An Affair of Poisons(53)
Mirabelle lets out a loud breathy laugh and looks up at me. Her eyes well with tears as the name pings around the room, and she’s still breathless and misty-eyed when we leave the H?tel-Dieu hours later.
“They knew. They’d heard. And so quickly!” she gushes. “Can you believe it?”
I’d believe her capable of anything when she’s grinning like that. Her smile is so dazzling, it could set the world ablaze. I have to keep a sharp eye on the cobbles to keep from drifting into her. And Mirabelle is definitely walking closer to me than she ever has before. I’m acutely aware of the flutter of her purple cape against my leg. Transfixed by her arm swinging so close to mine. The warmth of her fingers makes mine tingle in response. It would be so easy to reach out and take them.
The Josse of a week ago wouldn’t have dared.
The Josse of today doesn’t hesitate.
15
MIRABELLE
The bastard princeling is holding my hand.
And I don’t hate it.
A part of me may actually like it.
I gape down at our intertwined hands, screaming at myself to pull away, but my rebellious fingers tighten. His hands aren’t soft like a royal’s should be, and I like the way his calluses slide against my palm, the way they fit so perfectly with mine.
“La Vie,” he whispers. My heart pulses faster, beating in time to that glorious name.
It’s the most beautiful sound in the world—to be life instead of death. To be loved instead of feared. I feel as giddy and as weightless as I did when Father used to hoist me onto his shoulders and we’d spin around the laboratory in a whirlwind of gold dust and sage leaves.
Josse stops and turns to me, bringing his other hand to my face. His feather-light fingertips trace across my cheekbone and tuck a wayward curl behind my ear. I implore myself not to look up, but like my fingers, my eyes refuse to obey. They explore his hopeful face; his strong square jaw and full lips; the dark strands of hair escaping from his tricorne hat; the way his eyes reflect the sunlight on the wet slate rooftops—gray and green and gold. Brash and brazen and beautiful.
And so eerily similar to the Sun King’s, I suddenly can’t breathe.
Can’t move.
Can’t do this.
I lurch back so swiftly, I topple into the gutter and soak my skirts.
Josse’s hand hangs in the air for a moment before falling slack at his side. His face falls with it. “What’s wrong? I thought—”
“There’s nothing to think.” This is absurd. Impossible. Josse would agree if he knew I’m the one who poisoned his father. He would be horrified for ever thinking there could be anything between us. So I clamp my lips together, wave my hand as if swatting a fly, and stomp up the road.
“I know you felt something,” he calls after me.
“I’m not having this conversation here.” I’m not having this conversation anywhere, but I know better than to say so or we’ll be out here arguing all day. “We must return to the millinery at once.” I point down the street, at the candles flickering to life in several windows. “Not to mention a Society patrol could round the corner any moment.”
Josse heaves the empty cart forward with a jerk. “Only if you tell me what changed your mind.”
“Can’t you just enjoy our accomplishment and not ruin it with all this?” I gesture between us.
“No.”
“Fine. You want a reason?” I rack my brain for an excuse, since admitting that I’m scared of these feelings, and that I killed his father, are both out of the question. “Because you’re royal,” I blurt. “This is all a means to an end for you. Once Louis is restored to the throne, you’ll return to your lavish palaces with your sisters and never spare a second thought for the thousands of people who still need aid. Or me.”
The words feel like poison spitting from my lips. Horrible, disgusting lies. But it would be worse to admit the truth and see the hurt and revulsion on his face. There would be no more hiding. No more pretending or forgetting. I would be forced to face the horror of what I’ve done. Forced to accept that I’m just as guilty as the rest of the Society.
Josse’s jaw tightens and he charges ahead, but two steps later, he drops the cart and pivots. “Is that what you honestly think of me? Was everything you said about ‘healing suiting me’ and ‘the people adoring me’ a lie?”
I bury my fingers in my hair and tilt my head back. I’m going to scream. Or blurt the truth just to be done with it—done with him. But halfway down the block, the creak of a door rends the quiet and we both dive behind a cluster of empty wine casks stacked outside a townhouse. The casks are on the small side, and we have to huddle low and close to stay hidden. The jagged cobbles bite my knees, and when I adjust my position, Josse makes a production of ensuring we don’t touch. It takes all of my restraint not to push him into the road.
Shooting him an annoyed glance, I shift to squint through the casks. A lone man steps into the road. He’s wearing a fine emerald frock coat and kidskin breeches with a cane clutched tight to his chest. His eyes flick up and down the street like a rabbit’s, and he sets off at nearly a run, the ribbons on his coat trailing behind him.
Seconds after he rounds the corner, a tavern door on the opposite side of the road bangs open and another man stumbles out. He’s mostly hidden beneath a black cloak, but I can see the high shine of his boots from here. All these lecherous noblemen, staggering back to their wives and children after a night of debauchery. This man heads in the same direction as the first, and I almost don’t give him a second glance, but there’s something about his painfully thin stature and off-kilter gait—the way he slinks more than walks—that sets the hairs prickling down my neck.