“Get up!” One of the guards slams his boot into my thigh. But the pain doesn’t register. I am out of my body with joy.
Mirabelle and I continue celebrating while La Voisin and Lesage stitch strained smiles across their lips and try to act as if this development was expected. But sparks jump between Lesage’s clenched fingers, and La Voisin is practically vibrating with fury. She fists Fernand’s cloak and drags him into what may resemble an embrace to the people down below. A very forceful embrace.
“Where are they?” she demands.
Fernand mumbles something unintelligible.
“Where. Are. They?” La Voisin’s voice is a deadly whisper.
Gris elbows Fernand aside with an exaggerated swing of his arm and smiles at the crowd, as if jostling for his share of favor. While they cheer, he lowers his head and mutters, “If we knew their location, they would be here. We were ambushed by these little miscreants.”
“The dauphin said the sewer was sure to be filled with Society roaches,” Gavril pipes in, “so he placed us in the tunnels to exterminate them. Which, I’d say, we did rather well.” He smiles wickedly at Gris and Fernand, and that’s when I notice the blood smeared down the length of Gris’s face and the gruesome spray across his cloak. Fernand is equally covered in gore, but it’s difficult to see beneath his mask and raven-black ensemble.
“It took those two plus half a dozen less fortunate guards to apprehend just the four of us,” the black-haired orphan boasts.
My brows rise so high and quick, they practically leap off my face. Not because the orphans slayed so many guards—I’ve seen them take down far worse—but because Louis organized the ambush. He spirited our sisters away and arranged to have the orphans waiting in their place.
Mirabelle shoots me a goading look, and I can’t even pretend to be annoyed. I would willingly throw myself at my brother’s slippered feet and kiss his ringed fingers and even powder his bedamned wig.
He saved my girls.
“Unbelievable!” La Voisin’s voice rises.
Lesage rushes forward and places a firm hand on her shoulder. “There are many watching eyes, my love,” he says through his teeth. “The royals can’t get far, but I suggest we take care of the rebels already in our possession or we’re like to have a riot on our hands.”
As if on cue, someone tosses a turnip at the stage. The shouts redouble. The people came for blood, and unlike La Voisin, they don’t care whose is spilled, so long as someone pays for the decimated crops.
“Act as if everything has gone to plan; the people will have no reason to think otherwise,” Lesage continues. Gris and Fernand drag Gavril and his three comrades into position beside us. The orphans balk and bray like stubborn donkeys until Lesage holds up a crackling hand in warning. All four of them flinch and one accidentally whimpers—reminding me how young they are. My heart squirms inside my chest; they shouldn’t have to make such a sacrifice. I may be prepared to die for my siblings, but I would never ask them to do the same.
Once we’re all lined up before the cauldron of Viper’s Venom, La Voisin takes a deep breath and returns to the front of the platform to address the crowd. “Do you wish to see them punished?” she bellows.
The roar of approval is thunderous. I wonder if Anne and Françoise can hear from wherever they hide.
Don’t worry about me, I want to tell them. Just live. Live and be well.
I tilt my head back to gaze up at the unbearably cheery sky—the clouds white and airy, like spun sugar; the warm breeze dances through my hair. I release a breath I’ve been holding for a lifetime, and with it I expel every morsel of resentment and frustration and inadequacy until I’m cleansed—but not empty. I let the best moments and sweetest memories fill the newly purified spaces: Rixenda’s crinkled grin and the feel of her old, withered hands clasping my cheeks; the echo of my sisters’ giddy laughter and their small arms draped around my neck; Desgrez’s sly smile concealed beneath an outlandish disguise; and finally, Mirabelle’s intoxicating scent of sage and smoke and the feel of her callused fingers sliding between mine.
I long to reach for those fingers now, but cold shackles cut into my wrists.
A look will have to do.
I turn to Mirabelle and find she’s already looking at me, her dark eyes burning with fearless determination. She says something, but it’s swept away in the deafening clamor.
Words are needless anyway.
I smile and shift a hair closer, holding her gaze. And she knows.
That I’m sorry.
That I forgive her.
