An Affair of Poisons(44)
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested—I said I didn’t have time. But if uniting the people and retaking the city means my sisters will be safe in Paris, I’ll gladly choose the plan that benefits the majority. If you’re as passionate about serving the people as you claim to be, it’s what you’ll choose too. Unless you’re pleased with current events …”
Something flashes in her eyes, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. I place my hands firmly on her shoulders. “If we fail, you can still make your curatives in secret, but why not try? You have nothing to lose.”
“Except my head if Mother discovers us.” She glances nervously at the door, as if La Voisin can hear our treachery from across the palace.
“This will be far more effective than doling out curatives one by one and ignoring the larger problem. You wouldn’t treat a man’s cough if he was dying of White Death.”
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m in charge. And if someone discovers us traipsing through the palace, I’m telling them I escaped and brought you back as my prisoner.”
I chuckle, but Mirabelle doesn’t join me. Which is when I realize she’s serious. “I snuck you into the palace. You wouldn’t forsake me so easily!”
“I suggest you ensure we don’t get caught.” She shoots me a pointed look and sweeps out of the laboratory.
We retrace our steps to the end of the hallway and sneak up the winding staircase, past the intoxicating smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchens, to the gilded ballroom above. Then higher still, to the royal residences in the uppermost levels of the palace. I was never permitted to enter these rooms when Father held court at the Louvre, but I delivered enough tea trays to recognize the receiving chambers—the white door carved with peonies and swallows leading to the queen’s solar. And on the floor above that, the long corridor with soaring ceilings and buttery damask papering outside the queen’s chambers.
Mirabelle streaks down the hall and ducks into a windowed alcove near the towering double doors. She pulls me in behind her and yanks the velvet draperies around us. “What are we doing in here?” I ask, but the horrid smell of must coagulates in my throat and my words are consumed by coughs.
“Quiet,” Mirabelle hisses. As if I’m choking and sputtering on purpose. “Most mornings, Mother takes breakfast with Lesage and Marguerite and Fernand in the great hall, which means we shouldn’t have to wait long to sneak into her chamber.”
I nod and we watch the doors in silence, my fingers tap-tap-tapping against my sides. The minutes pass with excruciating slowness. There isn’t enough space in here; the entire length of Mirabelle’s body is smashed against mine, which under different circumstances might not be unpleasant, but she’s quivering and fidgeting and her elbow keeps jabbing me in the ribs. Not to mention she’s sucking up all the air with her quick, anxious breaths.
Just when I think I might suffocate, far-off bells chime the hour and the doors swing open. La Voisin parades from her chamber looking like the rising sun itself in an impressive golden gown with slashed sleeves and tiny cream-colored pearls sewn at the neck. Her crimson cloak completes the ensemble, and a gaggle of maidservants trail her down the hall to ensure the train doesn’t catch on the furniture or drag through dirty rushes.
I suck in a breath as she passes our alcove. I’ve seen her previously but only from a distance, and I don’t know what I expected up close, but she looks old. And tired. Her steps are slow and heavy, her eyes swollen and shadowed despite a thick coating of powder. Before she rounds the corner, she adjusts her cloak, sending the double-headed eagles flashing, and raises herself up as if she’s a puppet whose strings have been pulled taut. Then she lets out a breath, her face takes on a mask of perfect calm, and she glides away, the peerless leader of the Shadow Society once more.
But now I’ve seen the fissures underneath.
I reach for the edge of the drapery, but Mirabelle smacks my wrist and holds up a hand. She must count well past fifty before finally moving.
Carefully, we draw the curtain aside and scurry to the ornate double doors. They’re made of gilded ebony and groan as they swing inward. The room is gargantuan, with a floor-to-ceiling mirror along the back wall that makes the space look even larger. A tall bed with sumptuous green curtains occupies the center of the chamber, and rose settees line the walls. An unexpected pang wallops me in the stomach and stops my feet.
My servant mother never occupied the queen’s rooms, of course. But that didn’t keep her from dreaming. Rixenda told me how my mother would bargain with the other maids, taking on extra scrubbing and chopping so she could deliver the queen’s breakfast each morning and steal a second in these rooms. Imagining how it would be if the king acknowledged their relationship.
“Come on.” Mirabelle nudges me forward and makes straight for the vanity atop which sits a medium-sized box made of black lacquered wood. She tries the lid, but it’s locked, so she rummages around the miniature bowls of powder and parfum.
“The key isn’t here. Like I knew it wouldn’t be.” She slams her fist against the box and glares at me. “This was a waste of time.”
“Thankfully, getting into things I shouldn’t happens to be one of my specialties.” I take the box from her, find an ivory hairpin on the vanity, and insert it into the lock. After a few twists and jiggles, it clicks, and I throw back the lid with a triumphant grin. A pocket-sized book made of worn red leather shines up at me. A strangled sob bursts from Mirabelle’s lips and she snatches it with a speed that rivals the pickpockets in Les Halles. Then she holds it to her chest and inhales deeply.