Josse opens his mouth, and then promptly closes it. Speechless for the first time in his life, I’d wager. “If I can’t assist you and I can’t return to the sewer, what do you expect me to do, exactly?”
I remove a kettle from one of the satchels and hold it out. “I need water. I saw a trough behind one of the gambling halls. And once you’ve done that, you can collect firewood.”
“Anything else?” His voice has taken on a cold edge and he yanks the kettle from my hand.
A fingertip of guilt needles my side as he storms out of the millinery. It was low of me to relegate him to the role of a servant, but it’s not as if he’s treated me as an equal. Why should I be the first to bend?
I begin chopping watercress and fennel leaves for hunger tonic, expecting the familiar work to blot out the world and lull me under its spell as it always does, but my gaze keeps returning to the door. That invisible finger keeps jabbing my ribs.
Eventually Josse returns, banging the full kettle down on the table and tossing an armful of wood beside the small fireplace. Then he skulks to the far wall and plunks down with a thump. “Is this far enough? Or am I still too close?”
“That’s fine,” I say. Then I add, softer, “I don’t mind if you watch.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
I set my pestle down and look at him. “I’m not trying to be cruel. It’s difficult for me to trust anyone. Surely you understand?”
He laughs. “I’m afraid you’re sniveling stories and quivering lip won’t work on me.”
“I was trying to apologize.”
“Were you? An apology usually includes the words I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps you should heed your own advice—you have just as much to be sorry for.” I take up the pestle and resume dashing it against the mortar bowl. Pretending it’s the princeling’s head.
Neither of us speaks for well over an hour. I finish the hunger tonic, portion it into phials, and begin a vermifuge of agrimony and garlic.
“What are you making now?” Josse asks. “It reeks to high heavens.”
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
“Well, I’ve nothing else to do—you’ve made certain of that.”
I stifle another twinge of guilt. He was brimming with excitement when we first returned from the Louvre, and now he’s slumped in the corner like a whipped mule. I sigh and offer him a sliver of information.
“It’s a vermifuge.”
“And that is?”
“It expels worms from the gut.”
He grimaces as he gains his feet and slowly makes his way to the counter. “That explains the smell. And that other remedy you made?”
“A hunger tonic. We distribute it to the poor to ease the emptiness in their bellies and provide enough sustenance to keep them from starving.” Josse is silent for a long moment, watching me stir the viscous mixture. My arms ache and sweat pours down my cheeks. I wipe my face on my sleeve and readjust my hands, but it’s too late. Angry blisters are bubbling across my palms.
“Alchemy looks like backbreaking work.”
“I am more than capable,” I assure him.
He holds up his hands. “I never said you weren’t. I didn’t realize the Shadow Society provided actual remedies. I thought it was all love potions and inheritance powders.”
“Of course you did. It’s easier for all you rutting royals to assume we’re witches.”
“Just as you assume all us rutting royals are pompous, self-centered puttocks.” I scowl but he holds my gaze, daring me to look away first. When it becomes apparent that neither of us is going to back down, he says, “Did La Voisin teach you all this?”
“No, my father taught me.”
“Lesage? The sorcerer? He doesn’t seem like the healing type.”
“Lesage is not my father.” I stir the vermifuge so violently that droplets spatter across the counter. “Just one of Mother’s many lovers. My real father, Antoine Monvoisin, was a jeweler by trade, though he didn’t acquire his gold and silver through traditional channels—if you take my meaning.”
“He transmuted it. He was an alchemist, like you.”
“The best in all of France,” I say proudly. “Far more than your average false coiner or immortality chaser. His true talent was in spagyrics—plant alchemy. This was his life’s work; he developed hundreds of substances… .” I place my palm reverently over the grimoire, as if Father’s heart still beats within its pages.
