An Affair of Poisons(65)
“We don’t need him committed to our cause!”
“Trust me. I know you two don’t get along exactly, but think of Desgrez like Lesage’s smoke beasts—hotheaded and difficult, but undeniably useful.”
“You have twenty seconds,” I say when we reach the tavern. I begin to count aloud as Josse bangs through the door. To my surprise, he returns with three seconds to spare, and Desgrez doesn’t even scowl too deeply at the sight of me. He presses a gray wool cloak and tricorne hat into my arms.
“You’re welcome. I won them straight off the back of my opponent.”
“What’s this for?”
“For wearing—what else? You’re too conspicuous in that palace maid’s uniform. If I’m joining you on this senseless endeavor, I’d rather not be caught. And the leader of a rebellion should have a bit more … panache.”
“How can you be worried about panache at a time like this?” I say, but I pull the cloak around my shoulders and tug the hat over my drenched curls, thankful for the extra layers.
The bottles of antipoison rattle and clink in our sacks as we run down the rue Saint-Denis, and my nerves rattle with them. My lips move in silent prayer when the riverside comes into view.
Please let them live, I beseech God and all his heavenly angels.
Please let it work, I beg Father for alchemical blessings from beyond the grave.
When we reach the waterfront, we duck beneath the shadowed awning of a boathouse and inch closer to the docks, straining to see and hear over the drum of the rain. The long, wood-planked wharf is packed, as it always is each evening. But instead of fishermen gutting the day’s catch, and merchants haggling at the fishwives’ stalls while mud-caked children race past on bare feet, everyone lies writhing and flapping on the moss-slicked boards. The wind batters us with rain and river water, and the scent is so foul, it drops me to my knees. The wharf is never pleasant-smelling, but now it’s unbearable: blood and vomit, mingled with damp wood and rotting fish innards. And the sounds are even worse. Wailing and moaning and retching like I’ve never heard.
I clench the bottles of antipoison tighter, wanting to charge down the quai and help, but a few Society soldiers linger at the water’s edge, watching and laughing.
I sink my teeth into my trembling lip to keep from screaming. This is not the Shadow Society I knew. How could Mother allow this?
“It sounds like a massacre,” Desgrez says, his voice hoarse. “Worse than the dungeons of the Chatelet.”
“It is worse,” I say. “Prison would be a mercy compared to poison. Never have you felt such pain, like claws sinking into your gut and twisting your innards.”
Josse stiffens beside me, and his mouth pinches into a line. “You speak as if you know from experience.”
“It happened fairly often when I was young. Father claimed poisoning was essential to my training—to know how the body reacts to different toxins in order to determine which herbs would counteract the damage. He also wanted to be certain I could perform under pressure, in case of accidental—or not so accidental—poisonings. An alchemist must always be ready.”
Both men gape at me, blinking through the rain streaming down their faces.
“It wasn’t so bad,” I say. “Father’s methods may have been unorthodox, but he wouldn’t have let me die.”
Josse’s frown deepens and he scoots closer. As if protecting me from events that took place half a lifetime ago. A prickle of warmth stirs in my belly, like coals being prodded by a poker, but another moan from the wharf douses the ember. I ball my fists and glance up and down the riverbank. The Society soldiers are finally gone. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll start at the far end, near the Pont Marie,” Josse says, gripping his bottle of antipoison and casting me a look that is equal parts reassurance and fear. Desgrez heads to the nearest shacks to see if anyone is still inside, and I pick up my skirts and wade straight into the center of the carnage.
I come first to a man lying prostrate on the slippery boards. He’s twice my size, with deep brown skin and thick black hair. It takes all my strength to turn him over, and the sight of his bloated face is so horrific, I gag. Froth seeps from his lips, and his breath rumbles like boiling water.
I close my eyes and dig my knuckles into my thighs, but still the faces of the dead rise like phantoms from the mist: the Sun King, Madame de Montespan, and now the Duc de Luxembourg. A whimper escapes my lips and tremors start in my smallest toe and overtake me to the crown.
The man’s eyes flutter open, and he thrashes beneath me. The phial slips in my sweaty hand. I can’t bear to fail again. I won’t survive it. I want to scramble back. I want to return to the dark safety of the millinery. But Father’s hands shove me forward. His voice hums in my ear. I bring the bottle to the man’s lips, but they’re cold and stiff and his head flops to the side.
No, no, no. I can feel the scream welling up inside of me. My hand shakes so hard, the antipoison splashes across his lips and dribbles down his chin. I climb atop his chest and force the neck of the bottle between his lips.
Then I wait.
Each second lasts a lifetime.
I’m about to slide down to the slimy boards and never rise again when a door slams open and a squalling woman with the same dark skin and long black hair storms across the quai, Desgrez on her heels.