An Affair of Poisons

by Addie Thorley

  “How would executing innocent men and women ever be the best way to go about anything?” I accidentally blurt.

  Gris shoots me a hateful look and Mirabelle stomps her heel down hard on my toes before turning back to Gris. “Why would Mother attack the fishmongers? That doesn’t sound like something the Society would condone.”

  “Apparently she demanded they donate two-thirds of their daily catch to distribute to the starving people, but they refused to comply.”

  “Refused or simply cannot?” I interject. Gris scowls, but I press on. “It’s a valid question. Two-thirds is a staggering amount. They’ll starve to death and fall to ruin themselves, giving away so much.”

  Gris says nothing, just frowns at the floor.

  “How does she plan to kill them?” Mirabelle asks, pacing back and forth in front of the counter. “When?”

  “Viper’s Venom, of course. And it’s already done. I distilled the poison yesterday with the understanding it would be used on traitorous nobles, but Marguerite collected it from the laboratory while I ate my midday meal. She tainted their nets and baskets not an hour ago while they supped. The fishermen will be poisoned when they return to set their nets and traps for the night.”

  “Only an hour …” Mirabelle fumbles with the half-filled phials on the counter.

  “Can we finish the antidote in time?” I ask.

  “If we work quickly … all of us together.” She adds the last part with an imploring look at Gris.

  He starts to nod but then bites his lip. “You realize she’ll blame me? I want to help, truly I do, but if the fishmongers survive, La Voisin will presume I made faulty poison.”

  “She’ll test your work, to be sure,” Mirabelle agrees, “but since we’re administering an antidote and not altering the poison, she’ll find nothing amiss. Just make certain you are not the tester.”

  Gris moans and drags his fingers down his face.

  “We haven’t time for your dithering,” I bark out. “Either help us or go.”

  Gris whips around to face me. He’s a good hand taller and nearly twice as broad. He could easily haul me up by the back of my tunic and toss me out the door—which is precisely what it looks like he means to do. “Don’t act as if you’ll be of any help—”

  Mirabelle bangs her fist on the counter. “Every second could mean a man’s life. We need every pair of capable hands.”

  Gris gives a reluctant nod. “Very well.”

  Mirabelle straps on her goggles and calls orders at us both, and half an hour later we stuff the still-warm bottles of finished antipoison into sacks and start for the door.

  “I wish I could accompany you,” Gris says as we step out into the chilly, rain-soaked evening. “But it will look suspicious if I’m missing from dinner. Especially after word gets back to your mother about the fishmongers’ miraculous recovery. Do you think you can manage on your own?”

  On her own?

  He’s worse than Father’s bedamned ministers, looking through me, pretending I don’t exist. I give an exaggerated wave, but Mirabelle steps between us and throws her arms around Gris.

  “We’ll manage fine. Thank you for coming—for telling me about the fishmongers. I’ll find a way to send word of how they fare.”

  “And I’ll return if I hear of any more worrisome developments.”

  Mirabelle leans on her toes and kisses his scruffy cheek. For some reason it makes me stiffen. “Thank you, my friend. Be safe.”

  Gris squeezes her hand, pulls up his hood, and jogs off into the driving rain, but not before throwing one last glare in my direction.

  19

  MIRABELLE

  “We need to make a quick stop,” Josse says as we race toward the Quai de la Grève. The rain falls in lashing torrents, making it difficult to see, and my boots are heavy with the fetid gutter water that’s streaming down the streets.

  “Where?” I demand. “There isn’t time.”

  “It’s on the way. We need to collect Desgrez from the Méchant Meriée.”

  “Why in the world would we do that? He made it very clear he doesn’t wish to work with me. He stalked off before we even moved the smoke beast to the millinery.”

  Josse wipes his face on the back of his sleeve. “This healing could turn him fully to our cause.”

  “We don’t need him committed to our cause!”

  “Trust me. I know you two don’t get along exactly, but think of Desgrez like Lesage’s smoke beasts—hotheaded and difficult, but undeniably useful.”

