An Affair of Poisons(80)

“So rather than give me a chance to explain, you thought dozens deserved to die?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he stammers. Tears well in his eyes as he gazes across the burning fields. “You and the peasants weren’t to be harmed. Only the royals.”

“And you believed that?” I bark a bitter laugh. “Mother is full of lies on top of lies on top of lies.”

“Silence!” She slaps me across the cut at my temple, and the world blurs and tilts—molten fire and charcoal smoke and their horrible, wicked faces.

Marguerite crouches beside me. “My apologies, little sister,” she says, but her grin is anything but apologetic. She covers my face with a damp cloth, sickly sweet with ether, and my bones turn to puddles beneath my skin. I can’t lift a hand, can’t so much as scream, as she rifles through my bodice.

When she finds Father’s grimoire, she clucks her tongue and tosses it into the fire. “Gone for good,” she sings. Then she grips me beneath the arms and pitches me into a cart like a sack of grain.

I feel nothing.

Pain cannot reach me; disappointment cannot touch me. All I feel is emptiness—a cavernous, keening void where my heart once dwelt.

Gris betrayed me.

The cart lurches forward and we bump along the rutted Faubourg road. I fight to lift my head, but dark, curling shadows swallow the landscape. I’m shivering and sweating. Gasping and groaning. Sinking farther and farther into oblivion.

Marguerite leans over me and whispers in my ear, “Sweet dreams, La Petite Voisin.”



I wake, not in the dungeon but in a featherbed. Which is worse. The silken sheets cling to me like tentacles, and I kick against them, ripping the bed curtains from their fastenings. Give me manacles or the rack, gladly. Anything but these plush pillows and luxurious linens that mean I belong here. That I am one of them.

My stomach flips and I vomit over the side of the bed, spattering the finely woven rug. After wiping the dreck on my sleeve, I cast around the room. The ebony armoire looms over me like a watchman. Two high-backed chairs stand sentinel on either side of the door like gates, ready to slam closed and lock me inside.

I scramble to the edge of the bed, my desperation booming fast and hard—like my heart: Get out, get out, get out!

I have to find Josse and the remaining rebels—if any of them survived. The contorted faces of my dead friends rise up around me, and for a horrible second, I imagine Josse among them, howling in agony, the whites of his eyes stained green by the flames.

My trembling arms give out and I gasp into the blankets, clutching my chest.

No. I didn’t see him burn. He escaped. And he needs me.

I have to believe it.

The glowing window panes call to me, and I gather up my dressing gown. We may be four levels up, but I could leap from the ramparts if necessary. I swing my legs over the bedside, but as soon as my feet meet the floor it slides away like melted candlewax.

The blasted sedative still has hold.

I topple into the dressing table like a flapping hatchling, and a basin of water crashes over my skull. One of Mother’s maidservants pokes her head into the room. “You’re awake! I’ll send for La Voisin at once.”

Merde. I groan and wipe the steaming water from my eyes. Not Mother. Anyone but her. I press my burning face against the marble and silently scream.

The maid bustles in. “Up, up. Your mother won’t tolerate such wallowing.” I don’t move. I don’t think I can. With a sigh, the maid grips me under the arms and drags me back to bed. I fight her every step—or try to—but my arms are slow and shaking. My legs drag through the carpet like plows. Marguerite must have administered enough sedative to fell a horse.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

“Going on two days, miss.”

Two days. Another punch of agony wallops me in the chest, and I wheeze out a stuttering sob. Two days might as well be a lifetime. Mother’s soldiers could have easily captured Josse and Louis and the girls. Gavril and the orphans, too. What if I’m the only one left? I look out the window again, half expecting to see their bodies dangling from the battlements.

The maid is still wrestling me back to bed when the chamber door bangs open and Mother barges in. Her dark hair is pinned up with pearls and crimson rosettes, and her cream brocade gown trails behind her like a cloud. It’s a mockery for anyone to be clad in such finery after the carnage on the fields.

“At last, you’ve awoken. We’ve much to discuss, my pet.” She situates herself on the edge of the bed and reaches for my face. I lean back, pressing my shoulders into the upholstered headboard.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

The light in her eyes gutters. “You had better find something to say, for I cannot execute the royal children unless I know where they are hidden, and I’m most eager to put this bothersome uprising to rest. Think of the people, Mirabelle—dying and suffering because you encouraged this revolt. Their deaths are on your head.”

My head? I want to shout. But then the first half of her admission overshadows everything else. She doesn’t know where the royals are hidden. That means they escaped. They’re safe. Gris never knew about the sewer or the floor hatch in the patisserie. My head falls back against the headboard and I squeal with relieved laughter.

Mother grips my arm and yanks me forward. Up close, the heavy powder on her face cracks across her wrinkles. Her almond-scented breath makes me gag. “You will tell me where they are, Mirabelle.”