An Affair of Poisons

by Addie Thorley

  “Hush.” I brush the hair from his eyes. Tears fall from my chin and spatter his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He reaches up and his fingers skim my cheek. So cold already. I place my hand over his and lean in to his palm—big and strong, etched with so many familiar calluses.

  “You were right not to tell me.” He coughs blood between each word. “I should have chosen you sooner.”

  “Shhhh.” I kiss the inside of his palm, crying so hard that I can barely form words. “Your timing was perfect. You saved me. Twice now.”

  A wisp of a smile lights his face. A final glimpse of his crooked grin. He takes my hand and presses my fingers against his trembling lips. “Dagger.”

  I shake my head. I’m not strong enough to free it. Gris grunts, and with the last of his strength, he guides my hand to his hip. To his dagger. And mouths a single word:

  Poisoned.

  My lips drop open, and his eyes fill with relief. He lets out a long breath, and then stills forever. Limp and heavy and gone. My chest splinters down the center and my shredded heart tumbles out, leaving me gaping and gasping and empty. I fold in half and lay my head against Gris’s stomach, my cheek drenched with blood and tears.

  “Another death on your conscience,” Mother mutters. I’d forgotten she was there, watching. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Perhaps his death will teach you the consequences of defying me, since annihilating half the city hasn’t.”

  “How can you be so heartless?” I shout, hugging Gris close. “He was our family. All he ever wanted was your approval.”

  “He certainly didn’t deserve it.”

  “No. You never deserved him.” Rage carves out my insides until there’s no bottom to the well of my fury. Then hatred fills me back up, pumping its greasy blackness through my veins. In one fluid motion, I free Gris’s dagger from its sheath and pounce toward Mother. She jumps back, tripping over her ceremonial cape and gaping as if I’m a rabid beast. Maybe I am—the low growls pouring from my lips are more animal than human.

  I slam into her and we roll across the boards. She claws at my face and bucks beneath me, but I’m far stronger from years of hefting cauldrons. I bear down on her shoulders and raise the dagger to her throat. At the last moment, she heaves to the side and the blade barely nicks her arm, just below the shoulder.

  Thanks to Gris—brilliant, loyal Gris, who thought of everything—a nick is all it takes.

  I fall back, panting. Mother rises to her hands and knees, a smirk on her lips. Thinking I missed. She prowls closer, and I let her come. Her elbow wobbles after a few lengths. Before she reaches the edge of my skirt, her arms give out entirely.

  She sucks in a breath and looks down at the tiny line of blood on her gown with horror. “What have you done?”

  Before I can answer, a violent, shuddering cough sends her sprawling. Thick white foam burbles from her lips, and her eyes roll back. She’s taken in a fit, shaking and thrashing wildly, and I can’t tell if I’m laughing or weeping. I wanted to be better than Mother. I wanted to beat her by giving life, not taking it, but she made it clear she would never stop. She would kill the beggars and fishmongers and orphans. Everyone I’ve come to love. Everything good.

  “How could you?”

  I look up into my sister’s horrified face. Marguerite clutches her head with one hand, her eye already swelling where Louis bludgeoned her, and the other hand rises to her quivering lips. “How could you?” she repeats—so soft that it’s lost in the roar of the smoke beasts and clashing swords. With a wail, she crumples to her knees and crawls to Mother’s side. She gently prods her shoulder. She traces her fingers down Mother’s face—whispering, crying, begging her to rise. Mourning over her as I just mourned Gris.

  I have never felt so alone. So apart.

  Shout at me, I silently beg as I watch. Attack me. Rail and fume and fight! That would be easier than watching her cling to Mother’s cold, limp arms.

  My eyes burn, and an uncomfortable thickness fills my throat. I have to look away.

  “Congratulations, you’ve won,” Marguerite says. “Kill me and be done with it.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Margot.”

  “You might as well. I have nothing left. You killed our mother. And Lesage. And where’s Fernand?” A sob bursts from her throat. “End my misery. Or leave me here and let the beasts devour me.” She lays down beside Mother, face up to the sky.

