An Affair of Poisons

by Addie Thorley

  Questions and suggestions fly at me—mostly the same worries we discussed at the outset—so Josse and Louis help me answer queries and make assurances. It’s most of our allies’ first time meeting Louis, and for all Josse worried about him “ruining everything,” the dauphin is doing splendidly. Everyone seems to hang on his words. They grin at his tattered doublet and seem to stand taller when he acknowledges their opinions.

  “If we cannot fight the poisoners or prevent them from leaving the palace, how do we proceed?” Desgrez asks.

  I hold up Father’s grimoire, the worn red leather catching the torchlight. “Through an alchemical process called fixation. My father studied it in depth and developed a powder resistant to flames. All we have to do is produce the powder and spread it over the crops before the Shadow Society sets them ablaze.”

  “And when do they plan to do that?” the Marquis de Cessac calls.

  “How long will it take to make the powder?” Étienne asks.

  “My informant can hold off for three days, which gives us two and a half days to produce and distribute the powder,” I say.

  Ameline fixes me with a steely expression. “Can it be done?”

  “Yes, but only if everyone contributes. Do you think you can convince the other fishwives to help? We’ll need a good many kettles.”

  “Aye, aye. I’ll rally them straight away. Even those without a heart for rebellion won’t refuse if the alternative is starvation.”

  “Excellent.” I rip an empty page from the back of Father’s grimoire, copy the recipe, and hand it off. “Étienne …” I turn to her husband. “Can you recruit your fellow fishermen to help us distribute the powder? And you”—I look to the haberdasher and milk maid, representing the merchants from Les Halles—“can you assemble carts to carry the powder? They need to look like those that come and go from the market.”

  They nod and set off, and the pressure on my chest—which felt as crushing as an iron cauldron—lifts considerably. I steal a glance at Josse, and his enthusiastic smile makes my stomach dip. I quickly look away before my cheeks grow any hotter.

  “We’ll begin spreading the word,” Gavril says, “so a crowd will be present to witness La Voisin’s treachery and our miraculous powder.”

  “And I’ll scrounge up tunics and hats and such, to ensure we look like a proper vendor train,” Desgrez offers.

  “And myself and the Marquis de Cessac shall lead the expedition,” Louis adds excitedly.

  “Perfect,” I say.

  But as soon as our allies are out the door, Josse turns to Louis and says, “Absolutely not. You cannot lead us anywhere.”

  His words echo around the shop, sharp as nails. Thankfully most of our allies are already down the street, but Ameline and Étienne stop and turn on the bottom step. All eyes lock on Josse, and Louis doesn’t just stare—he shoots daggers of fire. The air is so thick with tension, I can scarcely breathe.

  Devil’s horns, not again. “This is no time to—”

  Louis cuts me off, his voice a low growl. “Why not, brother?”

  “It’s too great a risk, of course.” Josse gives a flippant wave of his hand. “You must stay hidden.”

  “We both know you’re not concerned for my well-being. Which makes me think the risk is to you and your pride. You’re worried the people will forget you the moment they see me.”

  “I’m worried you’ll foul up our carefully laid plans and ruin everything. I could lead the mission just as easily and far more effectively.”

  “I disagree. In order for the greater plan to succeed, the people need to see me and nobles like Cessac defending them, fighting with them.”

  Josse buries his hands in his hair and looks to me, begging me to jump to his defense, but I bite my lower lip and glance at Louis. It’s a risk to let him leave the safety of our hideouts, but we’ll be there to assist and protect him, and I do think it would be good for the people to see him engaged in their struggles. I don my most pleading expression. “Perhaps we should allow the dauphin this chance. I’ve been working closely with him this past week, and I think you’ll find he’s far more competent—”

  “He doesn’t truly wish to help,” Josse interjects. “You don’t know him like I do.”

  “I do wish to help,” Louis insists. “I’ve had time to think, to consider—”

  “Yes, I know. I was trapped with you for weeks. I heard plenty of your thoughts on our accommodations and the fare and the company, and none of it was helpful in the least.”

