An Affair of Poisons(81)
I glare at her and shimmy lower. It’s the first time I’ve defied her face to face. Red blotches bloom across her cheeks, making her garish rouge even more dreadful. She expects me to shrivel and shrink and break like before, but I’m no longer her blind, subservient daughter. I am La Vie. “I’ll do no such thing.”
Her nails bite into the flesh of my arm. “I think you will, given the proper motivation. Get up.”
When I fail to comply, she snaps at the maid, who grunts and drags me from the bed. Two additional maids scurry in from the hall and bear me up. My legs wobble like a newborn calf’s as they tug me from the royal apartments, through the salons, and belowground to my former laboratory.
Marguerite and Fernand are waiting outside the gray door at the end of the hall. My sister smiles at our approach, delighted, I’m sure, to see the icy waves of fury rolling off Mother. “Welcome home, La Petite Voisin.” She brushes her lips against my cheek. “So glad to see you’re finally awake. My hand must have slipped with the sedative.”
Fernand snickers and leads the way inside. Mother follows. The maids heave me forward, but I turn to face my sister. I have only seconds, so I must make them count. “Help me, Margot,” I whisper in a rush. “This is madness. She destroyed the food supply and dozens of innocent people with it. You can’t possibly support this.”
Marguerite hesitates for half a second, then averts her gaze. “Don’t try to claw your way back into Mother’s good graces by dragging me out of them.”
“I don’t want to be in her good graces!”
Marguerite rolls her eyes and slams her palms into my shoulder. I tumble into the room.
Gris is here, of course. Mother’s dutiful pet. He watches me from behind the counter, taking in my tangled hair and vomit-spattered dressing gown. His gaze feels like Mother’s nails dragging through my flesh. I want to toss him into one of the great cauldrons and watch the skin boil off his bones.
Spineless, selfish, double-crossing coward!
Gris mouths my name, begging me to look at him, but I will never, never lay eyes on him again.
“While you were stirring up trouble,” Mother begins, joining Gris behind the board. “We have been hard at work, altering the Viper’s Venom formula. Not only is it more violent, but it’s also impervious to your antipoison.”
“I’ll make another,” I seethe.
“When do you plan to do that?” Her saccharine smile makes me want to scream. “Now tell me the location of the royal children or I will be forced to show you how effective our modifications are.”
“And murder another innocent citizen? We are supposed to be the saviors of Paris, the voice of the people, yet you’re killing them by the droves!” I don’t realize how wildly I’m gesticulating or how loudly I’m shouting until Mother clutches my chin in her cold fingers and glares me into silence.
“You have no one to blame but yourself. The city would be at peace beneath the Shadow Society were it not for your machinations.” She releases me with a shove and my stomach slams into the corner of the table. Gris tries to steady me, but I shrink away from his traitorous touch.
Mother pounds her fist against the worktable and snaps at Gris in warning. “A demonstration, alchemist, if you’d be so kind. Show Mirabelle precisely what she’s brought upon her little band of rebels.”
“My little band of rebels?” I know I should hold my tongue, but I can’t bear to hear her speak so callously of Desgrez and étienne and our allies who perished. “We were more than mice waiting to be exterminated. We were a revolution. We were poised to destroy you.”
“Silence!” The back of Mother’s hand strikes my cheek, and her rings leave long, stinging gashes. She turns to Gris. “Now.”
“H-how would you have me demonstrate?” he stutters. “I haven’t anyone to … um …”
Mother’s eyes flick across the room and settle on a guard near the door. He isn’t much older than I, with blond hair and a hooked nose. He’s done nothing wrong, nothing to differentiate himself. He simply was there, in her line of sight. “You’ll do.” Mother motions him forward.
All the color drains from his face. “Me, my lady? But I—”
“I see I’ve chosen correctly. I have no patience for dimwitted staff. Come now. Hurry, hurry.”
The guard doesn’t move. His eyes twitch from Mother to the poison. Then he throws himself at the laboratory door. Mother bellows, and the other guards scramble to respond. He’s halfway out the door and I’m about to raise a cheer when Fernand streaks across the room like a diving falcon. He catches the guard by the arm, wrenches it mercilessly, and slams the guard’s forehead against the wall. The guard howls and spits. Blood courses from a cut above his eyebrow as Fernand drags him back to Mother.
“P-please!” He fixes pleading eyes on her, as if that will change her mind.
“Drink,” she commands, motioning to Gris, who brings the phial to the guard’s mouth.
He squirms and bawls like a small child.
“Enough!” Fernand shouts. He rips the phial from Gris’s hand and forces it between the guard’s lips. The boy sputters and coughs. The poison dribbles down his chin and wets his tunic.
I heave toward him, but Marguerite tightens her hold on my elbow.