“He took me as his apprentice when I was only seven. Mother said I was too young, but Father insisted I was ready. He snuck me a rope and instructed me to climb down from my chamber window that night and join him in the laboratory. I did so every night thereafter, and by the time Mother discovered our deception, I had learned to make simple salves and fever tonics, so it was easier to persuade her to let me continue; I was already a benefit to the Society. Father was always encouraging me—and sometimes shoving me—into action. He still is.”
The memory makes me smile and ache all at once. After Father’s death, Mother tried to warp my perception of him with her resentment and pain—and I was so desperate for her approval, I nearly gave in. But now that I feel Father’s determination rising up within me, he is everywhere. His spirit permeates everything. And I know he is proud of me.
“My mother was something of a troublemaker too,” Josse says with a wistful smile. “Well, technically she wasn’t my mother, but she took me in when my true mother—a scullery maid whom I never met—was dismissed shortly after my birth. Rixenda treated me like her own. When I was ten, I began listening to Louis’s lessons through the window because the noble children mocked my inability to read. One day I sneezed and the tutor discovered me. He lashed my palms thirty times, and when Rixenda saw the bleeding welts, she made straight for the palace, shouting words so filthy even the stable hands blushed.
“‘He won’t be touching you again, my boy. I promise you that,’ she said when she returned, wiping her hands on her apron like she did after skinning a rabbit. The next morning at breakfast, the man’s eye was a deep shade of plum and he was telling everyone he’d fallen off his horse!”
I laugh. “She sounds fearsome.”
“She was. But delightful, too. My father was the Sun King, but it was Rixenda who shone brightest at the palace. She lit up even the servants’ quarters with her charm and wit.”
“You have that in common.” The words slip out, gliding along the easy ebb and flow of our conversation. I tighten my grip on my spoon and pray he didn’t hear. But when I glance up, the princeling is grinning like a fox.
“You think me charming?”
“As charming as a snake,” I mumble at the vermifuge to hide my burning cheeks. Curse the princeling for wheedling beneath my defenses like that. And curse myself for allowing it.
I turn to the hearth, but Josse follows, leaning languidly against the wall. “Where’s your father now?”
“Dead,” I say flatly.
After a beat he replies, “Rixenda’s dead too. She was stabbed during the attack on Versailles and left to bleed on the roadside. She distracted the rebels so we could flee.”
The ground seems to roll beneath my feet and my stomach flips. I sag against the wall.
“Are you all right?” Josse searches my face, his eyes full of concern. The knot of remorse swelling in my throat makes it impossible to answer. He lost everything that day—both mother and father.
Because of me.
I poisoned the king. I made it possible for the Shadow Society to seize his home and stab Rixenda.
Tell him.
He will see how impossible our partnership truly is. It will be the swiftest and simplest way to be rid of him. I’ll no longer have to worry about him constantly peering over my shoulder and suspiciously watching my back—following me like he doesn’t trust me.
He shouldn’t trust you.
I wet my lips and turn, but he’s looking at me with the oddest expression. Thoughtful and fa
raway. “In a strange way, you remind me of Rixenda. Obsessed with your pots and recipes—she was mistress of the kitchens—and always ordering everyone about. Pretending to be prickly to hide the softness underneath.”
“I’m sure we’re nothing alike,” I say vehemently. But a warm, melty feeling is unspooling in my chest, and I jab the handle of my stirring spoon into my stomach to stop it. Tell him before he makes any more ridiculous comparisons.
But when I glance around the millinery and try to imagine the space without him in it, I can’t. The quiet is suffocating.
“I’m going out,” I announce.
“But it’s so late—”
“I need to think.”
“About what?”
About the fact I killed your father and feel guilty about it—and feel even guiltier for growing used to your company … “Viper’s Venom!” I practically shout. He won’t argue with that. I grab Father’s grimoire and head for the door. “Alone,” I add when I hear his footsteps follow. “I prefer to work out troubling compounds on my own.”
“I wouldn’t be much help anyway. I’ll just stay here and … not touch anything.” Josse’s voice is playful and altogether too familiar, and it sets a hoard of pesky butterflies to flapping in my belly.
