An Affair of Poisons(72)
“Josse—” Mirabelle takes a cautious step toward me.
I stumble back, growling a slew of profanities, and slam out into the night. I gulp back the chilly air and run down one street and up another without a care for where I’m going. Faster, faster. Farther, farther. But I can’t outrun those bedamned words:
He preferred you.
You sabotaged yourself.
Lies. They have to be. But the sobs in my throat are so thick now, I have to stop to catch my breath. I reach out to steady myself on a tree, but my shaking hand misses its mark and I crash to the mucky ground, melting into a pathetic puddle of tears. Every interaction I ever had with my father flashes through my mind, colored by this horrifying new revelation. What if his pinched expression wasn’t born of disgust, but dismay? What if he sent me to work in the kitchen not to hide me away or punish me, but to reform me?
He wanted me to be something more. He waited patiently, giving me chance after chance to prove myself, and I was so indignant and impatient that I squandered every opportunity.
I gave him no choice but to push me away.
I lie beneath the tree like a boneless, vacant-eyed drunkard, thankful for the deepening sky that hides my tear-streaked face. Finally, when I haven’t a tear left in my eyes nor a heart in my chest, I stagger to my feet and continue down the road. Not hearing, not seeing, just floating along like a ghost.
I stumble into scores of people, but one of them is so tall and solid, it feels like I’ve dashed my head against the city wall.
“Princeling!” Gris shouts, gripping my shoulders and shaking me. “I know you heard me. I’ve called your name a dozen times.”
“Leave me be,” I grumble. I try to push away, but Gris tightens his grip until I yelp and look up—into eyes that are as bloodshot and bewildered as mine. He’s gasping for breath as if he ran all the way from the Louvre.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
He releases me and folds in half, bracing himself on his knees. “I came … to warn you …” he pants. “La Voisin is planning something terrible. We haven’t much time.”
21
MIRABELLE
A familiar prickle of pain grips my chest as I watch Josse tear down the rue de Navarine. He vanishes into the violet-stained twilight, and the tether between us pulls taut. My mind screams to go after him. I know precisely how he feels. His entire world—everything he thought he knew—came crashing down around him. But I also know there’s nothing I can say to ease his pain. Not yet.
“Is it true? What you said about your father?” I ask Louis after we’ve spent a full minute staring at the door in silence.
He wipes his hands on his smudged doublet and turns to the counter. “What reason would I have to lie?”
“You saw Josse storm out of here. It destroyed him.”
“I assure you, if I was lying, the story would have painted me in a better light.” He picks up a pestle and mortar bowl and resumes crushing fennel seeds with frightening intensity.
“That must have been a difficult conversation to overhear.”
“It wasn’t difficult in the least,” Louis snaps, making it clear it most certainly was difficult. “That’s where I and my bastard brother differ. Father thought I was ill-suited, so I did everything in my power to prove him wrong. Josse assumed he was ill-suited and proved himself right.”
“And I’m sure you did nothing to reinforce his beliefs?” I shoot the dauphin an accusatory glare. “I have an older sister. I know how it goes.”
Before Louis can respond, the door flies open and a handful of orphans parade into the shop bearing a scaled smoke beast atop their shoulders. “Special delivery for Madamoiselle La Vie,” Gavril sings.
This smoke beast has a long serpentine body covered in blood-red scales. The orphans coil what they can atop the board, leaving a good ten lengths trailing across the floor.
“Dead, I see.” I try not to sound disappointed as I circle the table inspecting the creature. I lift one of its short, clawed forearms and let it fall with a thump. This is the third beast they’ve brought me. I feel horrible asking for more, but I’ve had no luck controlling the creatures, no matter how I mince or boil or combine the dead with my blood.
To find the secret link to my alchemy, I need a live specimen. I don’t know how else to proceed. I’m no closer to understanding how the beasts function, and with our rebellion gaining traction, the day looms ever nearer when our success or failure will hinge upon whether or not I can stand against Lesage and the unnatural power I gave him.
“We tried to capture it live, honest we did,” Gavril says, “but the battle got rather heated.” He points his thumb at a boy whose pants are singed at the knee and a girl whose thigh-skimming braids are now blunt, uneven locks.
“Don’t apologize, this is fine,” I say. “I’ll make it work.”
Somehow.
I roll up my sleeves, seize a knife, and bury it in the silver underbelly of the smoke beast. The orphans scream and scatter to the far side of the room to avoid the midnight spray of blood and I presume the dauphin will do the same, but he steps closer, leaning over to inspect its innards.
“Fascinating. May I try?” He holds out his hand for my knife, and I laugh with surprise. He is pompous and tedious, without question, but he’s also gritty and determined and unflinching. Josse has been unfair to him. But Louis hasn’t exactly been fair to Josse either.