An Affair of Poisons(27)

“So what do we do?” I ask.

Desgrez parts his lips, but the girl rises from behind the pulpit and I leap back. Which only makes us look more suspicious. She frowns and perches on a bench at the front of the nave, hugging her knees to her chest, helpless and shivering like a kitten in the gutter. She may look small and innocent, but Desgrez is undoubtedly right. She cannot be trusted. Her family is responsible for murdering half of the nobility. My father and the queen included.

But she’s my sisters’ best chance at survival.

Their only chance.

Desgrez shoots me a look and nods toward his rapier. I make the mistake of peering at the girl again—so peaceful, with her eyes closed and her lips parted—and my muscles seize.

With a vexed look, Desgrez staggers to his feet and retrieves his blade from the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand.

“Simply apologizing for my boorish behavior.” He makes a show of sheathing the rapier, then hobbles closer to the girl. She bolts upright.

“My sincerest apologies, mademoiselle,” Desgrez says with a bow. “Thank you for healing me.” He offers his hand and the girl considers it, chewing her lip before cautiously placing her small hand in his. Desgrez kisses the back of her wrist, and at the same moment, drives his other fist into the side of her face. Leveling the girl who just saved him. She collapses like a rag doll, slides off the bench, and sinks into her black and red petticoats.

I can’t stop the cry that surges up my throat.

Desgrez rubs his knuckles and gives me a hard look. “What?”

Shame and indignation burn my cheeks. “Are you going to kill her?” I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice from cracking.

A sly grin crawls across Desgrez’s face, and he shakes his head. “Not yet. You’re right. I think we can use her … in more ways than one.”





7



MIRABELLE


Merde.

I writhe against the ropes but the knots hold fast, and the more I struggle, the soggier I become. Shivering and choking, I turn on my side to avoid the freezing puddles that reek of urine. Mother would be appalled if she could see me—tied up like a hog, rolling around in the muck. The longer I squirm and cry, the more I’m certain she’s here. Watching. I catch glimpses of her dark eyes in the undulating blackness. I hear snatches of her voice in the biting drafts of wind.

Serves you right for running away. For brewing forbidden tinctures and healing our enemies.

Perhaps she’s right. I saved a boy’s life, protected him and his friend from Lesage’s magic, and this is how they repay me: by binding me and leaving me to rot in a moldering dungeon. A chamber pot!

“Help me! Please!” I scream through the gag in my teeth. The muffled cries reverberate off the cramped walls, growing softer and softer until they fall away completely. No one comes, and the hours pass. The darkness is so complete, I am unable to make out my own feet, let alone an exit, nor can I determine how long I’ve been trapped here. It was sundown when that ungrateful lout put his fist to my face. After I healed him.

I should have let him perish on the Pont Neuf. His friend, too.

A ribbon of guilt slithers beneath my ribs. That’s what Mother would have done. But we are supposed to be protecting and caring for the people. We are supposed to be better than Louis XIV. And I promised myself I would test my antidote if Lesage unleashed his magic. Which he did. And it worked!

I bark out a laugh, my breath puffing like a cloud above my face. A flood of pride, as warm and sweet as the lemon verbena tea Father used to drink, seeps through my core, combating the cold a fraction. It is the sole spark of light, of hope, in this dismal situation—in this dank, dripping cavern or dungeon or wherever it is they’re keeping me.

I try to cling to that monumental victory, but with every passing hour the ground grows colder and my skin grows wetter. The puddles soak through the flimsy silk of my gown, chilling me to the bone. The men relieved me of my cape, and this deplorable dress offers no protection. The rocky floor digs into my hips and bites at my shoulders, and it isn’t long before shivers overtake me. My teeth clink together, making my head pound and my thoughts jumble. Will I freeze to death before Mother finds me? Do I want her to find me?

A tear streaks down my cheek and drips off my chin. And then another. They come faster and faster until great, gasping sobs hammer my sides like fists. I tell myself I’ll only carry on for a moment. Then I’ll pull myself together and devise a plan. But waves of fear and regret continue to pummel me, so fast I can scarce catch my breath between swells.

I cry for Gris, whom I left in the chaos of the procession to be trampled beneath the horses’ hooves.

I cry for the innocent people who were caught in the crossfire of Lesage’s lightning or scorched by his smoke beasts.

And I cry for myself because I am a fool, deceived on too many counts to fathom.

It feels as if I’ve been lying here for days, months even, when something rustles far off in the blackness. I cock my head and strain to hear. Slowly, like an eerie, disjointed melody, the sounds form into footsteps and voices. Pounding and arguing. Drawing nearer.

My captors have returned to kill me. Or torture me.

I flail against my bonds with renewed determination, twisting and straining and stretching. But nothing has changed in the hours or days since they left me. The ropes dig bloody rivets into my wrists and ankles. My shoulders howl in agony—bent at awkward angles like an injured bird. Crying with pain, I press myself against the dripping wall and pray for deliverance, though my pleas are surely in vain. I doubt God looks kindly on the killer of a king.