  A roar rattles the platform, and the long snake-like beast flies across the stage as if summoned by Margot’s defeat. Without thinking, I fling myself on top of my sister, clutch her to my chest, and roll away from the wall of fire eating up the boards.

  “Let me go!” She slaps at my face. “It doesn’t matter. We’re all going to die.”

  “We’re not. Look!” I point to Louis and the rebels as they bound up the scaffold steps. The smoke beast circles back around and swoops low to breathe its fire, but the rebels duck their heads and thrust through the inferno. They emerge completely unscathed, their skin shimmering like diamonds. “I distilled one of Father’s compounds. It’s impervious to—”

  My explanation is drowned out by the rose serpent’s furious snarls. It howls across the square, and the midnight-black creature growls in response. Together they dive at the rebels, their razor claws extended. Louis and Ameline drop to their stomachs, but not everyone is quick enough. The Marquis de Cessac and an unlucky fishmonger are crushed by the beasts’ talons, lifted high above the courtyard, and shredded to bits.

  I scream into the back of my hand as blood and flesh fall from the smoky sky.

  “Your precious powder can’t protect us from that.” Marguerite’s voice is flat and listless.

  I shudder as the truth of her words seeps through me.

  Lesage is dead. But still the beasts live. Because of me. Because I cannot control my portion of his magic.

  I press my cheek against the ground and scream with frustration.

  The impossible has happened. Mother and Lesage are gone. Louis rose from the sewer and the rebels rallied behind him. They even thought to distill additional fire powder. But it still isn’t enough.

  Lesage’s beasts will be the death of us. Just as I feared.

  28

  JOSSE

  I had no grand illusions of besting a dozen Society guards with a single dagger, but I had hoped to at least put up a decent fight in front of Mirabelle—to die with a scrap of honor and buy her a few extra minutes. But my arms are slow and shaking. My legs tremble and drag. Lesage’s désintégrer has ravaged my body so completely, the guards disarm me with a single blow. Louis’s dagger spins away across the platform. Knuckles smash into my jaw and someone tackles my legs before I can even think to get my hands up to protect myself.

  As I crash to the boards, I can hear Desgrez groaning with mortification from beyond the grave.

  Punches rain down on my face and ribs. The edge of a knife grazes my side. Clumsily, I kick out, but the guards strike faster and harder. The best I can do is curl into a ball and pray it ends quickly.

  It does. And, shockingly, not because I’m dead.

  At first I think someone has set loose a pack of wild dogs, with the high-pitched yips and growls and the way the guards are screaming. But when I open my eyes, Gavril’s filthy face hovers over mine. “Not your best fight, Highness,” he says with a cheeky wink. He pulls a dagger from his waistband and hands it to me. “Try not to lose this one too.” Then spins and buries a sword in the chest of an advancing guard.

  I fist the dagger and scramble to join them, but an earsplitting cry stops us all where we stand. Needles flash down my spine, and I slowly turn.

  The first thing I see is blood. Everywhere. A deep crimson stain oozes across the boards. It’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from. Both Mirabelle and La Voisin are sprawled across the platform along with a third hulking body that I realize—with a pulse of shock—is Gris.

  The smoke beasts roar overhead, blades crash, and shouts rise
from the square below, but on the scaffold, there’s a single second of absolute silence.

  Then La Voisin begins to shake. She tosses and twists, her arms flying and her back arching. It goes on and on and on, and we watch in stunned horror until she falls still. Even then, none of us move. The remaining handful of Shadow Society guards glance nervously at each other, then us, unsure whether to leap back into the fray with both of their leaders dead.

  My eyes keep darting back to Mirabelle. Her face is blank and haunted as she looks at her mother’s body. Marguerite barrels across the platform and drapes herself across La Voisin, which causes Mirabelle to retreat even farther.

  The unnatural pause finally shatters when a smoke beast the color of sunrise—pink and gold and dusty gray—careens across the scaffold and nearly burns us all to cinders. I hit the ground so fast, my breath rushes out in a sharp punch. Once the creature’s wingbeats recede, I allow myself to look up. Which is a horrendous mistake. The beast and its oily-black brother circle back and dive at Louis and the other rebels who have finally reached the platform. They pluck up fishmongers and stationers like birds pecking worms and devour them in messy, shredding bites.