That there’s no one I’d rather stand by—in life or death.
Six guards file onto the platform, collect phials of Viper’s Venom, and stand before Mirabelle, myself, and the orphans. They hold the sparking blue liquid aloft for the crowd to see.
Gavril and his comrades shout at the guards and pull faces. We’re a sip away from death, but they haven’t a speck of remorse or fear.
I roll my shoulders back and look out across the writhing mob, hoping I look half as brave and defiant. But when La Voisin raises her hands to quiet the crowd, I have to clasp mine tightly to hide their shaking. “Let this be a warning to any other rebels who attempt to destroy the peace and endanger the good people of this city,” she cries. “This shall be your end.”
Her hand drops in a swift arc, like an ax, and the guards lower the poison to our lips. I draw a final shaky breath as warm curls of steam tickle my nose. Then I tense every muscle. Waiting for the poison to wet my lips. Waiting for it to twist and claw my innards.
A hair-raising cry rings out down the platform.
I presume it’s either Mirabelle or one of the orphans—that their guard had a swifter hand, and I lean into my own phial, not wanting to be the last. Not wanting to watch them suffer. But the cry comes again and a blue-green flash streaks through the corner of my vision. Lightning crashes into the center of the crowd, and suddenly the entire mob is screaming. Shoving. Running.
My guard whirls around and the phial of Viper’s Venom shatters on the scaffold with a hiss.
I look to my right, down the line of prisoners, and we’re all standing. All staring at Lesage, who collapses to his knees and releases another errant bolt of désintégrer. It smashes into the carvings of Saint Anne along the front of Notre-Dame, and as the smoke dissipates, I watch in stunned confusion as Fernand pulls a bloodied dagger from the sorcerer’s back.
Marguerite’s shriek is so loud and shrill, it feels like shards of glass stabbing my ears.
Lesage falls forward and coughs a spray of blood. He raises a quivering hand and streams of colored smoke explode overhead, forming into teeth and scales and claws.
With a furious howl, La Voisin rushes toward Lesage. Gris watches her approach, his eyes wild and feverish. Right before she reaches the sorcerer, he lunges. His shoulder slams into La Voisin’s stomach and they crash to the platform, tumbling end over end.
The guards abandon us and sprint to La Voisin and Lesage. Gavril and the orphans whoop like little devils and give chase. As if they expected this. They pull their ropes taut between them, which they use to trip and entangle the guards.
Go! Move! my mind screams, but unlike the orphans, I’m bound wrist and ankle by shackles and I still don’t understand what I’m seeing. I look over at Mirabelle and she’s gaping with equal shock.
From around the corner of the Hôtel-Dieu, a surge of stationers and ducs, fishmongers and viscounts, charge into the square led by Ameline and the Marquis de Cessac. They stampede through the riotous crowd and cut their way toward the scaffold, looking for all intents like angels, for they seem to be glowing.
No, sparkling.
With the last of his flagging strength, Lesage fires a cascade of désintégrer at them, but still they advance. Untouched. Unburned. “Impossible!” he gasps.
I laugh because it most certainly is possible. They are covered in the fire powder we brewed for the crops, and they are tossing it into the a
ir as they batter through the throng, covering as many as they can.
Back on the platform, La Voisin howls as Gris wrenches something from her hand and tosses it to Fernand. Then Gris rolls off the front of the platform seconds before a gargantuan black smoke beast breathes a stream of fire precisely where he stood. Fernand vaults over Lesage and sprints toward us. Marguerite tries to intercept him, but he bludgeons her over the head with the butt of his dagger, then throws it into the chest of an advancing guard. Without slowing, he brandishes his sword and spins to fend off the blow of another assailant.
The hairs prickle down my neck, and my mouth falls open. There’s something strangely familiar about his thrust and parry. The way he lunges and ducks, as if carried by wings. I know only one person who fights with such grace. One person who is small enough and slender enough to pass for the mercenary. When the guard’s sword glances off Fernand’s mask, shredding it from his face, I’m not surprised to see it isn’t Fernand at all.
