I shove up to my elbows. “He invented an identity for me!”
“Have you considered that perhaps you’ve been unfair to each other? How long are you going to cling to this senseless childhood grudge? If the two of you would just—”
“Stop!” I bang my fist against the bars and the impact rattles through me. The hair on my neck rises like hackles. “Is it not enough that you’ve sent my sisters to the chopping block? Do you have to side with Louis as well? Kick me while I’m down. Spit upon my rotting corpse.”
“Josse, I—”
“No! Don’t pepper me with your excuses and platitudes or pretend to understand my childhood grudges. You are oblivious. And careless. And disloyal. Rescuing you from the sewer was the worst decision I’ve ever made. If I’d let Desgrez finish you, he would be alive. My sisters would be alive.”
Mirabelle shrinks back. She wraps her arms around her stomach and blinks at me through tear-filled eyes. “Do you honestly believe that?”
I ignore the tiny twinge in my chest, refusing to be deluded by her mournful frown and poisonous logic any longer. I regard her with my iciest expression. “I don’t believe it—I know it.”
She bites her lips together, but her shoulders shake. “Then I suppose there’s nothing more to say.”
“I suppose not.”
I turn away and stare across the dungeon. It’s a foul, low-ceilinged place. The wall opposite is fitted with chains, and an insidious black stain covers the stones. Mirabelle and I are far from the only prisoners. Each cell is occupied, and the poor souls are nothing but lumps of skin and bone and hollow eyes. The man on my other side scrapes at the bars in slow, eerie repetition, his fingertips raw and bloodied. And the old man across from me lies faceup on the ground, weeping the name Jeanne. And somewhere down the block, a woman cackles day and night like a bedamned jester.
But none of them is as irritating or as pitiful as Mirabelle. She cries quietly for what feels like an eternity, and the sound is worse than the squeal of pigs being slaughtered. Like nails hammering my eardrums. She has no right to cry like that. To act as if she’ll die of heartache when she could have prevented this. All she had to do was hold her tongue and let me die. I clench my teeth and clamp my hands over my ears, but her whimpers still seep through the cracks. So I climb back to my feet and resume writhing and railing against the bars. Anything to drown her out.
Hours later, when we’ve both collapsed to the ground and sit in exhausted silence, she whispers, “I’m sorry, Josse. So very sorry.”
I don’t respond. Because sorry will never be enough.
25
MIRABELLE
I drift in and out of fitful sleep. My thin dressing gown clings to my skin, wet with sweat and tears and whatever ghastly horrors float in the puddles on the floor. My eyes are itchy and swollen, and my head pounds. I may not have been tortured like Josse, but I’m so heavy with grief, I haven’t the strength to drag myself to the bowl of unidentifiable sludge that slides into my cell. Once I see the worms wriggling through the rotten fare, I haven’t the appetite, either.
I shutter my eyes and rock forward and back, sobbing until there’s not a drop of water left within me. Then I choke on silent tears as those horrible moments in the laboratory play again and again across the stage of my mind.
How could I have been so gullible?
I don’t blame Josse for hating me.
I rather hate myself.
There’s no way to tell how much time has passed. The single window, high up on the wall, is no wider than my hand, and the dim shaft of light that cuts through the gloom is a perpetual shade of gray. Every so often I allow myself to peek at Josse, and each time I immediately wish I hadn’t. His speckled skin pulsates with the sickly glow of désintégrer, and he’s so weak that he can hardly hold himself upright, yet he continues to throw himself against the bars. Blood weeps from the wounds on his face and arms and back, but the dull, vacant look in his eyes is most heartrending of all. It’s as if he drank the Viper’s Venom. As if by saving him, I delivered the final death blow.
I didn’t want to betray your sisters, I silently shout. He must know that. I didn’t have a choice! So many lives were at stake.
Or, I thought they were at stake.
After what could be hours, or possibly days, a guard ambles over and upends a bucket of water over Josse’s sleeping form. Josse bolts upright, gasping and coughing, and the guard laughs. “Wakey, wakey, Highness. Can’t have you smelling like a hog for your execution.” Then he turns to me and pours a second freezing deluge over my head.