  I press my fist to my forehead and scream. No matter how much we accomplish, there’s always another disaster.

  “Hurry, Josse!” Gavril shouts in my ear. Instead of running away from the beasts with the remaining Shadow Society guards, Gavril and his gang sprint toward the danger. “The nets! Ready the nets!” they yell at the orphans in Louis’s company.

  By the time we reach the group, the lengths of rope are unfurled and Gavril barks orders at everyone, including Louis, telling us where to stand and how to position the nets. Mirabelle hurries to join us, dragging her squalling sister behind her, and Ameline douses us all with fire powder.

  Then we wait, eyes fixed skyward.

  The black beast dives first. It ripples through the smoke like a shadow and we hurl the net into the air, but without the height of the rooftops and the narrow streets to hem it in, the creature has plenty of room to rear back. The net slides from its wings and crashes to the platform, nearly crushing several of our allies.

  As we scramble to regroup, the rose-gold smoke beast attacks. It catches the net in its claws and hurls it across the stage—along with everyone still clutching the rope. I make a sound like a screaming teakettle as I watch Mirabelle tumble across the platform. She lands like a rag doll near Lesage’s body and doesn’t rise.

  No. I sprint toward her, my vision darkening around the edges until she is all I see. My body howls with each step. Lesage’s handprint pulses against my chest, burning hot and tight. But the sight of Mirabelle lying motionless on the boards relegates my pain to a dull ache.

  It’s not until I’m halfway across the scaffold that I realize her eyes are open and she’s staring down at her blood-soaked palms, opening and closing her fingers. All at once, she pushes up to her knees and glances over her shoulder. I think she’s looking at me, and I call her name, but before I drop down beside her, she knocks past me and crawls to Lesage’s body.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “His blood,” she sputters frantically. “That’s what I’ve been missing. When I rolled across the stage …” Her voice trails off, and with shaking hands, she removes the dagger from Lesage’s baldric, draws it across her palm, and presses her hand into the gaping stab wound in his back. She twists deeper and deeper until she’s up to her wrist in gore. I wince at the horrid squelching noises—like boots sticking in mud—but Mirabelle grits her teeth and tightens her fingers.

  The black smoke beast screeches above us, bending as if Mirabelle’s fingers are clamped around its neck rather than Lesage’s innards. She changes her grip and it plummets to the platform. The boards crack beneath the creature’s weight and splinters spray into the air, some as long and jagged as spears. The pearl-pink dragon roars with fury and dives to protect its companion, but Mirabelle wrings her hand again, sending the second beast rolling sideways across the sky. It crashes into the façade of Notre-Dame, and every panel of stained glass shatters. The beast hits the ground with a shudder so violent, I bump into Mirabelle.

  Across the platform, the black beast moans and flaps. Louis advances from one side, Gavril charges from the other, and together they bury a sword and dagger into the creature’s long neck.

  “The other one!” Mirabelle yells at me, sweat streaking down her face. “Finish this.”

  With the last of my strength, I heft a fallen Society guard’s sword off the ground and drag myself to where the creature lies. It hisses at my approach, its ears pinned back and its yellow eyes wild. One shimmering wing is shredded, and its front leg is twisted—the scales torn away to reveal pale, pitted flesh. I edge closer and it rears back, like a snake coiled to strike, but when it attempts to lunge forward, it shrieks in pain. Its head wrenches to the side, and I take the opening Mirabelle made for me.

  I thrust the sword deep into the creature’s side. A geyser of hot black blood sprays my face, and I reel back. Just out of reach of the smoke beast’s claws.

  It keens and groans. Or maybe that’s me. My entire body is screaming with pain. The world flickers in and out, growing darker and darker until I can’t see the beast or the cathedral or even the smoke. I am alone, floating through the blackness. Cradled by the glorious sound of silence.

  I don’t know if this is the end. Or if it’s the beginning. But either way, it feels like victory.

