“I-I didn’t know.” I turn a slow circle, sickness rising in my throat.
“It’s a lot to take in at first.” Mirabelle casts me an encouraging smile and urges me down the street. We veer toward a pile of pallets burning in the center of the road—it seems to be the center of activity. Old men warm their hands over the flames while middle-aged women dry their sodden petticoats. A group of teenage girls cook unidentifiable scraps of meat on sticks.
I can feel their eyes on us—on the cart specifically.
“We’ve come to help,” Mirabelle says, removing a jar and holding it aloft. “We’ve brought hunger tonic and other curatives.” Without a trace of hesitation, she turns to the nearest man, uncorks the bottle of watery green hunger tonic, and offers him a spoonful.
He leans forward and sniffs. Then he slowly, slowly brings his lips to the spoon. The people shift as he swallows, their muscles coiling and bunching as if they are cats readying to pounce.
The man smacks his lips and sighs. Tears run down his face, cutting channels through the filth. “’Tis hunger tonic indeed.”
That’s all it takes. The decrepit hovels groan, and scores of people scurry toward us like termites out of the woodwork.
“Ready yourself.” Mirabelle shoves a phial of coughing syrup into my right hand and hunger tonic into the left.
“I don’t know how—”
“It’s easy. Just help them.”
In the next instant, we’re swarmed. People rush around us like a raging river, and I struggle to keep my head above the current. A thousand different hands grasp at me; a hundred voices plead. The night is freezing but I am suddenly drenched in sweat.
Where do I even begin?
Wide-eyed, I look over at Mirabelle, and the sight makes me pause. The crowd is shoving and shouting and waving all around her as well, but her face is serene. Her hands are sure and steady as she leans forward to offer a mud-caked child a spoonful of hunger tonic. She turns to them one by one, caressing their cheeks and taking their outstretched hands. She’s so slight that she should be lost in the clamor of the teeming street, but she burns brighter than them all. A candle flaring in the dark.
She looks over, as if she can feel me watching, and flashes a smile filled with such overwhelming joy, it knocks something loose inside of me. She gives me a quick nod of encouragement and turns back to the people. I swallow and do the same.
I’m tentative at first, but I cast around until I find a face that looks almost familiar—an old, toothless woman with white snowstorm hair. It isn’t Rixenda, of course, but the similarity makes it easier to be bold. She’s clutching her chest and hacking into a sodden handkerchief, so I pull her close and administer the coughing syrup with a timid smile.
She smiles back and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. I still for the briefest moment, then burst out laughing and return the kiss. The crowd roars their approval, and I turn to the woman directly to her right—a mother holding two squalling babies. And then to a bearded man easily twice my size. On and on and on, until my bottles are empty and I wish, more than anything, I could somehow conjure more.
Mirabelle was right when she said her work would never be finished. There are so many who need help. So many I hadn’t considered until now.
The shame of it drags at my shoulders.
When I first suggested we use Mirabelle’s curatives to unite the peasants and nobility, I was thinking solely of my sisters, determined to keep them safe. I didn’t care about the poor and downtrodden. I was no better than my father.
“We’ll brew more remedies and return straight away,” I call to the scores of people still waiting. “You have my word.”
My promise is met with a chorus of cheers. “Our thanks to La Voisin,” a voice shouts. Others take up the cry, and I have to climb atop the milk cart to get them to quiet down.
“This goodwill is not from La Voisin,” I declare. “She and her Shadow Society have proven no better than the former king, forgetting their duty to the people as soon as they gained control.”
The people whisper back and forth for a moment, then “Ayes” of agreement ripple through the throng.
“These curatives are from the royal family.”
Someone barks a derisive laugh. “Sure they are. Do they also wish to dress us in silks and put us up in their palaces?”
A dozen other shouts and scoffs join in.
“It’s true!” I yell. “Louis, the dauphin, is alive and wishes to make amends.”
