued to stroke the horse, lost as usual in her own little world.
Ariane blamed herself. She had all but allowed Miri to run wild after their mother’s death when the child had grown so pale and withdrawn. Miri’s only solace was tearing about the island on her pony and rescuing injured animals.
But Miri had clearly gone too far this time. This exquisite gray had not come from the Faire Isle. The island was only thirty miles wide and most of the mounts owned by local people were sturdy ponies like Miri’s. The stallion’s owner had to be a mainlander, not some outraged peddler from town that Ariane could easily placate with a few coins.
The situation was not improved when Gabrielle swept into the stables in a rustle of silk. Ariane frowned, wishing her other sister elsewhere. Miri could be hard enough to deal with, in many ways as recalcitrant and skittish as that stallion. Gabrielle’s mischievous presence could only aggravate the situation.
“Miri?” Ariane called softly, so as not to alarm the stallion.
Miri snapped out of whatever strange communion she shared with the horse. She turned to face Ariane, her eyes shining. Fringed with pale gold lashes, they were an unusual shade of silvery blue, almost opaque and as changeable as mist.
“Oh, Ariane, I was out looking for unicorns and look what I found instead. His name is Hercules. He is a little nervous about being in the stable, but I have promised him that later he can roam free in our paddock.”
“You found this horse, my dear?”
“Aye, isn’t he a beauty? Almost as good as finding a unicorn.”
“A unicorn wearing a bridle?” Gabrielle piped up from behind Ariane.
Miri scowled at her. “Unicorns don’t wear bridles, Gabby.”
“That horse certainly had one when you rode him home. A saddle and a blanket, too, although I don’t see them now.” Gabrielle picked up a pitchfork and prodded at a pile of hay. “I daresay Miri has hidden it all away somewhere.”
“I didn’t! I haven’t hidden anything,” Miri said. But when Ariane tried to hold her gaze, Miri avoided her eyes.
“Miri?” Ariane prodded.
Her little sister turned back abruptly to petting the horse, but a telltale flush stole across Miri’s tanned cheeks.
“Miribelle!”
Miri’s lips firmed in a stubborn line. She emerged from the stall, her chin raised in defiance. “All right. I didn’t find him. I—I liberated him.”
“Oh, Miri,” Ariane sighed and Gabrielle laughed.
Miri flashed them both an indignant look. “It is true. A great ogre had enslaved this poor creature. Hercules wanted to escape that bully and come away with me.”
“And how do you know that?” Ariane asked.
“He told me so.”
“Oh, Lord,” Gabrielle teased. “Not another talking horse. And what language does this one speak?”
“He speaks horse,” Miri snapped.
Ariane addressed Miri in the most patient tone she could muster. “Dearest, how many times must I warn you? You must not go about declaring that you can talk to horses.”
“But I can,” Miri insisted with a look of hurt bewilderment.
“Aye, my love, but that is exactly the sort of thing that makes people nervous. If anyone from the mainland should hear you, it might get you charged with witchcraft.”
“Or clapped up in a lunatic asylum.” Gabrielle ventured closer for a better look. “I must admit this horse is better than that old nag you ‘liberated’ from that peddler. If you are going to be hung for horse theft, it might as well be for a thoroughbred.”
“No one is going to be hung,” Ariane said when Miri’s eyes rounded in alarm. “But that horse must be returned to its owner at once.”
“Oh, Ariane, no!” Miri positioned herself squarely in front of the stall. “I gave Hercules my word of honor that he’d never have to go back to that terrible man. Why, do you know what that horrid person was planning to do to poor Hercules?”
Miri whispered as though trying to spare the horse’s sensibilities. “That ogre threatened to—to unman him.”
Gabrielle erupted into uncontrollable laughter that only added to Miri’s indignation.
“I assure you Hercules does not find the prospect of being gelded so amusing,” she said fiercely.
Gabrielle only contained her mirth when Ariane administered a surreptitious warning pinch to her arm.
Ariane said, “Miribelle, please try to be sensible. That stallion is obviously a valuable animal. You can’t spirit it away simply because you don’t approve of its master.”
“The ogre is not Hercules’s master. Hercules is a creature of the earth, the same as you and me. He ought to be free to choose where he wants to be.”
“I do hope the man you liberated him from shares your charming notions about the rights of horses,” Gabrielle said.
“I don’t care what he thinks, horrid beast. He may go to the devil.”
“Who was he, Miri?” Ariane demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Miri—”
“Truly, Ariane, I don’t. Except for Papa, all men look alike. This was just some great ruffian riding along the road from the harbor. Already struggling to escape, when Hercules scented me, he called out for help. I whistled to him and he managed to brush off that huge brute and gallop toward me. I leaped up on his back and we were away like the wind.”
Ariane was aghast. “Miri, you not only took this man’s horse, but you left him injured on the road?”
“The oaf wasn’t hurt. He jumped up almost immediately. He tried to run after us. He was shouting and cursing.”
“I can well imagine he might,” Gabrielle said dryly.
Ariane pressed her hand to her brow. If the man was able to describe Miri, she would be readily identifiable.
Here on the island, the fact that she was Evangeline Cheney’s daughter would afford Miri protection, but even to be hauled off to answer charges would be a devastating ordeal for the shy, withdrawn girl. And there was always the great danger of what her naÏve sister might be induced to say in her own defense.
“The horse begged me to rescue him. How was I able to ride him? Why, I simply charmed him with my song.”
Most of the people of Faire Isle would understand,
but Ariane could just imagine how such an explanation would fall upon a stranger’s ears. What began as a trial for horse theft could be twisted into a suspicion of bewitchment. The best way of averting any such disaster would be to return the horse to town and find the owner before the matter took an uglier turn.
“Miri, what did you do with the saddle and bridle you removed from Hercules?” Ariane asked.
Miri didn’t answer. She folded her arms and ducked her head, her stubborn face disappearing behind her shimmering lengths of hair.
While Gabrielle searched the tack room, Ariane clasped Miri by the shoulders in desperation, her patience starting to slip. She was as close as she had ever been to giving her little sister a brisk shake when she was interrupted by a discreet cough.
Fourche, their groom, emerged from one of the unused stalls at the end of the stable. The old man had been hiding in there, listening. He approached Ariane, looking sheepish, flushed to the bristly ends of his short gray hair. As well he might. Ariane had given him strict instructions to come to her at once if Miri ever turned up at the stables with another “liberated” horse. But Miri had the old man as enchanted as any of her animals.
Fourche swallowed hard. “Begging your pardon, milady, but here is what you are looking for.”
“Fourche! No!” Miri said, her eyes reproachful and pleading.
The groom cast her an anguished glance before handing over the bridle to Ariane. “There is some sort of emblem on the headpiece that will likely help identify the owner.”
Ignoring Miri’s chagrined cry and attempt to snatch the bridle, Ariane studied the leather workmanship. It was of fine quality and just as Fourche had indicated, there was a silver engraving on the headpiece, a bold and arrogant letter “R” entwined with the symbol of some small animal. A fox.
Ariane’s heart missed a beat. The emblem was not unfamiliar to her. She had seen it before, emblazoned on a signet ring adorning a large, powerful hand.