He unlocks our cells and Mother’s maidservants file in bearing cakes of bergamot soap and piles of finely tailored clothing. Josse slaps at their hands and shouts, “Why bother? Do you think the executioner will care how I look?”
But I know why. It’s the same reason we wanted Louis to look presentable while saving the crops. Mother wants the people to recognize us. She wants them to know not even her daughter or the son of the king can defy the Shadow Society.
The maids scrub my face until it’s as raw as my splintered heart and apply my makeup to match Mother’s—making my eyes into sunken pits. Then they squeeze me into a revealing gown of lavender satin, which I suspect will match Marguerite’s. When they finish, I look ghastlier than I ever did in the sewer.
La Vie is gone. Mirabelle is dead. Only La Petite Voisin remains.
The guard who “bathed” us returns with several masked comrades and they clamp shackles around our wrists and ankles. The cold metal gnaws at my skin as they lead us from the dungeon—Josse first and me trailing behind. I try to catch his eye, but he refuses to look up from his ridiculous heeled slippers. They’re pristine white with blue ribbons—something fit for Louis, not a bastard kitchen boy. Josse’s entire outfit is as gaudy and degrading as mine: a sumptuous brocade doublet cut in Bourbon blue with red braiding and miniature fleur-de-lis buttons at the cuffs. The royal crest is embroidered in gold across the whole of his back.
There will be no mistaking his identity.
I wonder, for a second, if it bothers him to be publically acknowledged more in death than he ever was in life.
When we emerge into the courtyard, the sunlight stabs my eyes. I squint, but it’s like staring into the heart of a fire. I’m almost relieved when they stuff us into the musty dark of the waiting prison wagon. It, too, is dressed for the occasion—festooned with emerald and plum drapes and Mother’s double-headed eagle banner—to ensure we attract as much attention as possible as we make our way through the city.
The guards shove me onto a bench along one wall and Josse falls onto the bench opposite. Still not looking at me, even though our knees are practically touching. I force a cough, but he continues to ignore me.
Do you really want to go to our deaths like this? Without a word?
The fine black carriages carrying Mother and Lesage and Marguerite depart to the sound of trumpets and fanfare, and our wagon rumbles after them. It’s eerily reminiscent of the ride to Versailles at the birth of this madness: Here I am, bouncing over the ruts and peering out the window, fretting over where we’re headed. My stomach tangles into knots as the horses clop over the Pont Neuf and carry us to the far end of the Île de la Cité, where the twin spires of Notre-Dame disappear into the clouds like ladders to heaven. The cathedral frowns at our approach—the delicate flying buttresses lower like eyebrows; the rose window purses like lips. As if it senses the horrors to come.
We enter the courtyard through the western gate, and our wagon slows to a crawl as we weave through the thronging crowd. Shadow Society miscreants teem around us like dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. Everywhere I look are velvet masks and vibrant capes. They cheer and shout and bang upon the sides of the wagon. Calling for our execution.
I clutch the bench and let out a slow breath, but the wagon walls press closer. The shouts grow louder. I cannot lift my hands to cover my ears, so I fold in half and bury my face in my skirts. When we rumbl
e to a stop, I make the mistake of looking up. Beneath the cathedral’s archivolt is a hastily constructed scaffold bearing a cauldron of the altered Viper’s Venom. My hands begin to tremble. I can’t look away from the insidious curls of sapphire smoke rising into the air.
At least it will be quick, I tell myself. But that’s little comfort when I imagine Josse and Anne and Françoise shrieking and twisting like the guard in the dungeon. A sickness rises up my throat and I vomit onto the wagon floor, narrowly missing Josse’s boots. He curses and scoots away.
He should be disgusted.
I am to blame for everything. I told Mother where the royals are hidden. I invented the antidote to Viper’s Venom, prompting this devilish new mixture. It was my idea to dust the crops with fire powder. I am the reason Lesage can wield désintégrer and conjure smoke beasts, and I’m so daft, I never did find a way to control the magic myself.
