An Affair of Poisons

by Addie Thorley

  “They are… .” Scandalous. An abomination. The most hideous things I’ve ever seen. The black and crimson silk is so delicate, it’s all but translucent, and the square neckline is so low, my hands fly to cover my breasts.

  “We are to match?” Marguerite’s voice is flat. I lift my gown by the sleeve and hold it at an arm’s length—like it’s more poisonous than the vats of distilled mandragora in my lab.

  “It’s so chilly outside.” I lace my voice with concern. “And raining constantly. Don’t you think a bit more fabric …”

  Mother’s carefully penciled eyebrows lower. “Are you belittling my selection?”

  Catching the venom in Mother’s voice, Marguerite takes up her gown and holds it to her shoulders with an excited squeal. “I think the gowns are exquisite. Mira knows nothing.” She elbows past me and kisses Mother’s cheek.

  “Don’t stand there like a dolt, Mirabelle,” Mother says with a clap. “Dress. Or we shall be late for our own procession.”

  Reluctantly, I bring the gown to my chest, and my fingers brush against something hard beneath my bodice.

  Father’s grimoire.

  Merde. I’ve grown so accustomed to its presence, it’s like a second heart beating outside of my chest. I didn’t even think to remove it. The herbs to counteract Lesage’s emerald fire are in a pouch beneath my stays, but if the maids succeed in removing my dress, there will be no hiding the grimoire.

  All the air leaks out of me, and the monstrous gown slips from my fingers and plummets to the parquet floor.

  Mother scowls and points at the rumpled heap. “The work of the finest seamstress in Paris and you toss it to the floor like rags.” “F-forgive me,” I stammer as I pick it up. “It’s exceedingly beautiful, but I fear I won’t be able to maneuver through the crowd to dispense curatives wearing such a delicate design. The dress I’m wearing is far better suited—”

  Mother sighs loudly. “The dress won’t be an obstacle because you won’t be distributing curatives.”

  “What?” I feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a cudgel. My breath comes in bursts. “But you requested medicines. I’ve been preparing all week.”

  “Gris and other servants will distribute the syrups and salves, and you will ride beside me—in that dress. You’re a member of my inner circle now, Mirabelle. It’s time you took on duties beyond the laboratory.”

  My chest wrenches painfully. I’ve been waiting a lifetime for her to say those words. Gris’s voice bellows in my head: Be grateful. Cooperate. And I would if I could. As desperate as I am to tend to the people personally, I could get over the disappointment. But I cannot remove my dress.

  She cannot see my treachery.

  “Don’t the people need to see us distributing the medication?” I say quickly.

  Mother waves a hand. “The people know the medication is from us. What they need to see is a united leadership after the perils they’ve been through. Now dress.” She orders the maids who aren’t busy lacing Marguerite to assist me.

  I scramble back, dodging their eager hands.

  “Keep still,” Mother insists, but I kick and flail and jerk. Marguerite giggles as two maids dive to unlace my boots, while another three take me by the shoulders and tug the laces of my brown work petticoats.

  Father’s little red book slips down the front of my stays in the jumble, and I let out a strangled cry. “I need no help.” I swing the hideous gown like a shield. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.” But there’s a rattling quality to my voice now, and Marguerite’s ears prick.

  “Enough of this nonsense. I shall dress her.” She elbows past the maids and tugs on the front of my dress.

  No. I lock my arms across my chest and dart back, begging with my eyes. Please, Margot. We are friends, allies.

  But we’re not. Not really. Her desire for Mother’s favor will always outweigh her loyalty to me.

  Her lips curl as she reaches for my bodice, and she pitches her voice low. “Surely you aren’t too modest to accept the help of your loving sister?” With a heave, she yanks the brown wool from my shoulders and the grimoire tumbles to the floor.

  Marguerite’s black eyes—eyes that are a mirror of my own, a mirror of Mother’s—quadruple in size. “Mother! Come see,” she shrieks.

  My feet tingle, itching to flee, but I keep them firmly planted. It would be pointless to run with masked sentries guarding every window and passage, so I cross my arms over my chest and stand as still as the statues in the Tuileries, naked and exposed for all to see in my chemise and stockings.