I do the only sensible thing I can think to stop them. I slam the door and bury myself in my work.
14
JOSSE
I try not to be bothersome, really I do, but after five days of watching Mirabelle slave over her curatives from dawn until dusk and experiment through the night, working out the antidote to Viper’s Venom, I’m feeling rather bored and useless. Like the universe is having a good laugh at my expense. I had suggested she hide out and do nothing, which is precisely what I’m doing now.
I’m also desperate to see my sisters. It’s been nearly a week. They haven’t a clue if I’m alive, or if I’m ever coming back. And I haven’t a clue how they’re healing. Mirabelle keeps assuring me they should be back to full strength, but I won’t relax until I see it for myself. And I cannot return to the sewer until we’ve good news to report to Louis and Desgrez. Which means we need to leave this miserable shop and begin distributing tinctures and tonics.
“I know you’re sensitive about other people touching your supplies, but perhaps if I help, the work will go twice as fast,” I suggest yet again, only now I’ve resorted to begging. “I’ll do exactly as you say. You can even measure the herbs and hand me the appropriate phials so I don’t foul up your organization.” Even though there doesn’t seem to be any method of organization. Herbs are scattered across the table and half the phials are tipped on their sides.
Mirabelle pauses in the middle of stirring some fever draught or another and wipes her sleeve across her forehead. It sends her close-cropped curls into disarray. “What about either of those things sounds quicker than simply doing it myself?”
“If you’d just allow me to—”
“What are the four humours? What is the difference between fusion and fixation? How do you operate an alembic?”
“Oh, hell, not the questions again! You know I don’t know the answers.”
“Then you’re not prepared to work as an alchemist. It’s a precise science that requires a lifetime of study. It isn’t something you can—”
I let my forehead plunk against the wall. “Are you almost finished, then? Not that I’m trying to rush you,” I add when she shoots me a withering look.
“I will never be finished. There will always be more curatives to brew.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What I meant to say is, have you brewed enough to begin the actual healing portion of our plan?”
“Are you growing weary of my company, princeling?”
At moments like this, I want to shout a resounding YES! But I bite my tongue because from the way she accentuates princeling, it’s clearly no longer a slight. It isn’t a compliment, by any means, but I’m fairly positive she’s growing less weary of my company. And aside from feeling utterly worthless, I’ve almost come to enjoy watching her work. It’s fascinating to see how seemingly common ingredients combine into powerful elixirs. Nearly as fascinating as watching Mirabelle herself. Her eyes take on this glassy, dreamlike quality, and she becomes a part of the laboratory—her arms are the spoons, her hands the phials, and with every pinch of herbs, she adds a bit of herself into the elixirs.
After three more days of brewing and stockpiling, the cupboards are filled with an array of healing tinctures and tonics, and Mirabelle has finally managed to distill an antidote for Viper’s Venom.
“We won’t know how effective it is until it’s administered,” she says, holding the phial to the light and inspecting the blue-black liquid as you would a diamond.
“So what do we do? Wait around until we hear rumors of nobles dying?”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
I grumble but shake my head.
“I’ll sew a phial of the antidote into the hem of my skirt, so we’re prepared at a moment’s notice.”
“What about the rest of it?” I nod to the vast collection of bottles.
Mirabelle’s lips lift into a grin and she finally says the two glorious words I’ve been waiting for: “We’re ready.”
I jump from the floor, where I was becoming too well acquainted with dust bunnies, and shout, “Thank the saints! I was beginning to think I’d die of old age before we actually accomplished anything.”
“Poor, neglected princeling.” She pretends to wipe a tear for me. “You may have accomplished nothing, but I accomplished more in a week than many alchemists could accomplish in months. Now, have you seen the milk cart beside the cottage at the end of the street?”
“Of course.” I’ve spent so many hours staring out these windows, I could account for every pebble in the road.
“Good. Go borrow it.”
