An Affair of Poisons(48)

“Of course you did. It’s easier for all you rutting royals to assume we’re witches.”

“Just as you assume all us rutting royals are pompous, self-centered puttocks.” I scowl but he holds my gaze, daring me to look away first. When it becomes apparent that neither of us is going to back down, he says, “Did La Voisin teach you all this?”

“No, my father taught me.”

“Lesage? The sorcerer? He doesn’t seem like the healing type.”

“Lesage is not my father.” I stir the vermifuge so violently that droplets spatter across the counter. “Just one of Mother’s many lovers. My real father, Antoine Monvoisin, was a jeweler by trade, though he didn’t acquire his gold and silver through traditional channels—if you take my meaning.”

“He transmuted it. He was an alchemist, like you.”

“The best in all of France,” I say proudly. “Far more than your average false coiner or immortality chaser. His true talent was in spagyrics—plant alchemy. This was his life’s work; he developed hundreds of substances… .” I place my palm reverently over the grimoire, as if Father’s heart still beats within its pages.

“He took me as his apprentice when I was only seven. Mother said I was too young, but Father insisted I was ready. He snuck me a rope and instructed me to climb down from my chamber window that night and join him in the laboratory. I did so every night thereafter, and by the time Mother discovered our deception, I had learned to make simple salves and fever tonics, so it was easier to persuade her to let me continue; I was already a benefit to the Society. Father was always encouraging me—and sometimes shoving me—into action. He still is.”

The memory makes me smile and ache all at once. After Father’s death, Mother tried to warp my perception of him with her resentment and pain—and I was so desperate for her approval, I nearly gave in. But now that I feel Father’s determination rising up within me, he is everywhere. His spirit permeates everything. And I know he is proud of me.

“My mother was something of a troublemaker too,” Josse says with a wistful smile. “Well, technically she wasn’t my mother, but she took me in when my true mother—a scullery maid whom I never met—was dismissed shortly after my birth. Rixenda treated me like her own. When I was ten, I began listening to Louis’s lessons through the window because the noble children mocked my inability to read. One day I sneezed and the tutor discovered me. He lashed my palms thirty times, and when Rixenda saw the bleeding welts, she made straight for the palace, shouting words so filthy even the stable hands blushed.

“‘He won’t be touching you again, my boy. I promise you that,’ she said when she returned, wiping her hands on her apron like she did after skinning a rabbit. The next morning at breakfast, the man’s eye was a deep shade of plum and he was telling everyone he’d fallen off his horse!”

I laugh. “She sounds fearsome.”

“She was. But delightful, too. My father was the Sun King, but it was Rixenda who shone brightest at the palace. She lit up even the servants’ quarters with her charm and wit.”

“You have that in common.” The words slip out, gliding along the easy ebb and flow of our conversation. I tighten my grip on my spoon and pray he didn’t hear. But when I glance up, the princeling is grinning like a fox.

“You think me charming?”

“As charming as a snake,” I mumble at the vermifuge to hide my burning cheeks. Curse the princeling for wheedling beneath my defenses like that. And curse myself for allowing it.

I turn to the hearth, but Josse follows, leaning languidly against the wall. “Where’s your father now?”

“Dead,” I say flatly.

After a beat he replies, “Rixenda’s dead too. She was stabbed during the attack on Versailles and left to bleed on the roadside. She distracted the rebels so we could flee.”

The ground seems to roll beneath my feet and my stomach flips. I sag against the wall.

“Are you all right?” Josse searches my face, his eyes full of concern. The knot of remorse swelling in my throat makes it impossible to answer. He lost everything that day—both mother and father.

Because of me.

I poisoned the king. I made it possible for the Shadow Society to seize his home and stab Rixenda.

Tell him.

He will see how impossible our partnership truly is. It will be the swiftest and simplest way to be rid of him. I’ll no longer have to worry about him constantly peering over my shoulder and suspiciously watching my back—following me like he doesn’t trust me.

He shouldn’t trust you.

I wet my lips and turn, but he’s looking at me with the oddest expression. Thoughtful and faraway. “In a strange way, you remind me of Rixenda. Obsessed with your pots and recipes—she was mistress of the kitchens—and always ordering everyone about. Pretending to be prickly to hide the softness underneath.”

“I’m sure we’re nothing alike,” I say vehemently. But a warm, melty feeling is unspooling in my chest, and I jab the handle of my stirring spoon into my stomach to stop it. Tell him before he makes any more ridiculous comparisons.

But when I glance around the millinery and try to imagine the space without him in it, I can’t. The quiet is suffocating.

“I’m going out,” I announce.