  When I wake, I’m in a bed. An enormous bed with fresh ticking and a silk coverlet. Since I’ve never in my life slept in a bed so fine, I figure I must still be dreaming, and I close my eyes to bask in the slippery warmth a while longer. But then my limbs begin to prickle and the horrific scenes from Notre-Dame replace the hazy gray nothingness: the blood, the beasts, the bodies strewn across the courtyard.

  How did it end?

  I push up to my elbows, but pain explodes across my chest, forcing me back to the mattress. Carefully, I reach up to touch the outline of Lesage’s awful handprint on my chest, but I find a knife wound instead, along with a thick crusting of herbs.

  Mirabelle’s remedy. The one she used to heal Desgrez and my sisters. The curative that started everything—and ended it as well, it seems.

  “Mirabelle?” I slit my eyes to peer around the room. The walls are covered in deep burgundy brocade. A velvet fauteuil rests in the corner, and the side tables are made of polished rosewood. The river Seine meanders lazily past the window, throwing fractals of fading red sunlight across the ceiling. We are in the Louvre. Which can mean only one thing: the Shadow Society is truly vanquished.

  “Mirabelle?” I call again, and a thick, low voice coughs in response from the door.

  “It’s about time you awoke,” says the piggish steward. He wears a white wig and a condescending frown. “His Royal Highness has been waiting all day. I am to escort you to him at once.”

  Before, I would have bristled at such a summons. Heaven forbid I keep Louis waiting even a minute after we all nearly perished. Doesn’t he need to eat and bathe and sleep? But I allow the steward to help me out of bed and escort me down the hall because I’m eager to know what happened after I collapsed.

  And I’m even more eager to see my sisters.

  The steward leads me through the clock pavilion, clucking at my limping step, and into the Grande Galerie, where a massive armchair is arranged before the fireplace. Louis sits rigidly atop the cushion, clad in white from head to toe—white kidskin breeches and a white doublet with golden studs. He looks so pristine compared to the grime and wreckage from Notre-Dame. As if he’s forgotten the battle already. Attendants rush around him, stoking the fire and bearing trays of thinly sliced meats and soft cheese. Several nobles I recognize from the battle are clustered behind him, returned to their satin doublets and powdered wigs. But there’s no sign of my sisters anywhere.

  Louis sees me and gestures to the ground before him. “Come forward.”

&n
bsp; “Isn’t this a tad excessive?” I say with a laugh.

  Louis’s face pinches as if he ate an unripe berry. “Is that any way to greet your king?”

  “You’ve been king less than a day. And I thought—”

  “I’ve been king all my life. Chosen of God from the moment I was born.”

  I slap my hand to my forehead and drag it through my hair. For some reason I presumed things would be different now. We will never love each other, but after the time we shared in battle and the change I saw in him …

  “Where are Anne and Françoise?” I ask. “And Mirabelle?”

  “You cannot just barge in here, making demands. I shall dictate this conversation.”

  “First, I didn’t barge in anywhere. You summoned me. And if you want to dictate, get on with it already.”

  He sniffs and glares expectantly.

  Sighing, I drop into the world’s most overwrought and condescending bow. “Get on with it already, Your Majesty.”

  A smile flutters at the corner of his lips. “As you may recall, I saved your life several times at Notre-Dame… .”

  Several times is generous, but I grit my teeth and nod. “And I thanked you.”

  “Such a life debt deserves more than a mere thanks.”

  I glance miserably at the door. All I want is my girls. And Mirabelle. And to leave behind my brother and the battle and all of this. “Why don’t you tell me what you want so we can be done with it?”

  “It’s most inconvenient for a new king to have a bastard brother milling about. You are uncouth and unpredictable. Some of my new ministers have advised that I banish you from court… .”

  My mouth falls open and I gape at the noblemen standing behind Louis. We fought side by side only yesterday. And, before that, I spared their lives with antidotes. A surge of old, familiar pain bubbles inside my belly, but instead of lunging at them as I would have done before, I ball my fists and stand my ground. Let them whisper and jeer. I have nothing to prove. I am enough. “Thankless, scheming sots,” I mutter.