  “Leave us,” Mother whispers, and like a sudden draft of wind, her maids blow out of the chamber. I look longingly after them, wishing I could escape so easily.

  The folds of her cape shush across the polished floor, and the bones of her corset creak with each step. Her expression is stony, but her hands tremble ever so slightly as she smooths the invisible wrinkles in her gown. Her eyes glimmer with flashes of raw pain—even after all these years.

  “Antoine,” Mother whispers—love, anguish, and animosity distilled into one word. She adored Father. I think a part of her always will, no matter how desperately she tries to hate him now. They met when Grandmére fell sick and Mother ventured into Father’s experimental apothecary shop, looking for a cure. He was young and smart and charismatic, a genius with spagyrics, even then, and Mother loved him from the first day he winked at her from behind the counter. Back then, he wasn’t too consumed with his work to notice a pretty face.

  He doted on Mother in the beginning, making her delicious caramel syrups and false love potions he threatened to slip into her supper. They tended the herb garden together and even ran a small jewelry shop side by side when they were first married—the trade given to Father by his father, which he enhanced by transmuting his own metals. But over time, such things fell by the wayside as Father’s experiments devoured him.

  Mother stares at the book, her face flushing until it’s redder than the rouge staining her cheeks, redder than the grimoire. She bends over, catches the book between her fingers, and waves it in my face. I press my back against the papered wall, and droplets of icy sweat race down my neck. “You swore you burned his deplorable grimoires and notebooks.”

  “I kept only one to remember him by,” I squeak. “A memento.”

  “Lies!” Marguerite sidles around Mother, her face so close, I want to scream. “Mira told me the other day that she talks to him.”

  This betrayal hurts more than I expected. For a moment, I can do nothing but gape. “I told you that in confidence!” I shout at her. Then I turn back to Mother. “It’s not what you think… .”

  “Silence!” Mother frowns down at the grimoire, and after what feels like an eternity, storms across the room to destroy the book in the hearth. The flame is long dead, however, so she settles for hurling the book into her strongbox instead. Then she returns to her dressing table and trails her fingers across the silver combs and pots of rouge. My sweaty palms stick to my chemise.

  When at last she speaks, Mother’s voice floats across the room as if on the wind. “I gave you so much freedom, so many responsibilities. Now I see it was a mistake. If you insist on acting like him, I cannot trust you. And if I cannot trust you, you cannot manage the laboratory. From now on, Gris will oversee production, and you will be assigned different duties. Away from such temptations.”

  “No!” I choke. It feels as if all the air has been siphoned from the room. My pleas pour out in an endless stream. “I’m sorry. It will never happen again, I swear it. Gris won’t be able to keep up with your orders. What about Lesage’s draught?”

  “Gris is more than competent—he’ll figure out the formula for the blood draught. And I’ll hire him help, if need be. There are dozens of alchemists in this city who would jump at the chance to work for the Society.”

  “None as skilled as I.”

  “Perhaps not, but I won’t risk losing you to your father’s obsession. You may hate me
now, but eventually you will thank me for protecting you.”

  A tiny sob bursts past my lips. I stumble forward and throw myself at Mother’s feet. She cannot do this. She cannot bar me from the laboratory. I don’t know who I am without my work. “Please, Mother.”

  She looks past me, pretending I haven’t spoken. With lethal grace, she collects a whalebone hairpin off her vanity and rolls it between her fingers like a knife. “Groveling will do no good. My decision is made.”

  She slams her fist to the table with such force, the hairpin stabs deep into the mahogany.

  I pull on the hideous dress without another word.

  The streets of Paris are a riot of color and noise and fanfare. The former king’s blue and white fleur-de-lis standards have been rent from their poles and replaced with banners emblazoned with the Shadow Society’s double-headed eagle. Our gleaming black warhorses are fitted with armor and emerald plumes, and the multitude of carriages are draped with raucous red and purple silks. Revelers herald us with trumpets and lutes while jesters and acrobats dance and sing in the streets. Hordes of commoners clad in velvet masks—the newest trend in fashion—whistle and clap as we pass. It’s so vibrant, so bright and dizzying.