I tilt my head back and stare up at the ceiling, silently screaming at Father for promising I would be a great alchemist when my talents have brought far more pain and suffering than relief.
The wagon’s doors swing open, but instead of Shadow Society guards, it’s my sister who’s come to collect us. For a brief instant, my heart drums with hope. She has heeded my words when we were outside the laboratory. She’s going to help me.
But then her lips twist into a sneer as she takes in my gown. As suspected, it matches hers exactly. She grabs our chains with a disgruntled huff. “Once again, you’ve ruined everything. I must bear the disgrace of wearing the same gown as a traitor. I must haul you around like a nursemaid rather than standing at Mother’s side, where I belong.” She yanks the chain and I nearly tumble from the cart face-first. “Keep up.”
“Wait, Margot. Please.” I grab her arm, but she breaks free and spits on my dress.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Please,” I beg, my voice small and broken. “Think of all the nights we spent crouched inside the cupboard, holding hands—”
“Not another word!” She turns her back on me and drags us up the scaffold steps.
I can feel Josse watching our exchange, and for a brief second, I see a flicker of empathy cross his face. But when I glance over, he irons out his expression and looks away.
Once we’re positioned beside the cauldron, Mother alights from her carriage, waving to her raucous followers and flashing her most honeyed grin. Lesage escorts her through the crowd, which has grown so thick that it spills from the courtyard into the surrounding streets. There are Shadow Society supporters and rabble alike. Everyone has come to see the commotion. I squint into the sea of faces, hoping to spot Ameline’s defiant scowl or Gavril’s gap-toothed grin, but La Trianon and Abbe Guibourg are the only familiar faces near the platform. Beyond them, the people blend together like herbs in a cauldron. Even if our old allies are present, they’ve no reason to help us again. Not when they’ve lost so much.
“Are we ready to proceed with the festivities?” Mother asks Lesage through a tight-lipped smile as they take their places beside us.
“Fernand should arrive with the royals any moment,” he assures her.
Mother’s eyes simmer with annoyance. “How hard could it be to apprehend a few little girls and the inept dauphin?”
Lesage places a steadying hand on her shoulder. “The bastard and your daughter are at the ready. Shall we begin with them?”
“Very well.” Mother cuts a withering glance at me and Josse, then turns to address the crowd, her face oozing with sudden warmth and affection. “My good people!” she bellows in her most enthralling voice. “Since the inception of the Shadow Society, we have dedicated ourselves to serving you, the citizens of Paris! It is our greatest desire to ensure that you are well-fed and finely clothed and prospering—unlike the lecherous, self-serving kings who came before. But our great purpose has been thwarted by these grievous rebels”—she motions back at us—“who have robbed us of peace and fractured our city by attempting to pit us against one another. Royals who wish for things to return to the way they were before. Who want to keep you low and see you suffer.”
From all across the square, people raise their fists and shout in agreement. But I’m pleased to find just as many come to our defense.
“La Vie kept us from starving with her hunger tonic,” calls a girl near the front.
“We were on the brink of death when she administered a fever draught” comes a deep voice from the center of the throng.
More and more voices cry out, like the patter of rain as storm clouds descend.
Mother waves her hands to quiet them. “The Shadow Society will provide those services. We would be doing all of that and more, were we not constantly harried by rebellion. Once they are disposed of and we, as a city, are united in purpose, all of our time and resources shall be dedicated to the care of the common man. You have no need of this La Vie”—she spits my new name—“or her pathetic uprising.”
A good half of our defenders fall quiet. The rest whisper to their neighbors. Cold fingers of panic trace along my spine. With a few clever lies, Mother is going to undo weeks’ worth of progress. Everything we’ve fought for—a future Desgrez and Ètienne and so many others died for. I look helplessly to Josse, but of course he isn’t looking at me. His shoulders are hunched and his hair hangs in his downcast eyes. His skin has that awful greenish hue, and his face shines with sweat. He looks finished, defeated. If I were in the audience, I would abandon our cause too.
