An Affair of Poisons(52)

“La Vie! La Vie! La Vie!”

Life, life, life.

“That name—” Mirabelle says reverently. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do. You’re brilliant.” The words tumble out before I can help them, and Mirabelle inhales sharply. I failed to use a mocking tone or don a teasing smirk. I have never complimented her in earnest, and my mouth bobs open and closed like a codfish’s.

She nudges my side. “You’re not so bad yourself, princeling. Healing suits you. And the people adore you.” She gestures to the men and women clustered all around, and their grateful smiles turn my bones to slush. Their cheers fill my belly like warm soup on a frigid night.

It’s wondrous.

And terrifying.

I am not a hero.

I duck my head and tighten my grip on the milk cart. “They’re not cheering for me. They’re cheering for the curatives you made. I’m just the delivery boy.”

“Delivery boys don’t generally make such impassioned speeches. It’s okay to care, you know. You don’t have to put on your act for me. Or them.”

What act? I want to retort. There’s only me—Josse. Bastard. Rake. Hellion.

Healer, a new voice whispers. Brother. Leader.

I try to shoo the thoughts away, but they buzz back like horseflies. Biting me. Insisting they have always been there—hidden. It’s easier to be vexing than vulnerable. Safer to push people away rather than be turned away. Less painful to live up to low expectations than attempt to rise above them and be found wanting. I was so convinced I would never earn Father’s approval, I pretended not to want it.

And now I will never have it.

You shouldn’t want it, I scold myself. Look around. Look what he permitted.

And I do look—at the people clapping my back and calling my name. For the first time in my life, I am a success rather than a disappointment.

I feel like cheering and retching, both.

What if I prove them wrong?

What if you prove them right?

Echoes of Rixenda’s final plea hum in my ears, and shivers flash down my arms. Is this the reason she always thwacked me with her spoon and ignored my complaints? Was she trying to tell me I could use my position for good—if I was willing to try? I may not be able to earn the king’s approval, but I already had Rixenda’s. And I could honor that by caring for her people.

My people.

When we reach the end of the rue du Temple, Mirabelle and I give a final wave and slip into the shadows. Overhead, the velvet sky has lightened to heather gray, and soft pink brushstrokes paint the underbellies of the clouds. Shopkeepers draw back their curtains and open their doors. I inhale the sweet scent of rising dough, marveling at how the city feels fresh. New. Reborn with possibility. As if I’m standing atop the towers of Notre-Dame, watching our next steps unfold like points on a map.

If we immediately distill more remedies, perhaps we can return to the rue du Temple as soon as tomorrow night. Once we’ve helped all of the poor, then we can turn our focus to the nobility.

My plan will work. I’m sure of it now.

I bend a glance at Mirabelle, and she’s quick to meet my gaze. As if expecting it. Hoping for it, even. Neither of us speaks, but I can tell by the hopeful smile spreading across her face that she feels it too—how the air between us hums like a bowstring, vibrating with energy and possibility as we make our way back to the millinery.

Once we’re safely inside, Mirabelle returns to the counter and I drop into my corner, no longer perturbed in the least to watch her work. But she bangs her fist on the table. “Well, don’t just sit there, princeling. There’s work to be done.”

My eyebrows arch. “I thought I wasn’t permitted to assist you.”

“You can’t be trusted with the recipes, of course. But I suppose you might be allowed to do some chopping. We might as well put your kitchen skills to use.” She flashes a teasing smile and slides a knife to the edge of the counter.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of frenzied activity. I mince mountains of lemon balm and yarrow while Mirabelle distills more hunger tonic and coughing syrup and a tincture to counteract White Death. One remedy after the next until the air is thick with steam and my limbs feel like overcooked cabbage. Even then, we press on, propelled by the fire that burned in the eyes of the poor. The fire that sparks and crackles and lashes between Mirabelle and me. Hope and exhilaration and something more. A camaraderie and enticement that makes our gaze snag from across the room.

Two nights later, we return to the rue du Temple and distribute more curatives to the homeless. And three nights after that, we make our way to the H?tel-Dieu, the old, moldering hospital on the ?le de la Cité, which my father allowed to fall to ruin since it was “overrun” by the rabble.

It’s a sorry sight; the stones are cracked and pitted and black mold dangles from the slatted windows. The air within is musty and damp, like the inside of a cave, and it reeks of rotting leaves and sickness. My gut clenches with what is becoming an all too familiar indignation, and I charge into the nearest ward.

The tiny room is crammed with dozens of rusted beds, each filled with two, sometimes three people. I remove my hat to greet them, but before I can say a word, a woman pushes up to her elbows and cries, “Mademoiselle La Vie! Thank the saints! We’ve been praying you would come.”