Mother waves a hand. “The people know the medication is from us. What they need to see is a united leadership after the perils they’ve been through. Now dress.” She orders the maids who aren’t busy lacing Marguerite to assist me.
I scramble back, dodging their eager hands.
“Keep still,” Mother insists, but I kick and flail and jerk. Marguerite giggles as two maids dive to unlace my boots, while another three take me by the shoulders and tug the laces of my brown work petticoats.
Father’s little red book slips down the front of my stays in the jumble, and I let out a strangled cry. “I need no help.” I swing the hideous gown like a shield. “I am perfectly capable of dressing myself.” But there’s a rattling quality to my voice now, and Marguerite’s ears prick.
“Enough of this nonsense.Ishall dress her.” She elbows past the maids and tugs on the front of my dress.
No.I lock my arms across my chest and dart back, begging with my eyes.Please, Margot. We are friends, allies.
But we’re not. Not really. Her desire for Mother’s favor will always outweigh her loyalty to me.
Her lips curl as she reaches for my bodice, and she pitches her voice low. “Surely you aren’t too modest to accept the help of your loving sister?” With a heave, she yanks the brown wool from my shoulders and the grimoire tumbles to the floor.
Marguerite’s black eyes—eyes that are a mirror of my own, a mirror of Mother’s—quadruple in size. “Mother!Come see,” she shrieks.
My feet tingle, itching to flee, but I keep them firmly planted. It would be pointless to run with masked sentries guarding every window and passage, so I cross my arms over my chest and stand as still as the statues in the Tuileries, naked and exposed for all to see in my chemise and stockings.
“Leave us,” Mother whispers, and like a sudden draft of wind, her maids blow out of the chamber. I look longingly after them, wishing I could escape so easily.
The folds of her cape shush across the polished floor, and the bones of her corset creak with each step. Her expression is stony, but her hands tremble ever so slightly as she smooths the invisible wrinkles in her gown. Her eyes glimmer with flashes of raw pain—even after all these years.
“Antoine,” Mother whispers—love, anguish, and animosity distilled into one word. She adored Father. I think a part of her always will, no matter how desperately she tries to hate him now. They met when Grandmére fell sick and Mother ventured into Father’s experimental apothecary shop, looking for a cure. He was young and smart and charismatic, a genius with spagyrics, even then, and Mother loved him from the first day he winked at her from behind the counter. Back then, he wasn’t too consumed with his work to notice a pretty face.
He doted on Mother in the beginning, making her delicious caramel syrups and false love potions he threatened to slip into her supper. They tended the herb garden together and even ran a small jewelry shop side by side when they were first married—the trade given to Father by his father, which he enhanced by transmuting his own metals. But over time, such things fell by the wayside as Father’s experiments devoured him.
Mother stares at the book, her face flushing until it’s redder than the rouge staining her cheeks, redder than the grimoire. She bends over, catches the book between her fingers, and waves it in my face. I press my back against the papered wall, and droplets of icy sweat race down my neck. “You swore you burned his deplorable grimoires and notebooks.”
“I kept only one to remember him by,” I squeak. “A memento.”
“Lies!” Marguerite sidles around Mother, her face so close, I want to scream. “Mira told me the other day that shetalksto him.”
This betrayal hurts more than I expected. For a moment, I can do nothing but gape. “I told you that in confidence!” I shout at her. Then I turn back to Mother. “It’s not what you think… .”
“Silence!” Mother frowns down at the grimoire, and after what feels like an eternity, storms across the room to destroy the book in the hearth. The flame is long dead, however, so she settles for hurling the book into her strongbox instead. Then she returns to her dressing table and trails her fingers across the silver combs and pots of rouge. My sweaty palms stick to my chemise.
When at last she speaks, Mother’s voice floats across the room as if on the wind. “I gave you so much freedom, so many responsibilities. Now I see it was a mistake. If you insist on acting likehim,I cannot trust you. And if I cannot trust you, you cannot manage the laboratory. From now on, Gris will oversee production, and you will be assigned different duties. Away from such temptations.”
“No!” I choke. It feels as if all the air has been siphoned from the room. My pleas pour out in an endless stream. “I’m sorry. It will never happen again, I swear it. Gris won’t be able to keep up with your orders. What about Lesage’s draught?”
“Gris is more than competent—he’ll figure out the formula for the blood draught. And I’ll hire him help, if need be. There are dozens of alchemists in this city who would jump at the chance to work for the Society.”
“None as skilled as I.”
“Perhaps not, but I won’t risk losing you to your father’s obsession. You may hate me now, but eventually you will thank me for protecting you.”
A tiny sob bursts past my lips. I stumble forward and throw myself at Mother’s feet. She cannot do this. She cannot bar me from the laboratory. I don’t know who I am without my work. “Please, Mother.”
She looks past me, pretending I haven’t spoken. With lethal grace, she collects a whalebone hairpin off her vanity and rolls it between her fingers like a knife. “Groveling will do no good. My decision is made.”
She slams her fist to the table with such force, the hairpin stabs deep into the mahogany.
I pull on the hideous dress without another word.
The streets of Paris are a riot of color and noise and fanfare. The former king’s blue and white fleur-de-lis standards have been rent from their poles and replaced with banners emblazoned with the Shadow Society’s double-headed eagle. Our gleaming black warhorses are fitted with armor and emerald plumes, and the multitude of carriages are draped with raucous red and purple silks. Revelers herald us with trumpets and lutes while jesters and acrobats dance and sing in the streets. Hordes of commoners clad in velvet masks—the newest trend in fashion—whistle and clap as we pass. It’s so vibrant, so bright and dizzying.
The maids somehow twisted my mouse-brown curls into an intricate waterfall that tumbles down the front of one shoulder. Marguerite matches me exactly, but while she basks in the men hooting and hollering at our scandalous necklines, I sink lower and lower, desperate to become one with my saddle. My breasts nearly spill out every time my horse steps, and when I try to cover my chest with my hands, Mother shoots me a death glare.
