An Affair of Poisons(22)
“None as skilled as I.”
“Perhaps not, but I won’t risk losing you to your father’s obsession. You may hate me now, but eventually you will thank me for protecting you.”
A tiny sob bursts past my lips. I stumble forward and throw myself at Mother’s feet. She cannot do this. She cannot bar me from the laboratory. I don’t know who I am without my work. “Please, Mother.”
She looks past me, pretending I haven’t spoken. With lethal grace, she collects a whalebone hairpin off her vanity and rolls it between her fingers like a knife. “Groveling will do no good. My decision is made.”
She slams her fist to the table with such force, the hairpin stabs deep into the mahogany.
I pull on the hideous dress without another word.
The streets of Paris are a riot of color and noise and fanfare. The former king’s blue and white fleur-de-lis standards have been rent from their poles and replaced with banners emblazoned with the Shadow Society’s double-headed eagle. Our gleaming black warhorses are fitted with armor and emerald plumes, and the multitude of carriages are draped with raucous red and purple silks. Revelers herald us with trumpets and lutes while jesters and acrobats dance and sing in the streets. Hordes of commoners clad in velvet masks—the newest trend in fashion—whistle and clap as we pass. It’s so vibrant, so bright and dizzying.
The maids somehow twisted my mouse-brown curls into an intricate waterfall that tumbles down the front of one shoulder. Marguerite matches me exactly, but while she basks in the men hooting and hollering at our scandalous necklines, I sink lower and lower, desperate to become one with my saddle. My breasts nearly spill out every time my horse steps, and when I try to cover my chest with my hands, Mother shoots me a death glare.
Lesage leads the procession, using his harmless magic to conjure flocks of exotic birds—indigo peacocks and marigold swans, pearl-gray doves that wing and flit above the crowd before dissipating like candle smoke. Mother smiles and waves from the back of Louis XIV’s white stallion. She throws alms to the people and directs Gris and the other servants as they distribute curatives. A select few peasants are even ushered forward by her guards to receive her “blessing.”
“Hail La Voisin!” the multitude chants. “Hail Lesage!”
Gris catches my eye as he hurries back and forth, loaded like a cart mule with bags and trays and bottles. See? All has been set to right.
I manage a smile for him, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Of course I’m glad to see the work of the Shadow Society resuming, to see the people so overjoyed, but I feel apart from it. Never again will I experience the euphoria of watching two substances combine. Never will I feel the thrill of discovering a new remedy, the elation of knowing it will help someone who was otherwise without hope. How many people might I have saved if I hadn’t been so foolish? So careless? The ache in my chest feels like forceps squeezing my heart.
You will be a great alchemist one day.
“Quit looking so miserable,” Mother says through her teeth. “Smile. And wave.”
But I can do neither. I squirm in my saddle and wring my fingers through my horse’s mane. I look over at my sister, searching for what, I don’t know. But she’s too preoccupied with batting her eyelashes and blowing kisses to notice my plea. Abbé Guibourg ripples like a massive slug on my other side, and La Trianon trots behind me. I’ll find no comfort in any of them.
I let out a long breath. Gaiety reigns all around, but I feel listless and limp. Where do I fit in this world if not in the laboratory? Flaxen cords of panic wind around my throat like bonnet strings until I am coughing and choking. I teeter precariously over my horse’s neck.
Gris jogs up beside me and places a steadying hand on my leg. “You look like you’re going to fall. Are you unwell?”
I am far past unwell. I need to get down. Back to the laboratory. Away from all of this. I kick out of my stirrups, but Gris catches me around the waist and holds me in place.
“I know it’s crowded and chaotic, but I’m right here with you, Mira. Try to enjoy—”
Cannon fire rattles the sky like thunder.
Flames explode from the building to our right, and a blistering orange wave rolls toward us. Pain washes over my skin like scalding water and I know I’m screaming, but I only hear silence—as thick as clotted cream in my ears. Followed by ringing. A maddening, high-pitched keening.
My horse rears, and this time Gris isn’t there to catch me. I fall through the smoky air and dash my head against the cobbles. Blood wets my hair and dribbles down my neck. Hooves strike like lightning all around me. Balls of fire and shards of glass continue to erupt from where a church stood mere seconds before.
I grip my forehead to steady my vision, trying to comprehend what’s happened. It must be one of Lesage’s illusions. But then I spot him through the haze, cursing and clinging to his rearing horse.
If he isn’t behind this …
We’ve been attacked.
The Sun King’s bloated face fills my vision, followed by Madame de Montespan crashing into her pudding and Vend?me and his men, twisted and broken and retching in the grass.
I stare into the chaos, heart thudding, head throbbing. Thousands of Parisians flee in every direction. A mob the likes of which I’ve never seen. It would be so easy to get lost.
To disappear …