A numb, tingling dread slowly claims my limbs. If I don’t act quickly, the same despair will consume me and drag me down to the scaffold. I ball my fists and lunge forward against my chains. “Lies!” I shout. “Don’t believe her lies! The moment the Shadow Society rose to power, they abandoned you! They will never keep these pretty promises because the rebellions will never cease. Even if we perish, others will rise. We are your true advocates, and we have a plan to—”
“Silence!” Mother shouts. Her guards haul on my chains and I crash to the platform. My face smashes into the boards and blood pours from my nose, filling my mouth with the taste of salt and rust. But my outburst did the trick. The people agitate and churn once more, like a boiling kettle.
“These hopeless rebels are not your allies,” Mother says with perfect calmness. “Who do you suppose is responsible for destroying the crops? We caught them sprinkling a poisonous powder across the fields, tainting your food so they could then ‘save’ you and gain your support. We razed the fields to protect you. And the Shadow Society will distribute the royal stores of grain to accommodate for the shortages caused by this heinous act.”
The crowd shifts yet again, like the changing of the wind. A thousand voices shout. Louder and faster and angrier until, like the snapping of a bowstring, they hurtle forward and slam against the scaffold. The hastily constructed boards judder beneath my boots, and I stare at Mother slack-jawed as I fight to keep my balance.
She smooths her hands down the front of her immaculate golden eagle cloak and shoots me a gloating smile. She got everything she wanted. She destroyed the crops and found a way to spin it in her favor. “Anything more you’d like to add, daughter?” she taunts.
Because she knows there’s nothing to be done.
She has thought of everything.
The roar of the mob grows to a fever pitch—clanging and clashing louder than the cathedral’s great bells. Which can only mean one thing.
“At last.” Lesage points across the square to where Fernand appears, cloaked and masked, tugging four plodding forms behind him. Josse moans and my heart wrings in my chest like a washrag. Fernand plunges into the crowd, and I shudder when Gris appears behind the royals, prodding them along. He already made it clear where he stands, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise. But watching him lead Josse’s sisters to the scaffold shatters the final fragment of my heart.
I heave forward against my chains. I howl and shake and scream. Fighting to the last. Until there’s nothing left inside of me. Then I
collapse to the boards and stare at the cauldron of Viper’s Venom, wishing I had the strength to break free and cast myself into its depths.
26
JOSSE
I force myself to look up.
Watching the girls march to their death is the last thing I want to witness, but I can hold my chin high, muster a smile, and pretend to have a plan if it will make them even a little less afraid. If it will make their last few moments slightly more bearable.
Fernand and Gris push through the mob like tunneling ants, vanishing and reappearing in the turbulent sea of masks and cloaks. Each step feels like a league, each second a lifetime. I can’t recall the last time I breathed. It isn’t until they’re halfway across the square and La Voisin gasps that I realize the prisoners are a wearing dirty tunics and breeches rather than skirts. Instead of Marie and Louis’s blond and Anne and Françoise’s rich mahogany, one has hair as black as charcoal and another is white blond. The foremost prisoner has hair like straw and flashes a wide, toothy grin at me when they reach the base of the platform.
“You look surprised to see us,” Gavril says. “Though not as surprised as her.” He laughs at La Voisin, and Fernand yanks the rope, sending Gavril crashing to the scaffold steps.
I blink and my mouth falls open. A thousand questions rattle around my head, but my tongue has forgotten how to form words.
“The royals never returned to the sewer,” Gavril says with an innocent shrug. “Haven’t a clue where they could be.”
I don’t mean to be callous—I would never wish to see our little allies shackled here beside me—but I’m so relieved the girls are safe, I fall to my knees.
I’ll die knowing they’re alive—that they still have a chance.
I immediately look to Mirabelle. I don’t mean to, but my eyes are drawn to hers. She tilts her head back and lets out an exultant whoop.
I clutch my stomach, half laughing, half crying.
“Stop that!” Marguerite shouts at us.
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