Louis drives his sword through the guard’s stomach, kicks him to the ground, and skids to a stop before us. He releases Mirabelle first then moves to me, glancing up as he fits the key into my manacles. “Do you have something to say to me, brother?”
I stammer incoherently, still not believing he’s here. Rescuing me. It’s so absurd, I laugh as the iron cuffs fall away.
“I fail to see anything funny about this,” he snaps.
“Where are the girls?” I finally manage.
“With Marie, safe at the Marquis de Cessac’s château.”
“Good.”
Louis arches a blond eyebrow. “Anything else you’d like to say?”
“Honestly? You want me to grovel now?” I wave a hand at the grisly pandemonium.
Louis crosses his arms.
“Fine. Thank you.” I can be gracious. I can admit I needed him—this once. “What do we do now?”
“Get down!” Mirabelle screams. We flatten against the boards, narrowly avoiding the claws and flame of a pearl-pink smoke beast. The back of my tunic sizzles and I roll to snuff the sparks.
Louis drags his sleeve across his sweating face, and says, panting, “I suggest you deal with the beasts. Or that.” He points across the platform to the cerise and emerald capes falling into formation around La Voisin. She rises slowly from Lesage’s lifeless body, shouting and pointing in our direction. “I’ll help Ameline and the rebels reach the platform. Hold La Voisin and her guards off until then.” He removes a dagger from his boot, tosses it to me, and shuffles to the edge of the boards.
The crowd below heaves like a great, surging whirlpool. And above the courtyard, the beasts circle and swoop, breathing swaths of fire and roaring with fury when it fails to catch.
Louis takes a steadying breath. Before he leaps, I stumble forward and clasp his shoulder. “Be safe,” I say.
He stills, looks down at my hand, and slowly returns the gesture. Neither of us recoils. I stare at his sweaty, blood-streaked face, and a burning sensation swells inside my chest. A feeling akin to pride. Or respect.
“Thank you, brother,” I say with a squeeze.
“This is no time to grovel, Josse.” A tiny smile quirks his lips, and before I can think of a retort, he bellows a war cry and dives into the chaos.
Mirabelle and I watch him vanish into the sparking haze. Then I take her hand and together we turn to face her mother.
27
MIRABELLE
The smoke from the beasts is so thick, it shrouds the cathedral, blocking all but the tops of the twin towers. My eyes water and my lungs burn, but once again Mother seems to revel in the flames and heat. She charges through the fog, shouting my name. At least ten Society guards surround her, as solid and imposing as the city wall, and another ten are flying up the scaffold steps. Instinctively, I fall back, but my heels leave the edge of the platform.
Merde.
Josse’s fingers tighten around mine. “You don’t happen to have a sword hidden in your skirts, do you?”
I force a laugh. It’s supposed to sound incredulous, but it comes out high and quivering.
“Pity. You’re always so prepared with antidotes and curatives and Heaven knows what else you keep buried under there.” He waves his fingers at my gaudy purple dress and flashes a smile. I could kiss him for that smile, for attempting to sever the tension with his black humor. “No matter. We’ll think of something.”
Unfortunately, the time for thinking has passed.
Mother’s guards streak toward us with all the ferocity of Lesage’s smoke beasts: their masks curling away from their faces like horns, their teeth gnashing. Josse’s eyes meet mine and we turn to jump from the platform, but another slew of guards waits below. The tips of their swords jut through the smoke like seedlings from the gray winter ground.
We have nowhere to go. Nothing to defend ourselves with but a single dagger.
Fear clamps around my chest as we wheel back around. The guards barrel closer. Josse pushes me behind him, and my heart swells with tenderness and then breaks into a million jagged pieces. He’s so weak from Lesage’s torture, his breath comes in ragged gasps and he can hardly keep his feet, yet still he darts forward and slashes his tiny blade. “Stay back!”
The guards lunge with a sinister laugh. One knocks the dagger from Josse’s hand and another takes out his legs. As soon as he hits the platform, the rest of the guards descend like a pack of jackals, mauling and tearing and ravenous.
They’re going to kill him.