“You mean steal it!”
“It isn’t stealing if we plan to return it.”
“And what if I’m caught?”
Mirabelle shoots me an exasperated look. “You’ve been begging to help for a week, and when I finally give you a duty, you complain. It’s the dead of night and the cart’s sitting out there for the taking. If you bungle that, you deserve to be caught.”
I suppose she has a point. I slink out the door, creep down the moonlit street, and return a few minutes later with the creaking cart in tow. Mirabelle describes the contents of each bottle as she adds them to the cart. “Does this mean I’ll actually be permitted to touch them in order to distribute the medications?”
“If you’re lucky.” She flashes me a goading smile. “Now keep quiet and stay close.” She clips down the street, clinging to the shadows as we scurry from building to building.
I heave the rattling cart forward and try to keep up. The sky is beginning to gray at the edges—so late that the revelers have finally retired, but early enough that the fishermen have yet to set their traps. The cool spring air ruffles my hair and whispers across my neck, sending chills dancing down my limbs. Or perhaps they are chills of excitement.
“How much farther?” I whisper.
Mirabelle peeks around a corner, then waves me forward. “The encampment is just up ahead, on the rue du Temple. It’s where we originally began healing the poor and sick and establishing the Shadow Society’s reputation. We’ve been helping them for years.”
“Then won’t their loyalty be to La Voisin?”
“You’ve never been hungry, have you?” She looks at me as if I’m sporting Louis’s jewel-encrusted doublet and powdered wig. “Their loyalty belongs to whoever has aided them most recently. And, lucky for us, Mother’s been too busy putting down rebellions to distribute any kind of relief.”
We dash down two more blocks. The lights of dozens of tiny fires prick the darkness, but just before we cross the final intersection, a group of Society soldiers round the corner.
I leave the cart and dive into an impossibly small gap between townhouses. Mirabelle sm
ashes in behind me. The space is too narrow to be considered an alley, and her wild heartbeat pounds against my chest. Her hot breath races across my neck. My hands are pressed into the bricks on either side of her face, and she squeezes her eyes shut, digging her fingernails into the grout.
“That house there,” one of the soldiers says, and the others rumble a reply. Every muscle in my body tightens and I draw my fingers into a fist. They won’t take us without a fight. I watch the entrance to the alleyway for their crimson cloaks and masked faces, but a door bangs open several houses away and a woman screams.
“Where are the royals?” they shout at her. “Your neighbor reported hooded figures coming and going at odd hours of the night. And a fleur-de-lis pendant flies from your back window.”
“Lies!” she wails. “I haven’t heard or seen anything of the sort!”
The soldiers continue shouting and the woman continues crying until, finally, their footsteps thump, thump, thump down the street.
When I peek around the wall, the woman is sprawled across the threshold of her door, sobbing and clutching the frame.
A cold sweat beads across my face, and my legs twitch. I want to go to her, pick her up, and tell her how sorry I am. I knew the Shadow Society would be hunting for Louis and my sisters, but I didn’t know it would involve banging down doors and accosting innocent people. How many are suffering in our stead?
Mirabelle touches my shoulder gently. Her dark eyes lock on mine and she tugs my cloak. Woodenly, I take up the cart and follow her the final block to the rue du Temple. But then another wave of horror knocks me upside the head the moment we enter the encampment. The reek of excrement and unwashed bodies is so intense, I have to clench my teeth so as not to gag, and the few ramshackle shelters are naught but piles of rotted wood and crumbling stone. Most people lie sprawled out in the gutters, their tattered clothes revealing gaunt ribs and bone-thin limbs.
The conditions are too squalid for rats, let alone people.
How could Father have been so heartless and unseeing? How could he allow people to live in such squalor? But then a more sobering thought comes: I am hardly better. I was content to hide away in the palace, raising hell and feeling sorry for myself, instead of considering what might be happening beyond the gates. I may be a bastard, but I am infinitely more privileged than some.
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