“There’s nothing to think.” This is absurd. Impossible. Josse would agree if he knew I’m the one who poisoned his father. He would be horrified for ever thinking there could be anything between us. So I clamp my lips together, wave my hand as if swatting a fly, and stomp up the road.
“I know you felt something,” he calls after me.
“I’m not having this conversation here.” I’m not having this conversationanywhere,but I know better than to say so or we’ll be out here arguing all day. “We must return to the millineryat once.” I point down the street, at the candles flickering to life in several windows. “Not to mention a Society patrol could round the corner any moment.”
Josse heaves the empty cart forward with a jerk. “Only if you tell me what changed your mind.”
“Can’t you just enjoy our accomplishment and not ruin it with all this?” I gesture between us.
“No.”
“Fine. You want a reason?” I rack my brain for an excuse, since admitting that I’m scared of these feelings, and that I killed his father, are both out of the question. “Because you’re royal,” I blurt. “This is all a means to an end for you. Once Louis is restored to the throne, you’ll return to your lavish palaces with your sisters and never spare a second thought for the thousands of people who still need aid. Or me.”
The words feel like poison spitting from my lips. Horrible, disgusting lies. But it would be worse to admit the truth and see the hurt and revulsion on his face. There would be no more hiding. No more pretending or forgetting. I would be forced to face the horror of what I’ve done. Forced to accept that I’m just as guilty as the rest of the Society.
Josse’s jaw tightens and he charges ahead, but two steps later, he drops the cart and pivots. “Is that what you honestly think of me? Was everything you said about ‘healing suiting me’ and ‘the people adoring me’ a lie?”
I bury my fingers in my hair and tilt my head back. I’m going to scream. Or blurt the truth just to be done with it—done withhim.But halfway down the block, the creak of a door rends the quiet and we both dive behind a cluster of empty wine casks stacked outside a townhouse. The casks are on the small side, and we have to huddle low and close to stay hidden. The jagged cobbles bite my knees, and when I adjust my position, Josse makes a production of ensuring we don’t touch. It takes all of my restraint not to push him into the road.
Shooting him an annoyed glance, I shift to squint through the casks. A lone man steps into the road. He’s wearing a fine emerald frock coat and kidskin breeches with a cane clutched tight to his chest. His eyes flick up and down the street like a rabbit’s, and he sets off at nearly a run, the ribbons on his coat trailing behind him.
Seconds after he rounds the corner, a tavern door on the opposite side of the road bangs open and another man stumbles out. He’s mostly hidden beneath a black cloak, but I can see the high shine of his boots from here. All these lecherous noblemen, staggering back to their wives and children after a night of debauchery. This man heads in the same direction as the first, and I almost don’t give him a second glance, but there’s something about his painfully thin stature and off-kilter gait—the way he slinks more than walks—that sets the hairs prickling down my neck.
I know that walk.
I crawl to the edge of the wine casks to watch him pass. Through the sumptuous folds of his hood, I spy an intricate black mask framed by strings of long, greasy hair.
Fernand.
My body stiffens and the cobbles beneath me feel suddenly colder. Harder.
When he reaches the intersection, he quickly checks over his shoulder, then continues down the adjacent street walking much faster than he had been moments before—all vestiges of drunkenness gone.
“Hurry!” I nudge Josse. “Follow him.”
“Why would we follow a drunkard home from the tavern?”
“Because that drunkard is my sister’s fiancé, and I suspect he isn’t drunk at all. He’s up to something.” I scurry out from behind the casks and Josse follows without complaint. Miracle of miracles!
The streets are winding and narrow, and by the time we reach the intersection, Fernand is vanishing down another. I clench my fists and break into a jog. We turn and turn again, leaving the crowded city center behind and entering the bourgeois neighborhoods. Lemon yellow and sage green villas line the road, each with a walled garden, dainty cast-iron balcony, and hanging plants.
Josse shoots me a meaningful look and we quicken our pace.
A dark, streaking shadow vaults over the wall surrounding the largest château at the end of the road. Fernand’s so light-footed, I would have thought him a stray cat or a cloud passing in front of the moon if I didn’t know to look for a man.
Josse and I hurry to the château and flatten ourselves against the wall. “Give me a leg up,” I whisper. Josse cups his hands and hefts me up so I can peer into the garden and the house beyond. It’s a towering stone behemoth with turrets on either end and a sharp, spired roof. The iron gate is festooned with flourishes in the shape of a family crest—a red cross surrounded by blue eagles. I recognize it at once. Those banners flew from many a carriage in front of our house on the rue Beauregard: the esteemed Duc de Luxembourg—maréchal of France and perhaps Mother’s most notable client, besides Madame de Montespan. Though their high status did them little good in the end.
The sound of crashing glass comes from somewhere within, and a moment later a bloodcurdling cry that’s swiftly muffled.
I grip the top of the wall and hoist myself over, landing with a thump in the swampy ground. “Hurry!” I hiss to Josse. While he heaves himself over the wall with considerably more difficulty than Fernand, I fumble with my skirts and rip free the phial of antipoison I sewed into the hem of my maid’s dress. If Fernand used Viper’s Venom, we haven’t long to administer the antidote.
We creep along the outside of the château and wait beside the servants’ entrance. The tiny phial trembles in my fist. My pulse roars in my ears, so loud I lose track of the minutes. We cannot venture in before Fernand leaves. Neither of us could best the mercenary in a fight.
I never see Fernand, but I hear the slightest disturbance of pebbles in the road and nod at Josse. He throws his shoulder against the door and we race inside. My boots slide across the polished parquet as if it’s ice.
“Monsier le Duc!” The hall is wide and soaring, and my voice rebounds off the wood paneling, shouting back at me. I pause to listen for an answer. When it doesn’t come, I charge up the nearest staircase.
Abovestairs, the walls are adorned with heavy silk tapestries that billow and flap as we barrel into the great hall. It too is empty. Or has the appearance of being empty. I can feel dozens of eyes watching us from behind pillars and spying around corners. The house is crawling with servants but not a single one answers our call. Not a single one comes to their master’s aid. I don’t blame them. They’ve no way of knowing if the danger has passed.