“That will take a fair bit more than coughing syrup!”
“Which he is prepared to give. In exchange for your support, he will continue to provide treatment and aid, but he also wishes to give you a voice—representatives who will bring the concerns of the common people before him, and together you will devise acceptable solutions. A union of the common man and noble man!”
“Lies!” A handful of voices cry immediately. “Who are you to make such high promises?”
I blow out a breath and stand taller. “I give you my word, as Josse de Bourbon, bastard son of the late king. I was spit upon and downtrodden, like you. Hated and cast aside. I’m not the same breed of royal who left you to freeze on this street, and if you’ll lend me your trust, I promise you’ll be given the respect you deserve. My mother was a scullery maid. I am one of you. I’ll fight for you—if you’ll let me.”
No one cheers, but they don’t boo me either, which feels rather miraculous, given it’s my first speech. The people huddle into groups to whisper, and after what feels like a lifetime, a woman steps forward and asks, “If he’s the bastard prince, who are you?” She points a crooked finger at Mirabelle.
“I am …” Mirabelle’s voice trails off. She cannot use her given name, as it will undoubtedly get back to her mother. She sputters and looks to me, panic flashing in her eyes.
“La Vie!” I bellow the first thing that comes to mind. “This is Mademoiselle La Vie.” I offer Mirabelle a hand and pull her up on the cart beside me. “It was she who created your salves and tinctures. She who brought your plight to my attention. She is your true savior and the leader of this revolution. Tell everyone who will listen.”
Mirabelle blinks up at me, repeating the name as if I said something miraculous. The men and women take up a chant, and the name swells louder and louder as we hop down from the milk cart and make our way back up the rue du Temple.
“La Vie! La Vie! La Vie!”
Life, life, life.
“That name—” Mirabelle says reverently. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Of course you do. You’re brilliant.” The words tumble out before I can help them, and Mirabelle inhales sharply. I failed to use a mocking tone or don a teasing smirk. I have never complimented her in earnest, and my mouth bobs open and closed like a codfish’s.
She nudges my side. “You’re not so bad yourself, princeling. Healing suits you. And the people adore you.” She gestures to the men and women clustered all around, and their grateful smiles turn my bones to slush. Their cheers fill my belly like warm soup on a frigid night.
It’s wondrous.
And terrifying.
I am not a hero.
I duck my head and tighten my grip on the milk cart. “They’re not cheering for me. They’re cheering for the curatives you made. I’m just the delivery boy.”
“Delivery boys don’t generally make such impassioned speeches. It’s okay to care, you know. You don’t have to put on your act for me. Or them.”
What act? I want to retort. There’s only me—Josse. Bastard. Rake. Hellion.
Healer, a new voice whispers. Brother. Leader.
I try to shoo the thoughts away, but they buzz back like horseflies. Biting me. Insisting they have always been there—hidden. It’s easier to be vexing than vulnerable. Safer to push people away rather than be turned away. Less painful to live up to low expectations than attempt to rise above them and be found wanting. I was so convinced I would never earn Father’s approval, I pretended no
t to want it.
And now I will never have it.
You shouldn’t want it, I scold myself. Look around. Look what he permitted.
And I do look—at the people clapping my back and calling my name. For the first time in my life, I am a success rather than a disappointment.
I feel like cheering and retching, both.
What if I prove them wrong?
What if you prove them right?
Echoes of Rixenda’s final plea hum in my ears, and shivers flash down my arms. Is this the reason she always thwacked me with her spoon and ignored my complaints? Was she trying to tell me I could use my position for good—if I was willing to try? I may not be able to earn the king’s approval, but I already had Rixenda’s. And I could honor that by caring for her people.
My people.
When we reach the end of the rue du Temple, Mirabelle and I give a final wave and slip into the shadows. Overhead, the velvet sky has lightened to heather gray, and soft pink brushstrokes paint the underbellies of the clouds. Shopkeepers draw back their curtains and open their doors. I inhale the sweet scent of rising dough, marveling at how the city feels fresh. New. Reborn with possibility. As if I’m standing atop the towers of Notre-Dame, watching our next steps unfold like points on a map.