Rage ignites me. Terror propels me. I launch myself at the horde of guards, but someone else reaches them first. From the other side of the platform, Gavril and his small band of orphans hurl daggers and brandish swords they must have stolen from the dead. I crow with triumph, but before I can join them, vicious fingers dig into my sides and haul me back. I scream and kick as I’m dragged across the platform and dumped at Mother’s feet.
“Go deal with that,” she says to her guards, motioning to Josse and the orphans. “I wish to have a word alone with my daughter.” A shudder works through me because I’m fairly certain her words will end with me lifeless on these boards. “Are you happy?” she spits at me. “Lesage is dead, the city is burning, and the people we swore to serve are suffering.”
I push up to my elbows and look into her cold, dark eyes. “I’m happy everyone can finally see what a monster you are.”
“I am not the monster. This is your doing, Mirabelle!”
“I’m not the one who assassinated the royal court at Versailles and obliterated the Paris Police. I’m not the one who poisoned my former allies along with any noble who dared to stand against the Shadow Society. I did not attempt to exterminate the fishmongers or raze the fields to coerce the people’s obedience and loyalty.”
Mother steps closer. “I wouldn’t have needed to take such measures if you hadn’t turned the people against me. Order was nearly restored.”
I tilt my head back and laugh. “The riots were never going to cease. You cannot forsake half the kingdom in favor of the rest. That was the Sun King’s folly, and it was yours as well. For all you despised him, you made the exact same mistake.”
Mother slaps me across the face. Her handprint throbs against my cheek, but I revel in the pain. I drink it in, laughing and laughing until Mother looks ready to burst. “Enough!”
“The only way to truly restore the balance is by uniting the people.”
Now it’s Mother’s turn to laugh. “The aristocracy will never unite with the commoners.”
“Won’t they?” I point to the front of the crowd, where Louis, Ameline, the Marquis de Cessac, and a host of nobles, fishmongers, and stationers cut through her Shadow Society guards, drawing ever nearer to the scaffold. “Because they look rather united to me.”
With a growl of fury, Mother reaches into her golden eagle cloak and extracts a dagger the length of her forearm. The steel glints as she adjusts her grip, reflecting the fires in the crowd. The fire in her eyes. Quicker than I’v
e ever seen her move, she slashes at my face. The blade whistles as it hurtles toward me. I dodge to the left, but searing pain flares across my cheek. When I bring my fingers to my ear, they come away hot and wet.
“You’re destroying everything I’ve worked for,” she sneers as I scramble out of reach. “All the good the Shadow Society has done. You’re just like your father. Meddling and discontented. Reckless and deceitful.”
“That’s the finest compliment you’ve ever given me,” I pant.
With a vicious scream, she hurls the dagger at my chest. It spins end over end, quicker than Lesage’s lightning. I ball my fists. Close my eyes. Ready for the spike of pain. But rough hands slam into my shoulder, and the world spins sideways. My head cracks against the ground, and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears. But still I hear it—the wet thunk of metal piercing flesh. The sharp intake of breath.
I bolt upright as Gris staggers to his knees, one hand stretched across my skirt and the other raised toward Mother. The dagger meant for me protrudes from his chest. He looks down at it and his eyes flick to mine, wide and petrified.
“Gris!” I cry as he collapses with a shudder. Blood courses from the wound, drenching his tunic and wetting my petticoats. I take his hand in a vise grip, as if I can squeeze my strength into him. “You’re going to be fine,” I say fiercely. But already the color is leaching from his cheeks.
No, no, no.
Despite what he did, he’s still my brother. My best friend. He saved us in the end.
With frantic hands, I attempt to stanch the blood flow with my skirt, struggle to scrape it back inside his chest. He cannot die. Not like this. When my last words to him were so ugly. I press my hands around the dagger in his chest, but the crimson stain flows faster, thicker. Nearly black.
“Stop,” he wheezes. “There’s naught to be done.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll get you back to the laboratory and—”
He gives my fingers a faint squeeze. “I’m sorry, Mira.” His face is chalky now—a sharp contrast to the red stain sliding from his lips. His cinnamon eyes wander, searching me out through the pain. “So very sorry.”
An Affair of Poisons Page 27