  The maids somehow twisted my mouse-brown curls into an intricate waterfall that tumbles down the front of one shoulder. Marguerite matches me exactly, but while she basks in the men hooting and hollering at our scandalous necklines, I sink lower and lower, desperate to become one with my saddle. My breasts nearly spill out every time my horse steps, and when I try to cover my chest with my hands, Mother shoots me a death glare.

  Lesage leads the procession, using his harmless magic to conjure flocks of exotic birds—indigo peacocks and marigold swans, pearl-gray doves that wing and flit above the crowd before dissipating like candle smoke. Mother smiles and waves from the back of Louis XIV’s white stallion. She throws alms to the people and directs Gris and the other servants as they distribute curatives. A select few peasants are even ushered forward by her guards to receive her “blessing.”

  “Hail La Voisin!” the multitude chants. “Hail Lesage!”

  Gris catches my eye as he hurries back and forth, loaded like a cart mule with bags and trays and bottles. See? All has been set to right.

  I manage a smile for him, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Of course I’m glad to see the work of the Shadow Society resuming, to see the people so overjoyed, but I feel apart from it. Never again will I experience the euphoria of watching two substances combine. Never will I feel the thrill of discovering a new remedy, the elation of knowing it will help someone who was otherwise without hope. How many people might I have saved if I hadn’t been so foolish? So careless? The ache in my chest feels like forceps squeezing my heart.

  You will be a great alchemist one day.

  “Quit looking so miserable,” Mother says through her teeth. “Smile. And wave.”

  But I can do neither. I squirm in my saddle and wring my fingers through my horse’s mane. I look over at my sister, searching for what, I don’t know. But she’s too preoccupied with batting her eyelashes and blowing kisses to notice my plea. Abbé Guibourg ripples like a massive slug on my other side, and La Trianon trots behind me. I’ll find no comfort in any of them.

  I let out a long breath. Gaiety reigns all around, but I feel listless and limp. Where do I fit in this world if not in the laboratory? Flaxen cords of panic wind around my throat like bonnet strings until I am coughing and choking. I teeter precariously over my horse’s neck.

  Gris jogs up beside me and places a steadying hand on my leg. “You look like you’re going to fall. Are you unwell?”

  I am far past unwell. I need to get down. Back to the laboratory. Away from all of this. I kick out of my stirrups, but Gris catches me around the waist and holds me in place.

  “I know it’s crowded and chaotic, but I’m right here with you, Mira. Try to enjoy—”

  Cannon fire rattles the sky like thunder.

  Flames explode from the building to our right, and a blistering orange wave rolls toward us. Pain washes over my skin like scalding water and I know I’m screaming, but I only hear silence—as thick as clotted cream in my ears. Followed by ringing. A maddening, high-pitched keening.

  My horse rears, and this time Gris isn’t there to catch me. I fall through the smoky air and dash my head against the cobbles. Blood wets my hair and dribbles down my neck. Hooves strike like lightning all around me. Balls of fire and shards of glass continue to erupt from where a church stood mere seconds before.

  I grip my forehead to steady my vision, trying to comprehend what’s happened. It must be one of Lesage’s illusions. But then I spot him through the haze, cursing and clinging to his rearing horse.

  If he isn’t behind this …

  We’ve been attacked.

  The Sun King’s bloated face fills my vision, followed by Madame de Montespan crashing into her pudding and Vendôme and his men, twisted and broken and retching in the grass.

  I stare into the chaos, heart thudding, head throbbing. Thousands of Parisians flee in every direction. A mob the likes of which I’ve never seen. It would be so easy to get lost.

  To disappear …

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I steal a purple cloak off a motionless guard, throw the hood over my bleeding head, and vanish into the pandemonium.

  6

  JOSSE

  Desgrez and I burst from the fiery skeleton of Notre-Dame de Bonne Nouvelle a breath before the roof collapses. White-hot ash and burning rocks pelt the rue de Richelieu like flaming arrows, but we charge through the cinders like knights of old, marching to battle. I toss my head back and whoop at the mayhem.