  “You have twenty seconds,” I say when we reach the tavern. I begin to count aloud as Josse bangs through the door. To my surprise, he returns with three seconds to spare, and Desgrez doesn’t even scowl too deeply at the sight of me. He presses a gray wool cloak and tricorne hat into my arms.

  “You’re welcome. I won them straight off the back of my opponent.”

  “What’s this for?”

  “For wearing—what else? You’re too conspicuous in that palace maid’s uniform. If I’m joining you on this senseless endeavor, I’d rather not be caught. And the leader of a rebellion should have a bit more … panache.”

  “How can you be worried about panache at a time like this?” I say, but I pull the cloak around my shoulders and tug the hat over my drenched curls, thankful for the extra layers.

  The bottles of antipoison rattle and clink in our sacks as we run down the rue Saint-Denis, and my nerves rattle with them. My lips move in silent prayer when the riverside comes into view.

  Please let them live, I beseech God and all his heavenly angels.

  Please let it work, I beg Father for alchemical blessings from beyond the grave.

  When we reach the waterfront, we duck beneath the shadowed awning of a boathouse and inch closer to the docks, straining to see and hear over the drum of the rain. The long, wood-planked wharf is packed, as it always is each evening. But instead of fishermen gutting the day’s catch, and merchants haggling at the fishwives’ stalls while mud-caked children race past on bare feet, everyone lies writhing and flapping on the moss-slicked boards. The wind batters us with rain and river water, and the scent is so foul, it drops me to my knees. The wharf is never pleasant-smelling, but now it’s unbearable: blood and vomit, mingled with damp wood and rotting fish innards. And the sounds are even worse. Wailing and moaning and retching like I’ve never heard.

  I clench the bottles of antipoison tighter, wanting to charge down the quai and help, but a few Society soldiers linger at the water’s edge, watching and laughing.

  I sink my teeth into my trembling lip to keep from screaming. This is not the Shadow Society I knew. How could Mother allow this?

  “It sounds like a massacre,” Desgrez says, his voice hoarse. “Worse than the dungeons of the Châtelet.”

  “It is worse,” I say. “Prison would be a mercy compared to poison. Never have you felt such pain, like claws sinking into your gut and twisting your innards.”

  Josse stiffens beside me, and his mouth pinches into a line. “You speak as if you know from experience.”

  “It happened fairly often when I was young. Father claimed poisoning was essential to my training—to know how the body reacts to different toxins in order to determine which herbs would counteract the damage. He also wanted to be certain I could perform under pressure, in case of accidental—or not so accidental—poisonings. An alchemist must always be ready.”

  Both men gape at me, blinking through the rain streaming down their faces.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” I say. “Father’s methods may have been unorthodox, but he wouldn’t have let me die.”

  Josse’s frown deepens and he scoots closer. As if protecting me from events that took place half a lifetime ago. A prickle of warmth stirs in my belly, like coals being prodded by a poker, but another moan from the wharf douses the ember. I ball my fists and glance up and down the riverbank. The Society soldiers are finally gone. “Let’s go.”

  “I’ll start at the far end,
near the Pont Marie,” Josse says, gripping his bottle of antipoison and casting me a look that is equal parts reassurance and fear. Desgrez heads to the nearest shacks to see if anyone is still inside, and I pick up my skirts and wade straight into the center of the carnage.

  I come first to a man lying prostrate on the slippery boards. He’s twice my size, with deep brown skin and thick black hair. It takes all my strength to turn him over, and the sight of his bloated face is so horrific, I gag. Froth seeps from his lips, and his breath rumbles like boiling water.

  I close my eyes and dig my knuckles into my thighs, but still the faces of the dead rise like phantoms from the mist: the Sun King, Madame de Montespan, and now the Duc de Luxembourg. A whimper escapes my lips and tremors start in my smallest toe and overtake me to the crown.

