“Lady Mother!” I stammer. Ordinarily, she is immaculate—clad in the finest satins and silks. Rumor has it that it’s more fashionable to be received at our shabby house on the rue Beauregard than the palace at Versailles, but she looks nothing like the most powerful devineresse in Paris or “Queen of the People” at present.
She pins me in place with her inky stare and clears her throat.
I hurriedly draw out the sides of my soot-stained petticoat and lower into my most practiced curtsy. Gris follows suit and sketches a bow. “To what do we owe this honor?” I ask.
She waves a hand and ventures into the room, sidestepping a stack of dusty grimoires and an overturned sack of milk thistle. “Can’t I visit my beloved daughter and favorite son without cause?”
Gris looks like he might die of happiness, and for half a second, I allow myself to hope. But then Mother flashes her most honeyed grin—the one she reserves for noble clients—and dread coils in my belly like a sickness. She does nothing without reason. And she hasn’t stepped foot inside the laboratory in years. The garden house reminds her too much of Father.Iremind her too much of Father. I quickly scan the laboratory for the true purpose of her visit, and my pulse pounds at my temples. She has a dozen reasons to eviscerate me. The mess, for one. When Father was chief alchemist of the Shadow Society, these floors were as pristine as glossed parquet and the cauldrons gleamed like fresh shoe polish. But my mind works better when I am mired in mixtures. When I’m surrounded by my phials and bottles and barrels—a part of my alchemy, both body and spirit. Besides, Father’s methods proved ineffective. What use are alphabetized cupboards when your experiments are so explosive that they quite literally blow you to bits? Mother should be glad that I strive so hard to be his opposite.
So it must be the late order. I rush to her side, already babbling excuses, but instead of stalking to the hearth and clucking her tongue at the disastrous array of half-finished tinctures, she moves to the board instead. “Is this myspecialconcoction for the Duc de Barra?” she asks, holding the Aqua Tofana toward the firelight.
I nod.
“And you altered it according to my instructions? So it kills upon contact with the skin?”
“Of course.” Aqua Tofana is usually dispensed in liquid form, but Mother asked me to reduce it to a powder. So it’s twice as potent. “He’ll be dead from the barest brush of his fingertips.”
Mother’s grin curls all the way up to her eyes, and she looks truly pleased. Proud, even. Then she does something that has happened only in my most outlandish of dreams. A favor usually reserved for my older sister. She places a hand on my back and leans in close. Her dark hair dances around my shoulders and her almond-scented breath puffs against my cheek. “Well done,” she whispers.
I do not move or breathe or blink for the space of five heartbeats as a tiny seedling of pride sprouts inside my chest. I know better than to let it take root. She will change her mind. Or her praise will transform into a barb, as it always has before. But when neither happens, the shoots curl around my heart and grow. Mother is like the sun. Vibrant and flashing. It’s impossible not to bask in the warmth of her esteem—no matter that I’ll likely be burned.
Though, perhaps not. This could be a sign—a beacon of change. Perhaps she’s finally beginning to trust and appreciate me.
I look again to Gris, and we exchange a bewildered smile.
“Don’t stand there gawking like a dullard,” Mother says with a laugh, linking her arm through mine. “We’ve much to do.”
That jerks me from my stupor and I spring toward the hearth. “Of course. The rest of your order is nearly ready. We’ll bring it along—”
“Gris can finish the order.” Mother tightens her grip on my elbow. “You shall come with me.”
My eyes widen and I try not to stutter. “Surely I’m not invited?” She has never welcomed my presence at her consultations; she and Marguerite handle that side of the business. I am hardly better than a servant. A lowly lab rat. Unless that is changing too … A thread of excitement hums through my core, but I bite down hard on my lip. Best to keep my delight hidden, or Mother will sniff out my desperation. She despises weakness above all else.
“Don’t be daft.” Mother shakes the phial at me. “You are the genius behind the poison, so you must witness my triumph.”
My brow furrows. I fail to see anything particularly triumphant about watching a man suffer—even one so wanton and despicable as the Duc de Barra—but I know better than to argue. If Mother considers his death a victory, it must be. And she wantsmeto take part in it.
Gris beams and raises a celebratory fist as Mother tugs me into the garden. The morning air is deliciously cold and it slams down my throat like a hammer, enlivening my mind and making my skin tingle. Every window of our cottage is ablaze with candlelight and movement. Shadows dash behind the velveteen curtains as Marguerite and La Trianon arrange their gilded Marseille decks and fill the scrying bowls with water. In lieu of morning birds, the chatter of anxious customers queuing up and down the rue Beauregard welcomes the sun. Like a windup clock, the Shadow Society is grinding into motion, andIam to be a part of it.
Matching Mother’s stride, I hold my head high as we slip through the kitchen door.Command respect. Prove you belong.But my feet stutter to a halt the moment we enter her salon, and for once it has nothing to do with the oppressive black curtains and damask papering. The room writhes like a hornet’s nest, packed wall to wall with visitors. And these are not the poor serving girls or the cotton-headed duchesses they often entertain. These are the leaders of the Shadow Society.
La Trianon, Mother’s second, quits pacing and fastens her watery eyes on me. Ordinarily the old woman’s eyes glint with fire and spark with mischief, but today they are drooping and exhausted—the same dirty gray as the snow in the gutters. Mother’s infuriating lover, the royal sorcerer, Lesage, winks at me from where he lounges on a divan, and Marguerite whispers with her fiancé, Fernand, in the corner. On the other side of the room, Abbé Guibourg, the priest who oversees the Society’s spiritual affairs, pulls his rosary beads through his knotted fingers. And beside him, Mother’s most prominent client, the Marquise de Montespan, former maîtresse-en-titre to His Majesty, Louis XIV, whips her lace fan back and forth with agitated strokes.
Warning bells blare in my mind. Why are they assembled at such an hour? They can’t all have a vested interest in the Duc de Barra. He is one man, of little consequence, especially to someone as elevated as Madame de Montespan.
“What’s all this?” I ask, trying to keep my face blank and serene. Like Mother’s.
“We are waiting for you.Clearly.” Madame de Montespan rolls her eyes as if I am the simplest creature alive. I cringe without meaning to, and she titters behind her fan.I wouldn’t be laughing had the king dismissedmein favor of a younger mistress,I long to snap at her, but I bite my tongue and turn to Marguerite. She will enlighten me. But she looks pointedly at Mother’s arm, linked through mine, and her lips flatten.
My sister and I are either best friends or mortal enemies depending on one important variable—Mother’s favor.
“Up. All of you. It’s time to be off.” Mother claps and waves down the hall. Abbé Guibourg rises with a grunt and shuffles to assist Madame de Montespan, but La Trianon wrings her gnarled hands through her skirt and looks pleadingly at Mother.
“Please reconsider, Catherine. This is madness. We’ll burn at the Place de Grève.”
Mother’s dark eyes flash, and she advances on the old woman. Not yelling. Mother never yells. She whispers, which is far more terrifying. “Do you mistrust my judgment?”
“Of course not.” La Trianon retreats behind the divan like a mouse cornered by a cat. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