  Louis lowers his chin and draws a ragged breath. “I haven’t complained in weeks. I’m trying to change. I want to be a better king. Help me do this, Josse.” He looks up at Josse with the most open and earnest expression. The closest a king could ever come to pleading.

  I hold my breath, willing Josse to agree. Marie looks fit to burst with pride from where she sits with the girls off to the side. But Josse pulls his tricorne hat lower and turns his back to Louis. “I’m afraid that’s beyond me.”

  Louis makes a pitiful sputtering noise. I press my lips tight and look up at the ceiling. What I really want to do is slap Josse hard across the face. All he had to do was give the tiniest fraction—Louis was willing to bridge the rest—but he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it.

  Damn the princeling and his pride.

  The Marquis de Cessac glares at Josse, then places a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “Thankfully, we all have a say in this, and I say you lead.”

  Josse whirls on the nobleman. “I saved your life!”

  “Technically, she saved my life.” He nods to me. “And it sounds as if His Royal Highness assisted in making the antipoison. And Madame Royale delivered it… .”

  “I took part in all of those things! And you’re still outnumbered at any rate.”

  Ameline whisper-shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “I think the dauphin should lead.”

  “As do I,” Marie calls from the corner. Anne and Françoise clap their agreement.

  “And I.” Desgrez shrugs guiltily when Josse glares at him. “Sorry, mate. It’s for the best.”

  Josse turns last to me. “Are you against me as well?”

  I look down and finger the cover of Father’s grimoire. “I’m not against you so much as I’m for allowing Louis to do this.”

  “Fine.” Josse rips off his hat and wrings it through his fists. “Fine. But when this ends poorly, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  His cryptic words spindle down my neck like spiders, but I brush them off and find a smile for the eager faces around me.

  Our ranks are swelling. We have a plan, with a clear end in sight.

  There’s no reason to believe this will end poorly.

  22

  JOSSE

  They’ve all rejected me: Desgrez, my sisters, even Mirabelle. I don’t know why I ever thought I could lead this bedamned rebellion.

  Perhaps try a different way of leading, my father whispers. Not in the short, clipped tone I came to expect from him, but in a gentle, coaxing manner that makes everything worse.

  Because I’m doing it again—lashing out and pushing everyone away and refusing to acknowledge my fault in any of it. The worst part is I know I’m doing it now, but I still can’t stop. I’m like a hedgehog, raising my spines and curling in to protect myself from the truth.

  I lean against the counter, close my eyes, and pull several deep breaths through my nose. I can be gracious. I don’t have to let this get to me. But when I look up and see Mirabelle fussing over Louis, sending him off with the Marquis de Cessac to ready for the expedition, my irritation flares again, burning like a pan straight from the oven.

  “You need to be seen aiding the rebels, but not necessarily looking like one,” Mirabelle tells Louis. “The people still need to view you as king, so after the crops are saved, remove your disguise to prove you’re alive and well. Let the people see you fighting for them.”

  Louis beams, and I can’t stomach another bedamned second of it. I st
orm out of the shop, not knowing where I’m going. I just have to get away.

  I don’t get far.

  Mirabelle’s quick footsteps chase me down the street. “Josse, wait.”

  “Why? So you can twist your knife deeper? Sell me for thirty pieces of silver?”

  She grabs my shirttail and pulls me into an alleyway. “Don’t you think you’re being slightly overdramatic?”

  Yes. I know I am. But I growl adamantly, “No.”

  “You honestly can’t see the benefit of allowing the people to see Louis defending them?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Can’t you see he’s trying? Would it kill you to give him a chance?”

  “Why should I when the same courtesy was never extended to me?”

  “Wasn’t it?” she says quietly. “Or did you choose not to take it?”

  It was bad enough having Louis hurl this accusation at me. Hearing Mirabelle repeat it feels like a punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath. Tiny stars explode across my vision and form a picture of my father’s face. He looks at me, so warm and sympathetic, and I hear his voice again: You don’t have to sabotage these relationships, too.