  The man’s eyes flutter open, and he thrashes beneath me. The phial slips in my sweaty hand. I can’t bear to fail again. I won’t survive it. I want to scramble back. I want to return to the dark safety of the millinery. But Father’s hands shove me forward. His voice hums in my ear. I bring the bottle to the man’s lips, but they’re cold and stiff and his head flops to the side.

  No, no, no. I can feel the scream welling up inside of me. My hand shakes so hard, the antipoison splashes across his lips and dribbles down his chin. I climb atop his chest and force the neck of the bottle between his lips.

  Then I wait.

  Each second lasts a lifetime.

  I’m about to slide down to the slimy boards and never rise again when a door slams open and a squalling woman with the same dark skin and long black hair storms across the quai, Desgrez on her heels.

  “Étienne!” she shrieks at the motionless man beneath me. “I forbid you to be dead!” She elbows me aside and slaps the man across the face. “Wake up this instant!”

  Just as I’m about to tell her it’s useless, she slaps her husband again and his eyes fly open. He clutches his chest and is immediately gripped by a fit of coughing.

  My eyes burn with tears and I bury my face in my hands, crying and laughing so hard that I can’t catch my breath.

  He lives.

  It worked.

  “Don’t sit there blubbering!” the woman shouts at me. “The rest, girl. Tend the rest.”

  Desgrez helps me to my feet and we continue our work down the river, doling out antipoison and whispering my new name, La Vie, until it’s on every tongue. Floating down the riverside. Once again shaking the bearings of my soul.

  “We knew you’d come,” a girl says as she pushes up to her elbows. “Rumors have been swirling down the dock and tangling through Les Halles. They say you’re an angel, sent from God himself.”

  I’m no angel, that’s for certain, but I feel something powerful, something transcendent, stir deep within me as I watch the dead return to life. Women and children rush from the shabby riverside shacks and collide with the men in great, weeping hugs. A small dark-eyed girl throws herself atop the first man I healed and clutches his face, kissing his scruffy cheeks.

  My eyes sting and my lips quiver. Father’s voice drifts past me on the wind. You will be a great alchemist one day… .

  This is what he meant. This feeling gave him the courage to stand up to Mother, to prize alchemy above all else. “Miraculous,” Desgrez whispers.

  My eyes widen. “Is that a compliment, Captain?”

  Desgrez scoffs and assaults me with the full force of his most intimidating scowl. “If you’re trying to get an admission out of me, poisoner, it will never happen.”

  “I think the tears glistening in your eyes are admission enough.”

  “Raindrops. Obviously.” He wipes his sleeve across his face.

  A few minutes later, Josse comes tearing down the dock, whooping and wide-eyed. “It worked! Our antipoison worked!” He catches me up in his arms and we spin across the rain-slicked boards.

  For a second, I can’t breathe—it’s so reminiscent of the day I healed Anne and Françoise. And yet, everything has changed. Instead of pushing him away, my arms tighten around his neck. My fingers hungrily clutch his tunic. And instead of freezing with horror, I bury my face in his chest.

  He sets me down, takes my chin in his hands, and presses his forehead to mine. He’s laughing and misty-eyed, and his lips are so close I can practically taste them. The tiny space between us bubbles and pops. His warm breath spills across my frozen cheeks. His hands slide down my neck and tangle in my hair. It would be so easy to lift my chin a fraction.

  Josse glances down, and his lip catches between his teeth.

  I close my eyes and lean up on my toes.

  “Focus!” Desgrez yanks Josse back by the shoulders. “This isn’t the time to be …” He waves a hand between Josse and me and makes a disgusted face. “We’ve work yet to do.” He nods to the scores of people still gathered on the wharf. “Make your speech so we can be off before a Shadow Society patrol spots us.”

  I never dreamed I’d say this, but Desgrez is right. We’ve a city to retake. No time for distraction.

  “Do you want to do the honors?” Josse asks me.

  “And deny you the pleasure of touting your royal heritage?” He clutches his chest, as if wounded, and I grin. “You’re the link to Louis. And you’ve got a knack for making these speeches.”

