Guilt By Beauty (Fractured Mirrors #1)

Chapter 1 Isabeau

one

Isabeau

Ashaky breath left me. Death would arrive soon to reap his next victim. My fingers trembled as I snipped at the feverfew stems. The garden had been my refuge all day, a place to hide from what was coming.

Every Harvest Moon brought the same dread, the same sickening twist in my gut that warned of something terrible to come.

I’d been picking herbs since dawn, filling my basket with chamomile, yarrow, and lavender.

Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted from the setting sun that would bring with it our village’s darkest tradition.

The scent of crushed herbs stained my skin, but even that familiar comfort couldn’t ease the weight pressing against my chest.

I worked methodically, my practiced hands separating stems from roots, flowers from leaves.

The local apothecary, Master Girard, had been teaching me the properties of each plant.

Which could soothe a fever, which could draw out infection, or which could ease a woman’s monthly pains.

It was knowledge most young women in our village didn’t seek, content instead with learning how to manage a household, how to please a husband.

But Papa had always encouraged my curious mind, even when others whispered that book learning and herb lore weren’t fitting pursuits for a maid as comely as I.

“Beauty fades, my little bell,” he would say, tapping my nose. “But what resides here,” he’d tap my forehead, “that is eternal.”

I thought of his words now as I added wild mint to my collection. The leaves released their sharp, clean scent as I bruised them between my fingertips. Master Girard said mint could settle a troubled stomach. I wished it could settle a troubled heart.

The hollow toll of the church bell cut through the evening air.

One... two... three...

My chest tightened. Each resonant peal drove the knife of reality deeper. I dropped the mint sprig, my hands freezing mid-air.

Four... five... six...

I closed my eyes, willing the sound to stop, willing this day to be any other.

Seven... eight... nine...

But the bell continued its solemn count, calling us all to gather. Calling someone to their death.

The final, tenth toll lingered in the air, vibrating through my bones. I had known this moment was coming—had felt it approaching with each passing minute like a storm gathering on the horizon—yet somehow, I still wasn’t ready.

I never was.

I wiped my dirt-stained hands against my cream peasant dress, leaving smudges across the worn fabric.

The apron tied around my waist was similarly marred, bearing the evidence of my day’s labor.

I touched the braid that hung over my shoulder, making sure my auburn hair was still neatly contained.

Not that it mattered how I looked. Today wasn’t about courtships or village dances. Today was about death.

Lifting my basket of herbs, I stepped out from the small garden behind our cottage. The evening sky blazed orange and crimson as the sun sank toward the horizon.

How cruelly beautiful it was, this last light before darkness claimed someone’s life. I drew a deep breath, bracing myself for what was to come, and began the walk toward the village center.

Other villagers emerged from their homes, faces grim and eyes downcast. No one spoke above a whisper. Children, usually running and playing at this hour, clung to their mothers’ skirts. Even the birds seemed to sense the somber mood, their evening songs muted or absent altogether.

“Isabeau!” a familiar voice called.

I turned to see Colette hurrying toward me, her blonde curls bouncing with each step. She wore her best dress, as most did for the ceremony, though there was nothing celebratory about it.

“Thou art still collecting thy herbs on today of all days?” She gestured to my basket as her brow furrowed in confusion.

“I needed the distraction,” I admitted. “Time moves too slowly when one sits and waits for dread.”

Colette nodded, linking her arm through mine as we continued walking. “I understand. My mother hath been weeping since dawn, and my father speaks not a word. My brothers try to appear brave, but I see how their hands tremble.”

“As do mine.” I showed her my fingers, still quivering despite my attempts to steady them. “Every year, I pray ‘twill be the last of this barbaric tradition.”

“And risk the beast coming for us all?” Colette shuddered. “Nay, better one than many. Though I speak such words only until it is my family’s name drawn from that cursed bag.”

We fell silent as we approached the bridge. It spanned the width of the river, connecting our village to the dark expanse of the Forbidden Forest beyond. The water beneath it flowed black in the fading light, as though the river itself knew what horrors this night would bring.

The wooden stage stood at the village end of the bridge, hastily constructed this morning as it was every year.