  But I do. If I don’t protect myself, no one will.

  I draw my shoulders back, ready to tell Mirabelle to keep her nose out of my affairs, but she grips my shoulders and says, “You’re enough, Josse. You always have been. You’re the only one who can’t see it.”

  Her declaration shatters the brittle walls around my heart. I gasp as the shards cut inward: stabbing and slicing and flaying me wide open. I sink slowly to the ground, my back scraping against the splintered wood of the building, and I plunk my forehead on my knees.

  “You’re right,” I choke out. “Louis is right. You’re all bloody right.”

  I feel Mirabelle ease down beside me. Her arm brushes mine, and the sage and smoke scent of her tickles my nose. She doesn’t say anything, just sits there—a rope waiting to pull me to shore whenever I’m ready to grab on.

  “I did care,” I admit to myself as much as Mirabelle. The truth of it rattles through me, shaking the very foundation of my soul. My voice cracks, which is beyond mortifying, and when I try to cough it away, I end up making an even more pathetic sniffling sound. If Mirabelle didn’t think me pitiful already, she certainly does now. Since I haven’t a crumb of dignity left to lose, I let all of the words tangled up in my head—years and years of anger and heartache and frustration—tumble out like vomit.

  “I’ve always cared. I wanted my father’s approval so damned much it nearly killed me. He was so big. So bold and commanding. A veritable God on earth. And he was my father. It was almost too much for a motherless, sniveling nobody like me to fathom.”

  “Believe it or not, I know a little something about that.” She knocks her knee against mine and leaves it there. The outsides of our thighs press together. “Keep going.”

  And I do. Now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. I’m desperate to purge these dark, festering feelings. “I didn’t want much—just a scrap of acknowledgment. An occasional smile or a nod. But he swept past me in the halls without so much as a glance of recognition, as if I was nothing more than a statuary or a painting. Any nameless servant. So I made him see me—any way I could: I flirted mercilessly with the highest-ranking ladies at court, and I purposely mucked out the horses’ stalls right before serving in the great hall, so the grime and stench would hang over his lavish feasts. I even tossed a wasps’ nest through the window of his staterooms and laughed as he and his ministers ran down the stairs, shrieking.

  “I didn’t know why I was cutting up, of course. I told myself it was because I didn’t care what he thought, that I didn’t want his attention or approval. But I did. More than anything. And acting like a hellion was the only way to get it—or so I thought.” I press the backs of my wrists into my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. “Apparently, he did see me, but I was too bullheaded to realize it. Or perhaps he was too proud to show it. Either way, I pushed and he retreated, and we grew farther and farther apart until there was no bridging the gap between us. I made him hate me. His final memories of me held nothing but exasperation and disappointment, and now I can’t change that. He will never know me as anything more than a worthless bastard.”

  “I disagree,” Mirabelle says. “After my father died, my mother tried to taint my memories of him. She insisted he never loved us, that he was consumed by his obsession, and for a time, I let myself be swayed. But now that I share his grit and conviction, I feel him grinning with approval every time I distill a batch of antipoison. I hear his voice in my head when I stand up to Mother. I know he’s proud of me—that he forgives me for siding with her. And I have a feeling your father feels the same. How could he not? You’re healing his people, reclaiming his city, and restoring your brother to the throne. I promise that the Sun King is smiling down from Heaven, urging you on.”

  A tingling sensation presses behind my eyes. I try to disagree, but I seem to be incapable of making any sound beyond a raspy wheeze. Mirabelle’s words worm beneath my skin, burrowing deeper and deeper until they sink into the core of me. Like an arrow hitting its mark. All at once, a massive serving tray of doubt and inadequacy lifts from my shoulders, and the lightness is astounding. The relief is so complete. I tilt my head back and tears spill down my cheeks, purging the last of my bitterness.

  When my eyes finally dry up, I wipe my nose on my sleeve with a self-conscious laugh. “Look at me, blubbering in an alley when there’s so much to be done. You probably think me ridiculous.”