  A slow smile tugs his cheeks. He straightens his cloak with a flourish and climbs onto an overturned crate. “My good people! I am Josse de Bourbon and this is Mademoiselle La Vie. We bring you these healing tonics from His Royal Highness, the dauphin! He is alive and plotting to reclaim the throne from La Voisin and the Shadow Society, even as we speak. But he needs your aid and loyalty to do so. If you will join us in this battle, we will continue to provide curatives and protection. Once order is restored, you will also be given a voice in the new government. Representatives will bring your complaints before the dauphin and the Parlément de Paris.”

  “Sure they will!” calls the fishwife who slapped her husband, Étienne, back to life.

  “Ameline, hush,” the man orders, but she elbows past him to the front of the group and stands before us with her arms crossed. “I’m just as likely to have a say in the government as I am to dip my fingers in the mucky Seine and have them come out plated gold.”

  A few fishermen snicker, and the rest stare—awaiting our reply.

  “I assure you—” Josse begins, but Ameline cuts him off.

  “Save your assurances! We want proof!”

  Josse looks down at me, and I shrug helplessly. We have no proof to give them. We haven’t needed it. The poor and sick have been so grateful for aid, they willingly put their trust in us. I had assumed the fishmongers would be the same, especially with all their happy tears and thankful cries. But Ameline tilts her head back and laughs bitterly, pointing a finger at us.

  “Just as I suspected. If the dauphin is so eager to join with us, where is he? Where is any of the royal family? Shouldn’t they be the ones distributing the curatives?” She looks all around for royals who are distinctly absent and more and more of the dockworkers begin to murmur and shout.

  Josse waves a hand overhead. “I am the bastard son of the late king and here on behalf of the royal family—”

  “Not to disparage your status, as I’m certainly in no position to do so”—Ameline tugs on her ragged skirts coated in mud and fish guts—“but sending the royal bastard and runaway daughter of La Voisin to do their bidding hardly inspires confidence.”

  “His Royal Highness wishes to walk among you, of course,” Josse grinds out, “but you must understand how dangerous—”

  “Exactly!” another man cries. “How do we know the dauphin lives at all? These could be cruel, empty promises. We were betrayed by another champion this very night. Seems foolish to put our trust in someone we can’t even see, who could be hiding in a lavish castle, swathed in velvet and silk, while we are poisoned and left to perish.”

  “Louis and my sisters are living in conditions no better—”

  �
��Prove it!” someone yells. And then all of the Quai de la Grève is shouting it.

  Josse steps down from the crate with a heavy thunk and rakes his fingers through his soaking hair. “I give up. There’s nothing I can say to please them.”

  “We appreciate what you’ve done for us,” Ameline calls above the tumult, “but if we’re to believe your promises, if you want commoners to rally behind royals who have always reviled us, we need to see them with our own eyes. And if it be as you say it is, then we’ll cast our lot with yours.”

  A hundred Ayes rise up in agreement, followed by a hundred more.

  Josse gives a curt nod and stalks off. Desgrez follows. I linger slightly longer, forcing a smile and calling out assurances. Then I rush to catch up to Josse and Desgrez.

  “The healing was impressive, I’ll give you that,” Desgrez says. “But the response wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as promised.” He casts goading smiles at Josse and me in turn.

  “Save it,” Josse says.

  “That went differently than expected,” I agree, “but we knew we would have to include Louis sooner or later.”

  “I was hoping for much later,” Josse growls.

  “Not looking forward to your glorious family reunion?” Desgrez continues. “But Louis has missed you so!” He tries to sling his arm around Josse’s shoulders, but Josse buries his elbow in Desgrez’s side. After a long, drawn-out wheeze, Desgrez chuckles. “Not to worry—I’ll protect you.”

  I accidentally laugh, and Josse shoots me a glare. “We’ll both protect you,” I say. Then slowly, so as not to draw Desgrez’s attention, I slide my fingers between Josse’s and give his hand a faint squeeze.

  20