If we immediately distill more remedies, perhaps we can return to the rue du Temple as soon as tomorrow night. Once we’ve helped all of the poor, then we can turn our focus to the nobility.
My plan will work. I’m sure of it now.
I bend a glance at Mirabelle, and she’s quick to meet my gaze. As if expecting it. Hoping for it, even. Neither of us speaks, but I can tell by the hopeful smile spreading across her face that she feels it too—how the air between us hums like a bowstring, vibrating with energy and possibility as we make our way back to the millinery.
Once we’re safely inside, Mirabelle returns to the counter and I drop into my corner, no longer perturbed in the least to watch her work. But she bangs her fist on the table. “Well, don’t just sit there, princeling. There’s work to be done.”
My eyebrows arch. “I thought I wasn’t permitted to assist you.”
“You can’t be trusted with the recipes, of course. But I suppose you might be allowed to do some chopping. We might as well put your kitchen skills to use.” She flashes a teasing smile and slides a knife to the edge of the counter.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of frenzied activity. I mince mountains of lemon balm and yarrow while Mirabelle distills more hunger tonic and coughing syrup and a tincture to counteract White Death. One remedy after the next until the air is thick with steam and my limbs feel like overcooked cabbage. Even then, we press on, propelled by the fire that burned in the eyes of the poor. The fire that sparks and crackles and lashes between Mirabelle and me. Hope and exhilaration and something more. A camaraderie and enticement that makes our gaze snag from across the room.
Two nights later, we return to the rue du Temple and distribute more curatives to the homeless. And three nights after that, we make our way to the Hôtel-Dieu, the old, moldering hospital on the Île de la Cité, which my father allowed to fall to ruin since it was “overrun” by the rabble.
It’s a sorry sight; the stones are cracked and pitted and black mold dangles from the slatted windows. The air within is musty and damp, like the inside of a cave, and it reeks of rotting leaves and sickness. My gut clenches with what is becoming an all too familiar indignation, and I charge into the nearest ward.
The tiny room is crammed with dozens of rusted beds, each filled with two, sometimes three people. I remove my hat to greet them, but before I can say a word, a woman pushes up to her elbows and cries, “Mademoiselle La Vie! Thank the saints! We’ve been praying you would come.”
Mirabelle lets out a loud breathy laugh and looks up at me. Her eyes well with tears as the name pings around the room, and she’s still breathless and misty-eyed when we leave the Hôtel-Dieu hours later.
“They knew. They’d heard. And so quickly!” she gushes. “Can you believe it?”
I’d believe her capable of anything when she’s grinning like that. Her smile is so dazzling, it could set the world ablaze. I have to keep a sharp eye on the cobbles to keep from drifting into her. And Mirabelle is definitely walking closer to me than she ever has before. I’m acutely aware of the flutter of her purple cape against my leg. Transfixed by her arm swinging so close to mine. The warmth of her fingers makes mine tingle in response. It would be so easy to reach out and take them.
The Josse of a week ago wouldn’t have dared.
The Josse of today doesn’t hesitate.
15
MIRABELLE
The bastard princeling is holding my hand.
And I don’t hate it.
A part of me may actually like it.
I gape down at our intertwined hands, screaming at myself to pull away, but my rebellious fingers tighten. His hands aren’t soft like a royal’s should be, and I like the way his calluses slide against my palm, the way they fit so perfectly with mine.
“La Vie,” he whispers. My heart pulses faster, beating in time to that glorious name.
It’s the most beautiful sound in the world—to be life instead of death. To be loved instead of feared. I feel as giddy and as weightless as I did when Father used to hoist me onto his shoulders and we’d spin around the laboratory in a whirlwind of gold dust and sage leaves.
