An Affair of Poisons(73)
“You and your brother are more alike than you think,” I say.
“Since you’re fond of the bastard for some unknown reason, I shall take that as a compliment. But in truth, I’m horribly offended.”
He takes up the knife and I show him where to make the incision, but before the blade breaks skin, the door opens once again and Josse trips across the threshold. He’s still panting and wild-eyed, but now, instead of looking like a raspberry, his face is completely drained of color.
I dart out from behind the counter and place myself between the brothers. “If you’ve returned to fight… .” I warn Josse, but my voice falls away because Gris barges in on Josse’s heels. His golden curls are plastered to his sweaty forehead and he’s gasping so hard, he has to steady himself against the wall. Both boys look near about to faint.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” I rush to Gris and begin inspecting his arms and chest for wounds. “Did Mother do this to you?”
He shakes his head and puffs out, “It isn’t me … you need … to worry about.”
“Who, then?” I spin to Josse. “You?”
“Tell them what you told me,” Josse says.
Gris draws a deep breath and straightens, but his eyes widen at the absolute pandemonium of the overcrowded millinery, and he lurches back.
“No need to worry,” I tell him. “These are people I’ve healed. They’re trustworthy.”
He nods, but continues to back away. “The princeling will tell you. I can’t stay.”
“But you ran all this way, surely another minute—”
“They’ll notice I’m gone.” He shakes his head and takes off down the street, even though he’s hardly caught his breath.
“What was that about?” I turn to Josse.
“La Voisin is growing desperate,” he says. “She plans to raze the fields in the Faubourg Saint-Germain once Gris has brewed more of Lesage’s blood draught. Gris says the longest he can pretend to struggle and dither is three days.”
I feel as if I’ve plunged into the icy Seine. Why the devil would she do such a thing? If the barley and rye are lost, the people will starve before the year’s half through. “Mother cares for the common people. She would never …” Gavril and the children fall eerily quiet, making my voice sound high and shrill. “How does she plan to win back the people’s support if they’re starving?”
“She no longer plans to win their support,” Josse says. “She plans to take it. By decreasing the food supply and controlling what remains, she can choose whom she distributes rations to. The rebels will have no choice but to come crawling back and fall at her feet.”
“No.” I whisper at first, but my anger is a live and coiled thing, slithering up my throat. I pound my fist against the counter. “NO! Thousands will perish. Our uprising will crumble.”
“Can we head them off on their way to set the blaze?” Louis asks. “Engage the Shadow Society in battle?”
“Only if we wish to lose.” Josse says it as if Louis’s suggestion is the daftest thing he’s ever heard.
“But their ranks are composed of inexperienced soldiers just like ours,” Louis says.
“Hey!” Gavril puffs out his chest and gestures to the smoke beast on the table. “I’d hardly call us inexperienced.”
“You’re definitely experienced,” I agree, “but they have magic. Not even you could contend with a dozen beasts at once.” The thought makes guilt rise up my throat like a sickness, and I wrap my arms around my stomach. Perhaps the orphans would be able to contend with that many beasts if I could decipher how to seize control of them, even partway.
“So we trap the poisoners in their palace somehow,” Louis suggests. “As they did to us at Versailles. Or we poison them, the way they’ve been poisoning half the city.”
I rub my arms and begin pacing back and forth behind the counter. “I’ll not stoop to their level. There must be another way.” My heartbeat quickens with my steps. The air is hot and thick and it is hard to breathe. I cast around the millinery for something, anything, and like always, my eyes are drawn to Father’s grimoire, half buried beneath a sack of feverfew.
You will be a great alchemist one day.
Of course.
I grapple for the book and flip furiously through the pages, a tiny ember of hope reigniting in my chest. When I find the recipe I’m looking for, I squeal and tap my finger excitedly on the page. “Gavril, do you think you can collect Ameline and étienne, as well as one or two representatives from the rue du Temple and Les Halles? And Josse, go drag Desgrez from whatever gambling den he’s hiding in, and fetch the Marquis de Cessac. We’ll reconvene here in an hour. I have an idea.”
I have never seen a more unlikely grouping. Duchesses stand beside beggars. Fishwives rub elbows with royalty. No one looks particularly comfortable, and they all attempt to keep to their own, but they’re here. Together. And the dinginess of the cramped shop has given them something to commiserate about. They frown at the explosion of herbs on the counter and bemoan the smears of black smoke-beast blood coating the floor and sticking to their boots. I stand off to the side, clutching Father’s book and collecting my thoughts. Convincing the nobility and commoners to work together in theory is one thing, but saving the crops will require everyone’s cooperation. And I haven’t an alternate plan if they refuse.