An Affair of Poisons(76)
Her declaration shatters the brittle walls around my heart. I gasp as the shards cut inward: stabbing and slicing and flaying me wide open. I sink slowly to the ground, my back scraping against the splintered wood of the building, and I plunk my forehead on my knees.
“You’re right,” I choke out. “Louis is right. You’re all bloody right.”
I feel Mirabelle ease down beside me. Her arm brushes mine, and the sage and smoke scent of her tickles my nose. She doesn’t say anything, just sits there—a rope waiting to pull me to shore whenever I’m ready to grab on.
“I did care,” I admit to myself as much as Mirabelle. The truth of it rattles through me, shaking the very foundation of my soul. My voice cracks, which is beyond mortifying, and when I try to cough it away, I end up making an even more pathetic sniffling sound. If Mirabelle didn’t think me pitiful already, she certainly does now. Since I haven’t a crumb of dignity left to lose, I let all of the words tangled up in my head—years and years of anger and heartache and frustration—tumble out like vomit.
“I’ve always cared. I wanted my father’s approval so damned much it nearly killed me. He was so big. So bold and commanding. A veritable God on earth. And he was my father. It was almost too much for a motherless, sniveling nobody like me to fathom.”
“Believe it or not, I know a little something about that.” She knocks her knee against mine and leaves it there. The outsides of our thighs press together. “Keep going.”
And I do. Now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. I’m desperate to purge these dark, festering feelings. “I didn’t want much—just a scrap of acknowledgment. An occasional smile or a nod. But he swept past me in the halls without so much as a glance of recognition, as if I was nothing more than a statuary or a painting. Any nameless servant. So I made him see me—any way I could: I flirted mercilessly with the highest-ranking ladies at court, and I purposely mucked out the horses’ stalls right before serving in the great hall, so the grime and stench would hang over his lavish feasts. I even tossed a wasps’ nest through the window of his staterooms and laughed as he and his ministers ran down the stairs, shrieking.
“I didn’t know why I was cutting up, of course. I told myself it was because I didn’t care what he thought, that I didn’t want his attention or approval. But I did. More than anything. And acting like a hellion was the only way to get it—or so I thought.” I press the backs of my wrists into my eyes and let out a long, slow breath. “Apparently, he did see me, but I was too bullheaded to realize it. Or perhaps he was too proud to show it. Either way, I pushed and he retreated, and we grew farther and farther apart until there was no bridging the gap between us. I made him hate me. His final memories of me held nothing but exasperation and disappointment, and now I can’t change that. He will never know me as anything more than a worthless bastard.”
“I disagree,” Mirabelle says. “After my father died, my mother tried to taint my memories of him. She insisted he never loved us, that he was consumed by his obsession, and for a time, I let myself be swayed. But now that I share his grit and conviction, I feel him grinning with approval every time I distill a batch of antipoison. I hear his voice in my head when I stand up to Mother. I know he’s proud of me—that he forgives me for siding with her. And I have a feeling your father feels the same. How could he not? You’re healing his people, reclaiming his city, and restoring your brother to the throne. I promise that the Sun King is smiling down from Heaven, urging you on.”
A tingling sensation presses behind my eyes. I try to disagree, but I seem to be incapable of making any sound beyond a raspy wheeze. Mirabelle’s words worm beneath my skin, burrowing deeper and deeper until they sink into the core of me. Like an arrow hitting its mark. All at once, a massive serving tray of doubt and inadequacy lifts from my shoulders, and the lightness is astounding. The relief is so complete. I tilt my head back and tears spill down my cheeks, purging the last of my bitterness.
When my eyes finally dry up, I wipe my nose on my sleeve with a self-conscious laugh. “Look at me, blubbering in an alley when there’s so much to be done. You probably think me ridiculous.”
“You’re completely ridiculous,” she agrees. But then she grabs my hand and squeezes until I look down at her. “But you’re also brave and big-hearted and determined and bold and there’s no one I’d rather stand against my mother with.”
Her eyelashes bat softly against her cheek. The smattering of freckles across her nose shine like specks of gold. She glances at my lips, and the tiny gap between us is filled with so much sizzling energy, I can’t think straight. Do it, Josse. Lean in. I suck in another breath, trying to muster up the courage. Mirabelle grips my collar with a laugh and pulls my mouth to hers.
The kiss isn’t timid or questioning. It’s a statement. A demand. Her lips move hungrily against mine, and her fingers dig into my shoulders. I slide my hands around her waist and pull her onto my lap, deepening the kiss. She sighs, and my entire body flares with heat. Ever since we first healed the homeless, I’ve wondered how this would be, what it would feel like.
Mirabelle’s hands are everywhere; trailing down my chest and tangling in my hair, leaving a trail of fire. She rocks her hips, and I lean back with a groan. Only I lean too far and knock my head against the wall. We laugh against each other’s lips and kiss slower. Deeper. Savoring and exploring. She tastes of mint and honey and magic. Smells of smoke and sage and night. I could kiss her forever and ever and …