Father Simon already stood upon it, his black robes making him appear as a specter of death himself.

The village men worked around him, lighting torches that would illuminate the night’s grim proceedings.

My eyes scanned the gathering crowd, searching for Papa’s familiar figure. I couldn’t find him, and that sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me.

“I should find my family,” Colette said, squeezing my arm before releasing it. “May the forest’s choice fall far from thee, Isabeau.”

“And from thee, Colette.”

She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with my basket of herbs that suddenly seemed so trivial, so pathetically inadequate against the horror of what was to come. What use were healing plants when someone would soon be beyond all mortal aid?

More villagers arrived, forming a semicircle around the stage.

Each family stood together, fathers with protective arms around children, mothers clutching hands in silent prayer.

Young couples pressed close, as if proximity could somehow shield them from being chosen.

Elders stood stoically, having witnessed this ritual too many times to count, but they didn’t have to fear their own names being drawn for they were exempt due to their ruling stations.

At the center of the stage sat a large wooden box. Inside it would be the leather pouch containing all our family crests—small tokens that each household kept year-round, flinching at the day they would place them in that pouch. One would be drawn at random, sealing a family’s fate.

Father Simon raised his hands for silence, though no one had been speaking above a whisper anyway.

“Citizens of Thorndale,” his voice boomed across the square, “we gather on this Harvest Moon as our forefathers have done for generations. The forest demands its tribute, and we must provide, lest the beast that dwells within its shadows comes for us all.”

A murmur of fear rippled through the crowd. Everyone knew the stories…of how, long ago, the village had failed to provide a sacrifice, and the beast had rampaged through Thorndale, killing a dozen before returning to the forest.

“Let each family now present their crest,” Father Simon continued. “Let none abstain, for the choice must be fair, and the burden shared by all.”

One by one, representatives from each family climbed the steps to the stage, placing their family crest into the pouch held by Father Simon’s assistant. Each returned with heavier steps than they had ascended with, their faces masks of weary hope and painful dread.

I still didn’t see Papa, and panic began to flutter in my chest. Where was he? He needed to be here to place our crest in the pouch. If we didn’t participate—no, I couldn’t think of that. The punishment for trying to avoid the drawing was worse than being selected.

Then finally, I spotted him. He was making his way toward me through the crowd, his white hair and mustache catching the torchlight. Relief flooded me, followed immediately by renewed fear. Now that he was here, we were part of this terrible lottery.

“Isabeau,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I had hoped to find thee before the drawing began.”

“Where wert thou, Papa?” I asked, noting the worry lines etched deeply around his eyes.

He shook his head. “It matters not. I am here now.” He squeezed my hand. “Listen to me, my little bell. Whatever happens tonight—”

“The Dubois family,” called Father Simon’s assistant. “Arnaud Dubois, present thy family crest.”

Papa’s face went ashen, but he squared his shoulders to do the noble thing. “I must go.”

I watched as he climbed the stairs, his movements stiff and deliberate. From his pocket, he withdrew our crest. A small wooden carving of a rose, crafted by my father in honor of my mother. He hesitated just a moment before dropping it into the pouch, then returned to my side.

“As I was saying,” he continued in a low voice, “whatever happens tonight, thou must be strong. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I whispered, though my voice cracked on the words. His urgency frightened me, as though he knew something I did not. His eyes kept skirting toward Father Simon with a darkness I never saw my father reveal.

The last family crest was added to the pouch. Father Simon took it from his assistant, making a show of mixing the contents thoroughly. The crowd held a collective breath as he reached inside.

Time seemed to slow. I could hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears, feel the sweat beading on my palms despite the cool evening air. Papa’s hand found mine again, his grip painfully tight.

Father Simon withdrew a single crest. He looked at it for a long moment, his face betraying nothing. Then he held it up for all to see.

“The forest claims the Dubois family.”

The world collapsed around me. I heard gasps, murmurs, perhaps even sounds of relief from those whose families had been spared. But they all faded away as my knees buckled beneath me.

“No,” I whispered, sinking to the ground. My herb basket toppled, spilling its contents across the dirt. “No, no, no.”