An Affair of Poisons(51)
The man smacks his lips and sighs. Tears run down his face, cutting channels through the filth. “’Tis hunger tonic indeed.”
That’s all it takes. The decrepit hovels groan, and scores of people scurry toward us like termites out of the woodwork.
“Ready yourself.” Mirabelle shoves a phial of coughing syrup into my right hand and hunger tonic into the left.
“I don’t know how—”
“It’s easy. Just help them.”
In the next instant, we’re swarmed. People rush around us like a raging river, and I struggle to keep my head above the current. A thousand different hands grasp at me; a hundred voices plead. The night is freezing but I am suddenly drenched in sweat.
Where do I even begin?
Wide-eyed, I look over at Mirabelle, and the sight makes me pause. The crowd is shoving and shouting and waving all around her as well, but her face is serene. Her hands are sure and steady as she leans forward to offer a mud-caked child a spoonful of hunger tonic. She turns to them one by one, caressing their cheeks and taking their outstretched hands. She’s so slight that she should be lost in the clamor of the teeming street, but she burns brighter than them all. A candle flaring in the dark.
She looks over, as if she can feel me watching, and flashes a smile filled with such overwhelming joy, it knocks something loose inside of me. She gives me a quick nod of encouragement and turns back to the people. I swallow and do the same.
I’m tentative at first, but I cast around until I find a face that looks almost familiar—an old, toothless woman with white snowstorm hair. It isn’t Rixenda, of course, but the similarity makes it easier to be bold. She’s clutching her chest and hacking into a sodden handkerchief, so I pull her close and administer the coughing syrup with a timid smile.
She smiles back and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek. I still for the briefest moment, then burst out laughing and return the kiss. The crowd roars their approval, and I turn to the woman directly to her right—a mother holding two squalling babies. And then to a bearded man easily twice my size. On and on and on, until my bottles are empty and I wish, more than anything, I could somehow conjure more.
Mirabelle was right when she said her work would never be finished. There are so many who need help. So many I hadn’t considered until now.
The shame of it drags at my shoulders.
When I first suggested we use Mirabelle’s curatives to unite the peasants and nobility, I was thinking solely of my sisters, determined to keep them safe. I didn’t care about the poor and downtrodden. I was no better than my father.
“We’ll brew more remedies and return straight away,” I call to the scores of people still waiting. “You have my word.”
My promise is met with a chorus of cheers. “Our thanks to La Voisin,” a voice shouts. Others take up the cry, and I have to climb atop the milk cart to get them to quiet down.
“This goodwill is not from La Voisin,” I declare. “She and her Shadow Society have proven no better than the former king, forgetting their duty to the people as soon as they gained control.”
The people whisper back and forth for a moment, then “Ayes” of agreement ripple through the throng.
“These curatives are from the royal family.”
Someone barks a derisive laugh. “Sure they are. Do they also wish to dress us in silks and put us up in their palaces?”
A dozen other shouts and scoffs join in.
“It’s true!” I yell. “Louis, the dauphin, is alive and wishes to make amends.”
“That will take a fair bit more than coughing syrup!”
“Which he is prepared to give. In exchange for your support, he will continue to provide treatment and aid, but he also wishes to give you a voice—representatives who will bring the concerns of the common people before him, and together you will devise acceptable solutions. A union of the common man and noble man!”
“Lies!” A handful of voices cry immediately. “Who are you to make such high promises?”
I blow out a breath and stand taller. “I give you my word, as Josse de Bourbon, bastard son of the late king. I was spit upon and downtrodden, like you. Hated and cast aside. I’m not the same breed of royal who left you to freeze on this street, and if you’ll lend me your trust, I promise you’ll be given the respect you deserve. My mother was a scullery maid. I am one of you. I’ll fight for you—if you’ll let me.”
No one cheers, but they don’t boo me either, which feels rather miraculous, given it’s my first speech. The people huddle into groups to whisper, and after what feels like a lifetime, a woman steps forward and asks, “If he’s the bastard prince, who are you?” She points a crooked finger at Mirabelle.
“I am …” Mirabelle’s voice trails off. She cannot use her given name, as it will undoubtedly get back to her mother. She sputters and looks to me, panic flashing in her eyes.
“La Vie!” I bellow the first thing that comes to mind. “This is Mademoiselle La Vie.” I offer Mirabelle a hand and pull her up on the cart beside me. “It was she who created your salves and tinctures. She who brought your plight to my attention. She is your true savior and the leader of this revolution. Tell everyone who will listen.”
Mirabelle blinks up at me, repeating the name as if I said something miraculous. The men and women take up a chant, and the name swells louder and louder as we hop down from the milk cart and make our way back up the rue du Temple.