When we reach the end of the rue du Temple, Mirabelle and I give a final wave and slip into the shadows. Overhead, the velvet sky has lightened to heather gray, and soft pink brushstrokes paint the underbellies of the clouds. Shopkeepers draw back their curtains and open their doors. I inhale the sweet scent of rising dough, marveling at how the city feels fresh. New. Reborn with possibility. As if I’m standing atop the towers of Notre-Dame, watching our next steps unfold like points on a map.
If we immediately distill more remedies, perhaps we can return to the rue du Temple as soon as tomorrow night. Once we’ve helped all of the poor, then we can turn our focus to the nobility.
My plan will work. I’m sure of it now.
I bend a glance at Mirabelle, and she’s quick to meet my gaze. As if expecting it. Hoping for it, even. Neither of us speaks, but I can tell by the hopeful smile spreading across her face that she feels it too—how the air between us hums like a bowstring, vibrating with energy and possibility as we make our way back to the millinery.
Once we’re safely inside, Mirabelle returns to the counter and I drop into my corner, no longer perturbed in the least to watch her work. But she bangs her fist on the table. “Well, don’t just sit there, princeling. There’s work to be done.”
My eyebrows arch. “I thought I wasn’t permitted to assist you.”
“You can’t be trusted with the recipes, of course. But I suppose you might be allowed to do some chopping. We might as well put your kitchen skills to use.” She flashes a teasing smile and slides a knife to the edge of the counter.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of frenzied activity. I mince mountains of lemon balm and yarrow while Mirabelle distills more hunger tonic and coughing syrup and a tincture to counteract White Death. One remedy after the next until the air is thick with steam and my limbs feel like overcooked cabbage. Even then, we press on, propelled by the fire that burned in the eyes of the poor. The fire that sparks and crackles and lashes between Mirabelle and me. Hope and exhilaration and somethingmore.A camaraderie and enticement that makes our gaze snag from across the room.
Two nights later, we return to the rue du Temple and distribute more curatives to the homeless. And three nights after that, we make our way to the Hôtel-Dieu, the old, moldering hospital on the Île de la Cité, which my father allowed to fall to ruin since it was “overrun” by the rabble.
It’s a sorry sight; the stones are cracked and pitted and black mold dangles from the slatted windows. The air within is musty and damp, like the inside of a cave, and it reeks of rotting leaves and sickness. My gut clenches with what is becoming an all too familiar indignation, and I charge into the nearest ward.
The tiny room is crammed with dozens of rusted beds, each filled with two, sometimes three people. I remove my hat to greet them, but before I can say a word, a woman pushes up to her elbows and cries, “Mademoiselle La Vie! Thank the saints! We’ve been praying you would come.”
Mirabelle lets out a loud breathy laugh and looks up at me. Her eyes well with tears as the name pings around the room, and she’s still breathless and misty-eyed when we leave the Hôtel-Dieu hours later.
“They knew. They’d heard. And so quickly!” she gushes. “Can you believe it?”
I’d believe her capable of anything when she’s grinning like that. Her smile is so dazzling, it could set the world ablaze. I have to keep a sharp eye on the cobbles to keep from drifting into her. And Mirabelle is definitely walking closer to me than she ever has before. I’m acutely aware of the flutter of her purple cape against my leg. Transfixed by her arm swinging so close to mine. The warmth of her fingers makes mine tingle in response. It would be so easy to reach out and take them.
The Josse of a week ago wouldn’t have dared.
The Josse of today doesn’t hesitate.
15
MIRABELLE
The bastard princeling is holding my hand.
And I don’t hate it.
A part of me may actuallylikeit.
I gape down at our intertwined hands, screaming at myself to pull away, but my rebellious fingers tighten. His hands aren’t soft like a royal’s should be, and I like the way his calluses slide against my palm, the way they fit so perfectly with mine.
“La Vie,”he whispers. My heart pulses faster, beating in time to that glorious name.
It’s the most beautiful sound in the world—to be life instead of death. To be loved instead of feared. I feel as giddy and as weightless as I did when Father used to hoist me onto his shoulders and we’d spin around the laboratory in a whirlwind of gold dust and sage leaves.
Josse stops and turns to me, bringing his other hand to my face. His feather-light fingertips trace across my cheekbone and tuck a wayward curl behind my ear. I implore myself not to look up, but like my fingers, my eyes refuse to obey. They explore his hopeful face; his strong square jaw and full lips; the dark strands of hair escaping from his tricorne hat; the way his eyes reflect the sunlight on the wet slate rooftops—gray and green and gold. Brash and brazen and beautiful.
And so eerily similar to the Sun King’s, I suddenly can’t breathe.
Can’t move.
Can’t do this.
I lurch back so swiftly, I topple into the gutter and soak my skirts.
Josse’s hand hangs in the air for a moment before falling slack at his side. His face falls with it. “What’s wrong? I thought—”