  “You’re completely ridiculous,” she agrees. But then she grabs my hand and squeezes until I look down at her. “But you’re also brave and big-hearted and determined and bold and there’s no one I’d rather stand against my mother with.”

  Her eyelashes bat softly against her cheek. The smattering of freckles across her nose shine like specks of gold. She glances at my lips, and the tiny gap between us is filled with so much sizzling energy, I can’t think straight. Do it, Josse. Lean in. I suck in another breath, trying to muster up the courage. Mirabelle grips my collar with a laugh and pulls my mouth to hers.

  The kiss isn’t timid or questioning. It’s a statement. A demand. Her lips move hungrily against mine, and her fingers dig into my shoulders. I slide my hands around her waist and pull her onto my lap, deepening the kiss. She sighs, and my entire body flares with heat. Ever since we first healed the homeless, I’ve wondered how this would be, what it would feel like.

  Mirabelle’s hands are everywhere; trailing down my chest and tangling in my hair, leaving a trail of fire. She rocks her hips, and I lean back with a groan. Only I lean too far and knock my head against the wall. We laugh against each other’s lips and kiss slower. Deeper. Savoring and exploring. She tastes of mint and honey and magic. Smells of smoke and sage and night. I could kiss her forever and ever and …

  “That’s enough.” She pulls back suddenly and taps the tip of my nose. “We can’t spend all night kissing, princeling. There’s work to be done.”

  “But—”

  “Perhaps if we work quickly, there will be time for more of this“—she pecks me again, the barest brush of her lips—“later. But for now …” She claps and motions me up.

  “You’re killing me.”

  “No, my mother is trying to kill you—and everyone who disagrees with her.” She winks and marches back to the millinery. I follow with a shake of my head.

  We spend the better part of that night and the following morning strapped in goggles and masks, producing the flame-resistant powder. Instead of working in the millinery, we join Ameline and the fishwives in their homes on the Quai de la Grève so Mirabelle can trek from kitchen to kitchen to check the consistency and potency.

  The powder is extraordinary—a shimmery silver substance composed of salts of ammonia and phosphate. I haven’t a clue how it works, but when combined, they knit into a sparkling sheet of gossamer that’s supposedly i
mpervious to flame.

  “This twinkly powder is going to protect the fields?” Gavril holds up a jar and inspects it with a frown.

  “Do you doubt me?” Mirabelle’s huff is only partly in jest.

  “Not exactly …” he says, “but I think the lot of us would feel better if we tested it first.”

  “Very well.” Mirabelle tugs a string from the ratty hem of Gavril’s tunic, rolls it through the powder, then holds it directly over a candle. We gather round, leaning in to better see.

  The string ripples and spins, glowing white and hot, but not a puff of smoke escapes into the air. And when Mirabelle removes it from the flame and tosses it at Gavril’s face, his horrified cry quickly transforms into laughs. He waves the scrap overhead.

  “It’s not even warm! Does it work on larger things?” Before anyone can stop them, the orphans are sprinkling powder over everything—snippets of parchment, the window curtains, a dead mouse they find beneath the cupboards—and holding candles to them.

  “Enough of that!” Ameline cuffs Gavril over the head. “You’re making a mess.”

  By the morning of the third day, three separate kitchens are stacked floor to ceiling with bottles, and the stationers are loading them onto carts.

  “This should hopefully be enough to cover the fields,” Mirabelle says, stepping away from her cauldron to offer encouragement to the fishwives working near her. Once she’s spoken to each of them, she joins Desgrez and Louis and the Marquis de Cessac to discuss our route through the city. But midway through her sentence, she peeks over at me, somehow sensing my gaze.

  Her goggles are pushed high on her forehead, making her short curls stand in every direction. Her cheeks are smudged with streaks of silver. And the smile that steals across her lips sets my heart to racing. We haven’t had another moment alone since the alley, but the memory teases and tempts me every time I close my eyes: the heat of her lips, the soft curve of her body, the heady scent of her corkscrew curls.