Stepsister

by Jennifer Donnelly

Each was exquisitely drawn, using feathers from a black swan. Each was sumptuously colored with inks mixed from indigo, gold, ground pearl, and other things—things far more difficult to procure. Each used time as its unit of measure, not distance, for each map charted the course of a human life.

“Luck,” hissed the maiden. “Risk,” the mother spat. “Hazard,” snarled the crone. “I prefer Chance. It has a nicer ring,” the man said, with a wink.

“Change is a kiss in the dark. A rose in the snow. A wild road on a windy night,” Chance countered.

“Seasickness,” he said, as he joined Chance. “Seasickness, eh? Is that how one says ‘I drank too much gin last night’ in French?” Chance asked, arching an eyebrow.

History books say that kings and dukes and generals start wars. Don’t believe it. We start them, you and I. Every time we turn away, keep quiet, stay out of it, behave ourselves. The wrong thing, the cowardly thing, the easy thing. You do it fast. You put it behind you. It’s over, you tell yourself as you hurry off. You’re finished with it. But it may not be finished with you.

I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep. I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.

Chance leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I think we all make mistakes. What matters is that we don’t let our mistakes make us.”

Her color was high, her eyes were flashing. She was fearsome. She was strong. She was beautiful.