The entire room is less than twenty paces across and barely tall enough for me to stand. The floor is jagged and misshapen and sudden gusts of reeking wind threaten to strangle us—made worse by Condé’s decaying body. The wound in his side wouldn’t stop bleeding, and he died not long after we reached the tunnels that first night. I dragged him as far away as I could, but it isn’t nearly far enough.
I smooth Anne’s hair away from her clammy cheeks and adjust her dress to cover the ghastly green bruises creeping across her shoulders. “We’ll go home soon, love,” I lie. “Now close your eyes and rest.”
Marie dabs a soaked bit of satin she ripped from her petticoats across Françoise’s forehead, but her fever’s burning so hot, the cloth dries the moment it touches her skin.
“What do we do, Josse?” Marie whispers.
I don’t know,I want to cry. I don’t know how to be the steady one, the strong one. No one’s ever noticed me, let alone depended on me. The ghost of Rixenda’s wooden spoon thwacks the back of my knuckles. Her gravelly voice is close, as if she’s sitting in the puddle beside me.Quit simpering and crying. You know what to do. I taught you.
“Tear more compresses,” I say, motioning to Marie’s petticoats. “Keep them cool against the rocks and rotate them every few minutes.” It probably won’t help. Nothing has. But it’s worth a try. In two weeks, the girls have gone from round-cheeked cherubs to wasted shells. I’m afraid to imagine what will become of them if we’re trapped down here for another two weeks.
The sewer was never meant to be a permanent solution, but finding alternate lodging and arranging transportation when you’re supposed to be dead—and cannot be seen, or else you trulywillbe dead—is next to impossible.
But I haven’t given up.
Once the girls finally drift off into a fitful, whimpering sleep, I pull on a tricorne hat that I nicked from a market stall and creep across the chamber. Louis scowls as I pass. He badgered me relentlessly those first few days, arguing that he should accompany me up above. But I flashed a pointed look at his opulent clothes, flaxen hair, and his altogether recognizable face—with that long, straight de Bourbon nose—and he muttered an oath and stayed put.
This is the first and only time being the nameless, nobody bastard has benefited me.
It’s too dangerous to venture out the grate we entered through—smack in the middle of the bustling rue Montmartre—so night after night, I scour the stinking tunnels until I find the hatch leading up into Madame Bissette’s pâtisserie. She’s a shrewd woman of business and agreed not to hand us over to the masked intruders in exchange for a few seed pearls and sapphires, which I took great pleasure in ripping from Louis’s extravagant frock coat.
For the past week, I’ve been creeping around Les Halles marketplace, stealing carrots and tomatoes and cabbages and listening in on conversations, which is how I know the attack on Versailles was orchestrated by the devineresse, La Voisin, and her Shadow Society. A witch masquerading as a fortune-teller, aided by poisoners and alchemists and magicians, like Lesage. They’ve taken the Louvre and are murdering courtiers and police officers to secure their hold on Paris.
I haven’t a clue how to stop them, but thankfully that isn’t my responsibility. Louis can figure out how to retake his throne. My only concern is getting Anne and Françoise to safety and a physician.
With fingertips trailing either side of the tunnel, I race through the passageways. Two rights, four lefts, and another right. The blackness is so thick, it’s tangible—dense and scratchy like a wool blanket soaked in rat piss. I hold my breath until I reach the iron steps beneath the pâtisserie, where the smell of baking bread combats the stench a fraction. After rapping on the overhead hatch four times, I bounce with impatience while I wait for Madame Bissette’s ruddy face to appear. She has at least three chins and smells of yeast, but when she opens the trapdoor each night, she looks more beautiful than God’s heavenly angels, doughy cheeks all radiant and glowing in the moonlight.
“Josse, my boy, come up, come up.” She clucks and pecks around the hatch like a mother hen while I bound into the sweet shop. “Let’s have a look at you.” She brushes off my tunic and breeches. A waste of time. I haven’t anyone to impress down there, and no one gives me a passing glance up here. I look like any other street urchin.
Skirting around her, I make for the door, but she catches the tail of my tunic and pulls me back to fuss over a smudge on my cheek. I grit my teeth and count the seconds till she’s satisfied.For the girls. Think of the girls.
Madame Bissette licks her fingers and slicks back a dark strand of my hair that’s fallen from its queue. “There now, that’s better.” She straightens my collar. “If only you weren’t illegitimate. Such a handsome face and all for nothing.”
“Yes, such a pity,” I agree, straining for the doorknob.
Madame Bissette sidles her large body between me and my goal. “Can I get you something to eat? Before you go?”
I can’t steal enough cast-off vegetables from Les Halles to keep us from starving, so Madame Bissette has been selling me her day-old baked goods for the small price of another jewel. There’s also the unspoken promise that when we rise again to power, overthrow the Shadow Society, and reclaim the throne, she’ll be appointed royal pastry chef.
I grab a hunk of rye off the counter, stuff it in my mouth, and toss her a pearl as I head for the door.
“And the others?” She waddles after me. “Surely they’re hungry too?”
“I’ll purchase more when I return. To surprise Louis for breakfast.” I screw on my most dazzling smile, as if I care for frivolous things like fresh bread—or pleasing my brother—but his name is like a magic word, so I use it as often as possible.
“Oh,” she exclaims, fanning herself at the mere mention of him. “Howishis Royal Highness?”
He’s trapped in the sewer. How do youthinkhe is?I ratchet my smile a notch higher and pat her shoulder. “He’s been better, obviously, but staying optimistic. Mostly thanks to your hospitality.” I give her a wink and tip my hat. “It’s been a pleasure as always, Madame Bissette.”
“Be careful out there, Josse. This is no time to be gallivanting about.They’vetaken to the streets, readying for the procession tomorrow.”
I sweep out the door. “Thanks for the warning, ma chérie.”
Despite the late hour and pouring rain, the rue Saint-Honoré teems as if it’s midday. Everywhere I turn there are black masks and velvet capes. Shadow Society miscreants crowd the taverns and spill into the streets, and the common folk are out en masse. I had expected at least a little resistance or fear from them—the Shadow Society is murdering the courtiers and police officers, after all. But they seem delighted to see one of their own risen so high. La Voisin is something of a hero. Apparently there’s hardly a man or woman in Paris who hasn’t consulted her for some sort of remedy or tincture, upper and lower classes alike. And they’re all lining up to secure the best view of the victory procession, which will parade through the streets tomorrow afternoon.
With all eyes on the Shadow Society, it’s the perfect time to flee with my siblings. But in order to do that, I’m going to need help.
I skirt through the Place de Grève, past the pillory and old docks where grubby children try to pick my pockets. The sandy soil is so flooded, my toes damn near freeze inside my boots. It hasn’t stopped raining for weeks now.As if God is mourning the king,Louis likes to say.
