An Affair of Poisons(31)

Alchemy in its purest form.

Here’s what I know: The bastard can’t afford to kill me. Not while his sisters need my antidote.

Letting out a breath, I drag myself up from the ground like a corpse rising from the dead. “Your plan will never work,” I say. “Not without my help.”





8



JOSSE


La Voisin’s daughter arrests me with those fathomless black eyes. Crimson blood trails from a scrape on her forehead and drips off her chin. It makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. “Y-you’re alive,” I stutter like a fool. “I thought—”

“Now that the horrid police captain is gone, perhaps we can speak reasonably, princeling.” She accentuates the title.

I cough and reel back. “How do you know—”

Her grin spreads wider. “You bound my hands, not my ears. Such a pity Anne and Fran?oise are unwell. Are the dauphin and the madame royale ailing as well? These foul accommodations can’t be helping matters.”

Indignation burns my cheeks, and I drag a hand through my hair. What I really want to do is shout. Or punch something. Why did I slip and say their names? Another costly mistake. The more I fidget and mutter, the more the girl smiles. I draw a deep breath and blow it out through my nose. Be calm.

“I’ve learned better than to negotiate with your kind.” I wave at the crumpled missive from her mother. “La Voisin doesn’t want you, which means you are useless.”

I turn on my heel, retrieve my hat from the floor, and slam it over my head. Rivulets of dirty water stream down my face and drench my coat. Fantastic. On top of everything, I’ll have a soggy, sleepless night.

“I’m not useless.” The girl’s ragged voice chases me down the tunnel. “They need me. Your sisters.”

“We need nothing from you,” I retort.

We both know it’s a lie.

“We’ll find treatment elsewhere,” I say.

“No. You won’t.”

“Yes. We will,” I bark at the girl. Mirabelle. But I’m not about to call her by name. Not if Desgrez is going to kill her in the morning. It’d be like naming the hen you plan to slaughter for supper. “The girls are strong. They can make it to Savoy.”

She shakes her head slowly. “An ordinary physician cannot help them, and they’ll never make it that far. None of you will.”

“How could you know that?”

“The blockades around Paris are warded by magic. No one enters or leaves the city without my mother’s consent.”

“Magic?” I yell, stomping back to where she lies.

She nods. “Lesage is behind it, so you can bet it is ironclad. And vicious.”

“You’re lying,” I say in a rush. “You’ll say anything to save your skin.”

“Why do you think the royal army has yet to storm the city and retake it?”

I groan and clench my fists, wanting to strangle someone—mostly myself.

“You’re the son of the king,” she continues, her voice silky and hypnotic. “You can do as you see fit. Release me, and I will help your sisters.”

“I am the bastard son of the king. I’m nobody.”

She rolls her eyes. “You have plenty of influence. And you’re a fool if you allow that pigheaded police captain to tell you what to do.”

“That pigheaded police captain is my best friend.”

“I pity you if he’s the best friend you can find. Your sisters deserve to live, and so do I. You owe me that, at least. Put your horrible friend out of your mind and find a way.”

There is no way. Can’t she see that? We’re all doomed.

I turn and trudge through the murky puddles, shouting an oath that chases me down the tunnel.



“The bread is stale,” Louis grumbles as soon as I enter our chamber. He picks at the crust and flings it into a puddle, where it’s instantly devoured by gray sludge.

Normally I can ignore his grousing, but not tonight. Not on top of everything else. I stomp to where he sits, propped against the wall with his ankles crossed, and pry the remaining bread from his fingers. It is stale—hard enough to chip a tooth—but even if it wasn’t, Louis would complain.

“My apologies,” I mutter. “I’ll remove this from your sight and tell Madame Bissette to prepare sugar comfits tomorrow.” Then under my breath I add, “We wouldn’t be stuck down here, eating this stale bread, if you had done your part during the procession.”

“How many times must I tell you? I tried to maneuver the cart to the patisserie, but the streets were impassable. I would have been crushed. The fault is not on me, but on your inadequate plan.”

I start to bite back at him, but the poisoner’s confession about the wards around the city stops my tongue. Louis may be right. The thought makes my stomach churn.

Shooting him a glare, I clip across the chamber, break the bread in two, and hand half to Marie. Usually she whispers in thanks and nibbles quietly, but now she bursts into tears. Of course.

“Where the devil is Desgrez?” I yell. I want to wring his neck for leaving me to deal with my siblings alone.

“He went above,” Marie stammers. “He said he needed a drink.”