An Affair of Poisons(85)
Or, I thought they were at stake.
After what could be hours, or possibly days, a guard ambles over and upends a bucket of water over Josse’s sleeping form. Josse bolts upright, gasping and coughing, and the guard laughs. “Wakey, wakey, Highness. Can’t have you smelling like a hog for your execution.” Then he turns to me and pours a second freezing deluge over my head.
He unlocks our cells and Mother’s maidservants file in bearing cakes of bergamot soap and piles of finely tailored clothing. Josse slaps at their hands and shouts, “Why bother? Do you think the executioner will care how I look?”
But I know why. It’s the same reason we wanted Louis to look presentable while saving the crops. Mother wants the people to recognize us. She wants them to know not even her daughter or the son of the king can defy the Shadow Society.
The maids scrub my face until it’s as raw as my splintered heart and apply my makeup to match Mother’s—making my eyes into sunken pits. Then they squeeze me into a revealing gown of lavender satin, which I suspect will match Marguerite’s. When they finish, I look ghastlier than I ever did in the sewer.
La Vie is gone. Mirabelle is dead. Only La Petite Voisin remains.
The guard who “bathed” us returns with several masked comrades and they clamp shackles around our wrists and ankles. The cold metal gnaws at my skin as they lead us from the dungeon—Josse first and me trailing behind. I try to catch his eye, but he refuses to look up from his ridiculous heeled slippers. They’re pristine white with blue ribbons—something fit for Louis, not a bastard kitchen boy. Josse’s entire outfit is as gaudy and degrading as mine: a sumptuous brocade doublet cut in Bourbon blue with red braiding and miniature fleur-de-lis buttons at the cuffs. The royal crest is embroidered in gold across the whole of his back.
There will be no mistaking his identity.
I wonder, for a second, if it bothers him to be publically acknowledged more in death than he ever was in life.
When we emerge into the courtyard, the sunlight stabs my eyes. I squint, but it’s like staring into the heart of a fire. I’m almost relieved when they stuff us into the musty dark of the waiting prison wagon. It, too, is dressed for the occasion—festooned with emerald and plum drapes and Mother’s double-headed eagle banner—to ensure we attract as much attention as possible as we make our way through the city.
The guards shove me onto a bench along one wall and Josse falls onto the bench opposite. Still not looking at me, even though our knees are practically touching. I force a cough, but he continues to ignore me.
Do you really want to go to our deaths like this? Without a word?
The fine black carriages carrying Mother and Lesage and Marguerite depart to the sound of trumpets and fanfare, and our wagon rumbles after them. It’s eerily reminiscent of the ride to Versailles at the birth of this madness: Here I am, bouncing over the ruts and peering out the window, fretting over where we’re headed. My stomach tangles into knots as the horses clop over the Pont Neuf and carry us to the far end of the ?le de la Cité, where the twin spires of Notre-Dame disappear into the clouds like ladders to heaven. The cathedral frowns at our approach—the delicate flying buttresses lower like eyebrows; the rose window purses like lips. As if it senses the horrors to come.
We enter the courtyard through the western gate, and our wagon slows to a crawl as we weave through the thronging crowd. Shadow Society miscreants teem around us like dogs fighting over a scrap of meat. Everywhere I look are velvet masks and vibrant capes. They cheer and shout and bang upon the sides of the wagon. Calling for our execution.
I clutch the bench and let out a slow breath, but the wagon walls press closer. The shouts grow louder. I cannot lift my hands to cover my ears, so I fold in half and bury my face in my skirts. When we rumble to a stop, I make the mistake of looking up. Beneath the cathedral’s archivolt is a hastily constructed scaffold bearing a cauldron of the altered Viper’s Venom. My hands begin to tremble. I can’t look away from the insidious curls of sapphire smoke rising into the air.
At least it will be quick, I tell myself. But that’s little comfort when I imagine Josse and Anne and Fran?oise shrieking and twisting like the guard in the dungeon. A sickness rises up my throat and I vomit onto the wagon floor, narrowly missing Josse’s boots. He curses and scoots away.
He should be disgusted.
I am to blame for everything. I told Mother where the royals are hidden. I invented the antidote to Viper’s Venom, prompting this devilish new mixture. It was my idea to dust the crops with fire powder. I am the reason Lesage can wield désintégrer and conjure smoke beasts, and I’m so daft, I never did find a way to control the magic myself.
I tilt my head back and stare up at the ceiling, silently screaming at Father for promising I would be a great alchemist when my talents have brought far more pain and suffering than relief.
The wagon’s doors swing open, but instead of Shadow Society guards, it’s my sister who’s come to collect us. For a brief instant, my heart drums with hope. She has heeded my words when we were outside the laboratory. She’s going to help me.
But then her lips twist into a sneer as she takes in my gown. As suspected, it matches hers exactly. She grabs our chains with a disgruntled huff. “Once again, you’ve ruined everything. I must bear the disgrace of wearing the same gown as a traitor. I must haul you around like a nursemaid rather than standing at Mother’s side, where I belong.” She yanks the chain and I nearly tumble from the cart face-first. “Keep up.”