An Affair of Poisons(46)
“I convinced you to sneak into the Louvre! You demanded I stay hidden in this dusty hovel.”
“Did I?” He waves a hand. “I didn’t mean forever, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I bite back at him. But a hint of a smile creeps across my lips. He’s a bit like a puppy: exuberant and excitable and thoroughly agitating, but so jaunty and eager you can’t help but want to pat his head. The thought makes my smile widen, and I turn toward the wall to hide it as I drift off to sleep.
Just after midnight, a faint tap finally sounds at the millinery door and I scrabble to my feet. Josse jumps to follow but I wave him back, silently motioning for him to hide behind the counter. Gris may not recognize him right away, but Josse and his big mouth would undoubtedly blabber something revealing, and Gris cannot know the royals live. And he definitely cannot know that I’m working with them. He may be willing to overlook me brewing curatives in secret, but he would never overlook me aligning with the king’s children. Bastard or not.
I crack the door open and peer out into the dark. “Gris?”
“Who else would deliver supplies at this hour?” A towering cloaked figure removes his hood, and the alabaster moonlight transmutes Gris’s sandy hair to gold. He holds the satchels aloft.
“Come in, come in,” I say.
“Not the fanciest of establishments, is it?” He frowns at the cobwebbed corners and moth-eaten curtains. I follow his gaze across the room, horrified to see Josse’s tricorne hat hanging from the edge of the counter. My throat constricts and I scramble to invent an excuse, but Gris’s gaze passes over the hat as if it isn’t out of the ordinary.
I suppose it isn’t, in a millinery.
A nervous burst of laughter sputters from my lips.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Gris arches a brow.
“It’s just … this millinery is certainly preferable to that soul-sucking dungeon laboratory at the palace.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Gris hefts the other two sacks onto the counter and starts to unload the phials.
“Don’t trouble yourself. It’s late. I’ll do it.”
“I don’t mind. Like you said, it would be nice to make curatives again for a change.”
He edges around the counter close to where Josse is hidden, and I shout, “Don’t!”
Gris stumbles, knocks his hip against the corner of the table, then turns to gape at me.
“I-I’m so exhausted from sneaking in to the palace earlier,” I explain. “I’m in no state to brew anything. And it would be unwise to keep you from the Louvre any longer. What if someone notices your absence?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“When has that ever stopped Mother? You know how she is.” I take his arm and tug him gently toward the door. “I can’t have her asking questions.”
Gris works his jaw. “I still don’t understand why—”
“It’s all too much. You of all people know what I suffered at the hands of the royals. I need time to recuperate.” I draw a shaky breath and make a blubbering sound when I exhale.
Gris’s face immediately softens—like I knew it would. He pulls me in to his broad chest and tucks my head beneath his chin, whispering soothing words while petting my ragged wisps of hair. Then I really do want to cry because I’m the most deplorable liar in all of France. And the most deplorable friend in the entire world. Using him. Manipulating him. But what choice do I have? I would tell him if I could, if I thought there was a sliver of a chance he’d understand. But he only sees his father’s bruised and battered face swinging from the gallows when he looks at any member of the nobility. They are all the Chevalier de Lorraine. And Mother saved him. He will always defend her, and I can’t blame him for it.
“Get some rest,” he says softly. “I’ll keep your secret, and keep you safe, until you’re ready to return.”
I offer him a teary smile and follow him to the door, not bothering to remind him that I’m never returning.
As soon as he disappears around the corner, I race to the board and tear open the satchels, eager to get my hands on the supplies. Distilling tinctures and tonics will quiet my grumbling conscience. It will allow me to help the people. It’s the answer to everything. It always has been.
Josse pops up from behind the counter, shaking his head. “This is why you can’t be trusted: One moment you’re crying, and the next you’re cackling with glee. Poor bugger.” He looks to the door and tuts.
“I should have let Gris find you,” I grumble as I untie a bundle of blackberry leaves and begin chopping them into perfect squares. “Yet for some reason I’m deceiving my dearest friend for you.“
“Not for me. For ‘the cause.’ Which is bigger than us all. Now where do we begin?” Josse leans across the counter and flips open Father’s grimoire, sullying it with his grubby fingers, thumbing through the pages as if they contain common kitchen recipes.
My ears ring, and a tidal wave of rage rises up within me. I crash into him and wrestle the book from his hands. “Don’t touch that!”
“You could have just said so.” He brushes off his breeches and stares as if I attempted to bite him. “I’ll just—” He reaches for one of the satchels, and this time I restrain myself. Slightly.