An Affair of Poisons(70)
“Forever would be preferable,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?” Louis demands.
“Oh, nothing.” I grin at his wounded expression.
Desgrez looks like he wants to strangle me, and Mirabelle frowns, but I’m not about to be reprimanded. Let Louis see how it feels to be useless and worthless and out of place for once in his life.
“You’re welcome to join me in the millinery,” Mirabelle offers. “I could use assistance brewing curatives.”
Louis’s face contorts and I edge closer to Mirabelle, ready to defend her from the horrible insults sure to fly from his lips like daggers. But to everyone’s surprise, he mutters, “I’ll bear that in mind.”
The following evening, while Desgrez and Mirabelle take Anne and Fran?oise to the rue du Temple, Marie and I rendezvous with Gavril and a handful of orphans in the bramble beneath the Pont Neuf. In addition to killing smoke beasts, the little tricksters have been listening from rooftops and loitering near taverns, stealing snatches of Shadow Society conversation: plans and names and meeting locations. Tonight they claim the Duchesse de Bouillon is in danger, so Marie and I head to her household on the Quai Malaquais to equip her with Viper’s Venom antipoison, should the Shadow Society attack.
Marie presses herself against the estate wall and I present myself at the gates. An armored guard appears on the other side, his hand on his sword.
“The duchesse isn’t receiving visitors.”
“I think she’ll make an exception in this case,” I say as Marie steps into the light and removes the hood of her cloak.
The guard’s eyes widen and he drops to a knee. “Madame Royale!”
“This is no time to stand on ceremony!” I hiss. “Let us in, man!”
He fumbles with the lock and leads us through the forecourt into the chateau. A tiny part of me is pleased to see these perilous times have affected even the highest born—the black and white marble tiles are smeared with muddy boot prints and the candles in the chandeliers are burnt to stubs. We find the Duchesse de Bouillon in the music room wearing a shabby muslin gown without a speck of powder on her face.
She glances up at the sound of our footsteps. “Did I not tell you, I do not wish to see …” Her voice trails off and a stifled cry burbles from her lips. “It cannot be!” She shoots to her feet and rushes across the room, slowing a few paces away to self-consciously touch her shabby gown before taking Marie’s hand. “My dear girl. You’re alive.”
“It’s nothing short of a miracle.” Marie smiles, places her other hand atop the duchesse’s, and guides her to a seat. I stand at a distance, melting into the wall like I always have—like a servant. The realization makes me jump forward as if the wainscoting bit me. I take a breath for courage and join them in the parlor, standing directly beside Marie. The duchesse frowns up at me, but my sister turns and smiles. “The dauphin lives as well, and it’s in large part thanks to our brother, Josse.”
The duchesse inspects me for another moment, as if I’m a fly that has landed in her tea, then returns her attention to Marie. “Praise be to God the rightful heir lives. I didn’t dare to hope. That witch and her minions are threatening to exterminate anyone with a drop of noble blood.”
I clear my throat, itching to point out that until recently she was a dedicated client of that witch and her minions, but Marie digs her elbow into my thigh and speaks over me. “Which is exactly why we’ve come.” She removes the small phial of antipoison from her skirt and explains how we plan to save the nobility and unite the people.
“Yes, of course. I’ll gladly pledge my support. Whatever you need. I also know the location of the Comtesse de Soissons and the Marquis de Cessac—they’ve gone into hiding but would be most grateful for this elixir. I’m certain they’ll side with you as well.”
And they do. Over the next few nights, Marie and I repeat the same routine, seeking out nobles of varying degree and title, sometimes in their grand chateaus, but more often hiding in dingy inns and hovels. As word of our visits spread, our hosts become increasingly more decent to me—clasping my shoulder and soggying my shirt with salty tears of thanks. And I’m horrified to discover that it plucks at my ribs and squeezes my heart, the same as when I healed the men and women on the rue du Temple.
These people mocked my heritage and spat at me at court. The laws of justice say I shouldn’t care whether they live or die, but there’s no denying the swell of emotion that thickens like cream inside my chest every time we deliver a dose of salvation. How it fills me up with a sweetness I’ve never known before.
The feeling only grows when I finally get to accompany Desgrez, Anne, and Fran?oise to the Quai de la Grève a week later to deliver coughing draughts and fever tonics and to seek the fishwives’ help brewing antipoison. With the added capacity of so many kitchens, we would be able to distill more curatives than La Voisin could ever hope to counter with her Viper’s Venom.
Anne knocks on the door of Ameline, the most outspoken fishwife. “Greetings, my good lady. I am Louise Marie Anne de Bourbon, Mademoiselle de Tours.” She lowers into an impeccable curtsy that would have made Madame Lemaire coo with delight.
“And I am Louise Fran?oise de Bourbon, Mademoiselle de Nantes,” Fran?oise says, bobbing a curtsy of her own. “We are here to deliver medications and beseech your help in reclaiming our city. We hear you and your colleagues are most proficient in the kitchen, and we were hoping you might assist us in brewing antipoison.”