An Affair of Poisons(90)
They’re going to kill him.
Rage ignites me. Terror propels me. I launch myself at the horde of guards, but someone else reaches them first. From the other side of the platform, Gavril and his small band of orphans hurl daggers and brandish swords they must have stolen from the dead. I crow with triumph, but before I can join them, vicious fingers dig into my sides and haul me back. I scream and kick as I’m dragged across the platform and dumped at Mother’s feet.
“Go deal with that,” she says to her guards, motioning to Josse and the orphans. “I wish to have a word alone with my daughter.” A shudder works through me because I’m fairly certain her words will end with me lifeless on these boards. “Are you happy?” she spits at me. “Lesage is dead, the city is burning, and the people we swore to serve are suffering.”
I push up to my elbows and look into her cold, dark eyes. “I’m happy everyone can finally see what a monster you are.”
“I am not the monster. This is your doing, Mirabelle!”
“I’m not the one who assassinated the royal court at Versailles and obliterated the Paris Police. I’m not the one who poisoned my former allies along with any noble who dared to stand against the Shadow Society. I did not attempt to exterminate the fishmongers or raze the fields to coerce the people’s obedience and loyalty.”
Mother steps closer. “I wouldn’t have needed to take such measures if you hadn’t turned the people against me. Order was nearly restored.”
I tilt my head back and laugh. “The riots were never going to cease. You cannot forsake half the kingdom in favor of the rest. That was the Sun King’s folly, and it was yours as well. For all you despised him, you made the exact same mistake.”
Mother slaps me across the face. Her handprint throbs against my cheek, but I revel in the pain. I drink it in, laughing and laughing until Mother looks ready to burst. “Enough!”
“The only way to truly restore the balance is by uniting the people.”
Now it’s Mother’s turn to laugh. “The aristocracy will never unite with the commoners.”
“Won’t they?” I point to the front of the crowd, where Louis, Ameline, the Marquis de Cessac, and a host of nobles, fishmongers, and stationers cut through her Shadow Society guards, drawing ever nearer to the scaffold. “Because they look rather united to me.”
With a growl of fury, Mother reaches into her golden eagle cloak and extracts a dagger the length of her forearm. The steel glints as she adjusts her grip, reflecting the fires in the crowd. The fire in her eyes. Quicker than I’ve ever seen her move, she slashes at my face. The blade whistles as it hurtles toward me. I dodge to the left, but searing pain flares across my cheek. When I bring my fingers to my ear, they come away hot and wet.
“You’re destroying everything I’ve worked for,” she sneers as I scramble out of reach. “All the good the Shadow Society has done. You’re just like your father. Meddling and discontented. Reckless and deceitful.”
“That’s the finest compliment you’ve ever given me,” I pant.
With a vicious scream, she hurls the dagger at my chest. It spins end over end, quicker than Lesage’s lightning. I ball my fists. Close my eyes. Ready for the spike of pain. But rough hands slam into my shoulder, and the world spins sideways. My head cracks against the ground, and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears. But still I hear it—the wet thunk of metal piercing flesh. The sharp intake of breath.
I bolt upright as Gris staggers to his knees, one hand stretched across my skirt and the other raised toward Mother. The dagger meant for me protrudes from his chest. He looks down at it and his eyes flick to mine, wide and petrified.
“Gris!” I cry as he collapses with a shudder. Blood courses from the wound, drenching his tunic and wetting my petticoats. I take his hand in a vise grip, as if I can squeeze my strength into him. “You’re going to be fine,” I say fiercely. But already the color is leaching from his cheeks.
No, no, no.
Despite what he did, he’s still my brother. My best friend. He saved us in the end.
With frantic hands, I attempt to stanch the blood flow with my skirt, struggle to scrape it back inside his chest. He cannot die. Not like this. When my last words to him were so ugly. I press my hands around the dagger in his chest, but the crimson stain flows faster, thicker. Nearly black.
“Stop,” he wheezes. “There’s naught to be done.”
“Don’t say that. I’ll get you back to the laboratory and—”
He gives my fingers a faint squeeze. “I’m sorry, Mira.” His face is chalky now—a sharp contrast to the red stain sliding from his lips. His cinnamon eyes wander, searching me out through the pain. “So very sorry.”
“Hush.” I brush the hair from his eyes. Tears fall from my chin and spatter his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He reaches up and his fingers skim my cheek. So cold already. I place my hand over his and lean in to his palm—big and strong, etched with so many familiar calluses.
“You were right not to tell me.” He coughs blood between each word. “I should have chosen you sooner.”
“Shhhh.” I kiss the inside of his palm, crying so hard that I can barely form words. “Your timing was perfect. You saved me. Twice now.”
A wisp of a smile lights his face. A final glimpse of his crooked grin. He takes my hand and presses my fingers against his trembling lips. “Dagger.”