An Affair of Poisons(83)

“You’d better hope they know something. If they refuse to cooperate, I shall distribute a special hunger tonic we’ve created specifically for them.” She rattles the phial of Viper’s Venom.

“But they’re innocent.”

“They’re hardly innocent,” Mother says with a bitter laugh. “You made certain of that.”

I bury my fingers in my curls and pull. “You can’t poison half the city!”

“The choice is yours, Mirabelle. You can sacrifice hundreds of innocent lives to save a few worthless royals. Or you can tell me where they’re hidden. Cooperate, and I promise to release him and leave the people be. This is the only way to bring peace.”

My throat is on fire. A dozen boulders press upon my chest. I love Louis and the girls, but how can I condemn so many? Mother will never stop.

She brings the Viper’s Venom to Josse’s lips. My heart thunders faster—pounding, pounding, pounding until I’m certain it’s going to burst from my chest. “They’re hidden in a barn, just beyond the Port Saint-Antoine,” I blurt out. But my voice is weak and I stumble over the lie. Mother hisses with disgust and tilts the phial. At the last moment I cry out, “The sewer! They’re hidden in the sewer. The entrance is beneath the patisserie on the rue Saint-Honoré!”

The admission leaves me empty. Broken. Falling. I clatter to the floor, wishing I could dissolve straight through it. Josse’s howl is a thousand times more painful than it had been during the jolts of désintégrer. He’s thrashing and wailing and he won’t look at me.

“I’m sorry,” I cry as I curl into a ball.

“The sewer,” Lesage marvels.

Mother considers it for a moment and laughs. “How appropriate. The royal children, living like rats and exterminated like them too. Go,” she says to Fernand. “Quickly. Take as many guards as you need. Bring the dauphin and princesses back alive.”

Then she turns to me, leering with delight. “My poor, foolish girl. The heart makes one weak. It clouds your judgment. I was never going to poison the commoners. And I would never kill the bastard here, in the laboratory, when I could do it before all of Paris and make an example of him.” She bends and gives my cheek a mocking pat. “Thank you. I could have never accomplished this without your help. But now I’m afraid you’re no longer of use to me.”

She motions to her guards and they fall upon me, their grasping fingers pulling my hair, their rough hands bruising my skin. They drag me from the laboratory and toss me into a dungeon cell.

Judging by his wild, animalistic screams, Josse isn’t far behind.





24



JOSSE


Death would be better than this.

I am trapped in a godforsaken dungeon with her while Fernand and an army of Shadow Society soldiers storm the tunnels and capture my sisters. My eyes burn at the thought of Anne and Fran?oise and Marie stumbling and crying, screaming my name as they’re dragged to their execution. Wondering where I am, why I haven’t come to save them.

Lesage’s magic still pounds through my skull like a sledgehammer. My limbs are so heavy, it feels as if my bones are made of iron. But I muster the strength to stand and dash myself against the bars.

The jagged protrusions pierce my palms but I grip harder—until blood runs down my wrists. I want to feel the pain. I deserve to suffer.

My sisters were my only priority. Not the city. Not Mirabelle. Nothing else. And I failed them.

I failed everyone.

The horrible image of Desgrez’s hat fluttering through the smoky sky is branded in my memory. I see the ravenous green flames devouring his face. I hear the stationers and farmers gasping and shrieking, burning alive. And I can feel Father’s disappointment, hanging over me like the executioner’s blade.

How many ghosts can haunt a single man?

I throw myself at the bars harder—howling and crying and shouting oaths. I know it’s useless, but I have to do something. Have to keep fighting until I know my girls are gone. Then I’ll die willingly.

“Stop! You’re hurting yourself,” Mirabelle pleads from the cell beside me. She’s been sitting there, watching me with those wet black eyes. As if she gives a piss. As if she didn’t just condemn my entire family to death.

“Do you think it matters?” I say with a growl. “Look at me. I’ve one foot in the grave already.”

“I can help you. Most of your wounds are superficial. Some chamomile, tea tree, and yarrow will do wonders for your burns and bruises. And if we escape, I can distill the antidote to désintégrer.”

I wave a dismissive hand at her. “We’re not going to escape, and I don’t want your bedamned antidote. I don’t care what becomes of me if I cannot save my sisters.”

“What if we can save them?”

“How?” I glower at her. Disgusted with myself for trusting her. For allowing myself to care for her.

She fidgets in the filthy rushes. “I don’t know,” she admits.

“But we’ll think of something. And you’ll be of little use to them if you turn yourself to mincemeat. I cannot bear to watch you—”

“Don’t act as if you care.”

“I do care!”

“You don’t! If you cared for me at all, you would have kept them safe. If you knew me at all, you would have known I’d gladly die to protect them.”