Josse stops and turns to me, bringing his other hand to my face. His feather-light fingertips trace across my cheekbone and tuck a wayward curl behind my ear. I implore myself not to look up, but like my fingers, my eyes refuse to obey. They explore his hopeful face; his strong square jaw and full lips; the dark strands of hair escaping from his tricorne hat; the way his eyes reflect the sunlight on the wet slate rooftops—gray and green and gold. Brash and brazen and beautiful.
And so eerily similar to the Sun King’s, I suddenly can’t breathe.
Can’t move.
Can’t do this.
I lurch back so swiftly, I topple into the gutter and soak my skirts.
Josse’s hand hangs in the air for a moment before falling slack at his side. His face falls with it. “What’s wrong? I thought—”
“There’s nothing to think.” This is absurd. Impossible. Josse would agree if he knew I’m the one who poisoned his father. He would be horrified for ever thinking there could be anything between us. So I clamp my lips together, wave my hand as if swatting a fly, and stomp up the road.
“I know you felt something,” he calls after me.
“I’m not having this conversation here.” I’m not having this conversation anywhere, but I know better than to say so or we’ll be out here arguing all day. “We must return to the millinery at once.” I point down the street, at the candles flickering to life in several windows. “Not to mention a Society patrol could round the corner any moment.”
Josse heaves the empty cart forward with a jerk. “Only if you tell me what changed your mind.”
“Can’t you just enjoy our accomplishment and not ruin it with all this?” I gesture between us.
“No.”
“Fine. You want a reason?” I rack my brain for an excuse, since admitting that I’m scared of these feelings, and that I killed his father, are both out of the question. “Because you’re royal,” I blurt. “This is all a means to an end for you. Once Louis is restored to the throne, you’ll return to your lavish palaces with your sisters and never spare a second thought for the thousands of people who still need aid. Or me.”
The words feel like poison spitting from my lips. Horrible, disgusting lies. But it would be worse to admit the truth and see the hurt and revulsion on his face. There would be no more hiding. No more pretending or forgetting. I would be forced to face the horror of what I’ve done. Forced to accept that I’m just as guilty as the rest of the Society.
Josse’s jaw tightens and he charges ahead, but two steps later, he drops the cart and pivots. “Is tha
t what you honestly think of me? Was everything you said about ‘healing suiting me’ and ‘the people adoring me’ a lie?”
I bury my fingers in my hair and tilt my head back. I’m going to scream. Or blurt the truth just to be done with it—done with him. But halfway down the block, the creak of a door rends the quiet and we both dive behind a cluster of empty wine casks stacked outside a townhouse. The casks are on the small side, and we have to huddle low and close to stay hidden. The jagged cobbles bite my knees, and when I adjust my position, Josse makes a production of ensuring we don’t touch. It takes all of my restraint not to push him into the road.
Shooting him an annoyed glance, I shift to squint through the casks. A lone man steps into the road. He’s wearing a fine emerald frock coat and kidskin breeches with a cane clutched tight to his chest. His eyes flick up and down the street like a rabbit’s, and he sets off at nearly a run, the ribbons on his coat trailing behind him.
Seconds after he rounds the corner, a tavern door on the opposite side of the road bangs open and another man stumbles out. He’s mostly hidden beneath a black cloak, but I can see the high shine of his boots from here. All these lecherous noblemen, staggering back to their wives and children after a night of debauchery. This man heads in the same direction as the first, and I almost don’t give him a second glance, but there’s something about his painfully thin stature and off-kilter gait—the way he slinks more than walks—that sets the hairs prickling down my neck.
I know that walk.
I crawl to the edge of the wine casks to watch him pass. Through the sumptuous folds of his hood, I spy an intricate black mask framed by strings of long, greasy hair.
Fernand.
My body stiffens and the cobbles beneath me feel suddenly colder. Harder.
An Affair of Poisons Page 16
