An Affair of Poisons(96)
“Mira?” he breathes. His fingers hover over the laces.
I answer with a kiss, nibbling his lower lip and dragging my hands down his chest.
He climbs onto the counter and hovers over me. Presses into me, whispering things that make my cheeks burn. He kisses my neck and eyelids, then my shoulder as he pushes my gown aside.
When we break apart, minutes or hours later, I lay my cheek against his chest and let out a long breath. Grief and uncertainty battle to reclaim me, but I hold tighter to the boy beside me until my resolve hardens and my skin thickens, forming a barrier so strong, not even Mother’s memory can penetrate it.
At the end of June there is a bonfire at the Place de Grève, as is tradition for the Fête de la Saint-Jean. But I do not attend. I have no desire to dance around the roaring flames—not when I know they are fueled by my sister, as well as La Trianon and the other devineresses. Twenty-six members of the Shadow Society met their end this morning, and their ashes paint the sky a sinister shade of ochre and brown.
We’ll all burn at the Place de Grève. La Trianon’s words echo through my thoughts as I work my pestle, grinding leaves of heather and sprigs of holly.
Not all of us, La Trianon. Not me.
It’s no coincidence Louis chose this day for their execution—the day of the solar Sabbat, a day celebrated by witches and sorcerers. It’s a warning and a promise, though I alone am left to hear it.
The millinery looks nothing like it did a few short weeks ago. I stripped and scraped and scoured every corner of it, and when I hung the sign on the door—le apothicaire la vie—I’d never felt more proud. My own place. Where I belong. With my grimoires and ewers and phials.
With Father and Gris.
Sometimes, if I am very quiet, I can hear Father quizzing me in the bubbling of the cauldrons. When I lean forward to stir a gallipot, Gris brushes the hair from my face with a gentle breeze. And always—always—I keep Gris’s goggles on a nail beside the hearth, the worn leather and dirty lenses watching over and guiding me.
Just after midday, when I’m half finished with a gout tonic ordered by one of the fishmongers, a sharp rap sounds at the door. Josse strides across the shop and leans against the counter. His lips curve into a wry smile as he plucks at the strap of my goggles. “Don’t you look fetching.”
“I’m working.” I swat him with a spoon, but he still manages to peck my cheek. He looks so striking in his officer’s uniform—a black doublet with golden epaulets, the buttons shining and his rapier hilt a-twinkle at his side. His dark hair is tied back and his hat is cocked at an angle on his forehead. He would have rivaled Desgrez for the handsomest police captain in Paris.
He tugs at my goggles again and pouts when I shoot him an exasperated look. “Can’t you take a break? Come with me to the Place de Grève.”
“I told you, I have no interest in seeing that funeral pyre.”
“And you shan’t. The blaze is long dead.”
“Then why go?”
“For the maypole.”
I snort. “If you plan to dance about with ribbons, perhaps I do need to bear witness.”
“Not me,” Josse says, taking my hand and tugging me across the shop. “Them.”
The bustling square is festooned with white and yellow banners that flutter like butterflies in the summer breeze. The tables are heavy-laden with hamhocks and relish, as well as fruit tarts and buttered bread and sizzling turkey legs, for the community feast. Madame Bissette waves from behind the table, still preening over her promotion, careful to keep her royal purple uniform free from a single speck of flour. Josse and I weave through the crowd hand in hand, dodging jesters with colorful balls and flaming batons and revelers with casks of ale. Marie joins us, and we make for the maypole at the center of the courtyard, each step more eager than the last.
Thick silk streamers of purple and blue and gold weave around the pole, guided by many hands below. I watch them parade past, a blur of laughter and color, until I spot two auburn-haired tornados. Then everything stills. Anne spins in a circle, her arms tangling in her golden streamer. Fran?oise tips her head back and laughs as she tugs Anne forward. Wreaths of baby’s breath crown their heads and their pink cheeks look ripe as summer berries. We’ve visited them several times at the Marchioness de Thianges’s estate—as often as Josse’s position permits—but it’s never enough.
When the ribbons are bound and the lutes and fiddles cease, Josse cups his hands to his mouth and shouts their names.
In a whirl of lace and satin, Fran?oise and Anne turn. We raise our hands, and I know the instant they spot us. It’s like the moment herbs coalesce inside a cauldron—coming together to form something greater, something stronger, something whole. Their eyes spark with recognition, and their squeals of delight are more healing than any antipoison, more fortifying than any elixir or draught. As they rush toward us, crashing into our open arms, I know I have discovered the greatest compound of all. A formula Father would be proud to have in his grimoire. A force that lifts us higher and makes us braver and sheds light into even the darkest of corners:
The recipe for happiness.
Author’s Note
From the moment I first read about the infamous devineresse Catherine Monvoisin and the Affair of the Poisons, I felt a spark: this was a story I wanted to tell. While I decided to take a fantastical, alternate-history approach, I would like to take a moment to separate fact from fiction and introduce you to the true La Voisin and her involvement in one of the most notorious episodes in French history.