An Affair of Poisons(78)
The cluttering of townhouses with peeling shutters and slate roofs slowly gives way to a smattering of cottages followed by the occasional shack surrounded by fields and fields of green and brown and yellow. It’s nearly summer and the waves of wheat sway like dancers in the wind. Wild and rippling, like Mirabelle’s hair before she cut it. I gaze longingly at her back, five or six barrows ahead.
“Pull your head out of the clouds and start on that barley field down the way.” Desgrez shoves my shoulder. He sounds annoyed, but he’s grinning and shaking his head. “You might as well take the girl with you. I can’t have you two mooning across the fields at each other.”
“We wouldn’t—we’re not …” I stammer.
“Josse. I used to spend my days interrogating prisoners. Your lies are wasted on me. And it’s unnecessary. She’s agreeable enough … for a poisoner.” He cuffs my shoulder and strides off, ordering the fishmongers and stationers to different fields, some within and some positioned around the exterior to achieve the fastest and most efficient coverage of the crops. Countrymen and field laborers wander over to ask what we’re about and readily volunteer their help, nearly doubling our numbers. Louis remains with the carts so he’ll be able to reveal himself when everyone returns with their empty jars.
Mirabelle trails her fingers gently across my back as she passes by to take her place down the fence line, and my entire body shivers. From beneath her scarf, her dark eyes sparkle with mischief and eagerness and hope. I feel it too—like a fountain bubbling to life inside my chest, rising higher and higher until it spills over the edges of my being. I tilt my head back and inhale the warmth and sunlight. For the first time in months, the sky is a vivid, watery blue, and the tiny white clouds look like dollops of cream floating toward the horizon. My jar of fire powder catches the light, throwing fractals of indigo and rose and saffron.
Desgrez climbs atop a stack of hay bales in the centermost field and waves his hands to call us to attention. He may lead with the authority of a police captain, but he doesn’t resemble one in the slightest. Today he’s wearing a frayed tunic and wool trousers that leave a wide swath of skin exposed above his boots. He’s completed his ensemble with a limp straw hat, half eaten by moths.
I chuckle and remind myself to tell him the look suits him when we return to the millinery. I already know his response. He’ll brush the dust from his shoulders, sweep the hair from his face, and say, When you’re this handsome, everything suits you.
“On my mark,” he shouts. “Let’s be quick and efficient.”
I uncork my jar. Desgrez raises his hands. But before I toss the first handful of powder, a flash of green explodes in my periphery.
I know only one thing that moves so quickly.
“Desgrez!” I scream, but it’s swallowed by a crackling hiss. Lightning smashes into the bales of hay, and the fields burst to flame like a heap of dry kindling. A wall of scorching green rolls across the countryside, licking my cheeks and singeing my eyebrows. I hold up my arms, but the searing brightness blinds me.
Desgrez.
I throw myself toward the inferno to drag him out, but a second bolt strikes directly in front of me, so close that it sends me sprawling on my back. The impact of the ground punches the air from my lungs, and I’m coughing. Retching. But it doesn’t register as pain. Not compared to the razor-sharp agony impaling my heart. The world goes dark, and waves of heat and dizziness batter me. I press my fists into my chest and command myself to breathe. Breathe, Josse. When at last I catch my breath, a splintering sound tears from my throat—like a howl or a scream but so much louder. So much wilder.
How did they know? The Shadow Society wasn’t set to arrive for hours yet. We had plenty of time. It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be safe.
Biting my fist, I stare at the dark outline of Desgrez’s body until it’s consumed by the fire. Then my gaze flicks to the others who lie smoldering beside him—étienne and the other fishmongers and laborers who were stationed in the fields. It’s too much. Gasping, I tilt my head back, but the sky offers little comfort. A piece of Desgrez’s straw hat cartwheels through the smoke and lands on the grass beside my boot. I clutch it tight, even as it burns my fingers. It’s all that remains of him. All that remains of any of them.
It could have been me.
Or Mirabelle.
A new wave of panic crashes through my body—cold and sharp compared to the flames lashing my face. I can’t see her. Can’t hear her. I drag myself to my feet and stumble down the fence line, shrieking her name. But smoke fills my lungs and throat.
I am choking on the ashes of my friends. My boots slip through what can only be their blood. Cries pierce my ears, and I can’t tell if it’s their voices or the angry crackle of the fire.
I crash to my knees and vomit into the grass. The world flickers in and out, guttering like a candle. Until there’s nothing. No one. Save for darkness and death.
23
MIRABELLE
My skin feels like it’s been dipped in hot wax, and I think I’m bleeding; something warm and wet slides down the side of my face. I tell myself to get up. Get help. Do something, Mira. But my head is heavier than a mace and my legs are crumpled and boneless beneath me.
I can do nothing but stare into the blue-green inferno.