  Such a pity Louis can’t see how brilliantly my preposterous plan is coming along. Smoke chokes the street and people dart everywhere, screaming and shoving and fleeing for their lives. It looks like the world’s largest tavern brawl, which should provide ample time to race back to Madame Bissette’s, collect my siblings, and drive like the Devil through the blockade around the city.

  As we barrel through the haze, I scan the masked Shadow Society members strewn across the cobbles, praying I’ll see La Voisin or her sorcerer.

  “Save yourself the trouble.” Desgrez nods up ahead, where La Voisin and the leaders of the Shadow Society slowly appear through the smoke. They’re trapped in the center of the teeming street, their horses rearing and churning like a dark, deadly whirlpool. We lit the cannon just seconds too early. My stomach drops and disappointment drags at my legs. Killing them would have made everything so much simpler.

  “Don’t look so defeated. They could still be trampled to death,” Desgrez says as a rider pitches through the burning sky.

  “We can only hope.”

  The crowd grows thicker and thicker as we shove down the street. I slam into the back of a man’s sweaty doublet. When I try to step around him, I meet more shoulders and backs and fists. We’re like sheep trapped in a too small pen. It takes an eternity to elbow our way down half a block. We’ll never even make it to my sisters, let alone through the blockade, at this rate.

  I lower my head and heave forward like a battering ram, trying not to see the children with tears streaming down their cheeks. Trying to block out the deafening cries of the injured. But they are everywhere, pressing all around me, hot and sticky and screaming. Fingers of guilt strum my heartstrings because I didn’t even consider them when I made this plan—didn’t think how the explosion would affect the innocent. And now that I’m in the thick of it, it feels eerily reminiscent of the attack on Versailles. Except I am the one leading the destruction.

  No. This is nothing like that. This had to be done.

  Would the people agree? Is it okay to sacrifice the whole to save a few?

  Yes. The girls are worth everything.

  Behind us, La Voisin’s voice rises over the tumult, calling her Society to arms. Her scream is like nothing I’ve heard before—like banshees and ghouls, the wail of the
damned. Chills race down my arms, leaving me suddenly cold.

  Desgrez glances back and shouts a stream of colorful curses. I ball my fists and peek over my shoulder, expecting to see Shadow Society members charging down the street, but instead of people, we are beset by beasts.

  A brigade of Lesage’s smoke creatures take to the air, and a scream tears up my throat like a blade. These are not birds and butterflies like before, but winged dragons and three-headed serpents that are so much more threatening, so much more tangible. They roar and gnash their teeth as they slither through the clouds. From half a block away, I can see each glittering scale of crimson, green, and gold. I can feel the heat from their breath, and there’s no mistaking the tang of rotten eggs in the air—the distinctive scent of sulfur and brimstone.

  After the beasts, Lesage sends a bolt of cerulean lightning streaking across the sky. It slams into a row of half-timbered townhouses, and emerald flames engulf the thatched roofs in seconds.

  “What the hell is that?” Desgrez demands.

  “That is what’s killing Anne and Françoise,” I say, lurching forward as needles race down my spine. I cringe at every scream, at every blast of stone behind me. I’m sorry, I want to shout to the people trapped in the streets. But it will never be enough. The Shadow Society doesn’t know who lit the cannons. I thought that would be a good thing—as they can’t hunt us specifically. But I never dreamed they’d hunt everybody. Striking out at random.

  Why didn’t it occur to me that they would retaliate?

  Reckless. Careless. Your fault. Father’s voice chases me down the block, and I have no doubt these gory scenes will be added to my nightmares.

  We reach an intersection and Desgrez and I cut through an alleyway, making good time once we’re away from the main thrust of the crowd. “Faster!” he keeps yelling, even though I’ve never run so fast in my life. We fly down five more blocks and reach the pâtisserie at last.

  But there’s no cart.

  No sign of Louis or the girls anywhere. Just bodies and mayhem and the impossible distance between us and the road out of Paris.