“So we’ll do more …”
“Ican’tdo more.” Her voice cracks on the wordcan’t.“My father believed I would be a great alchemist, but I can’t even brew a simple antipoison.”
“The Viper’s Venom antipoison is hardly simple! You said so yourself.”
“Forget everything I said. I haven’t a clue what I’m talking about.” She charges ahead, her fists clenched at her sides, and my breath comes a bit easier as I jog to catch up. I may not have consoled her, but anger is better than the blank nothingness of before.
Anger means she hasn’t given up.
At long last, the millinery comes into view. I drag myself the final excruciating blocks, practically salivating at the thought of my lumpy pile of scraps. My body feels as limp as a deboned pheasant and I intend to fall through the door and sleep for days, but something crunches beneath my boots as I trudge up the steps. I squint through the shadows at what appear to be tiny bits of cracked white paint. Mirabelle is reaching for the door when I realize where the paint came from. I fling my arm out to stop her.
“Don’t!”
“I swear on my father’s grave if you try to—”
I put a finger to my lips and point up at the glaring brown hole in the center of the lintel, then down at the flecks of paint littering the steps like snow. “Someone’s inside.” I am barely short enough to pass through the door without disturbing the decaying paint, which means whoever entered is taller than I and still within, else their boots would have scattered the paint chips to the cobbles.
The color drains from Mirabelle’s face, and we retreat down the steps to consider the shop. It looks exactly as it did when we left—windows blackened, shutters drawn, and the door shut tight—but those tiny flecks of paint scream,Go no farther.“Wait over there.” I point to the alleyway between the millinery and a gambling den.
Mirabelle crosses her arms. “I don’t need you to defend me.”
“I never said you did. But I followed your lead on the rue du Temple and at the Hôtel-Dieu. Now it’s your turn to follow mine.”
Mirabelle scowls but complies.
Once she’s safely tucked away, I draw the dagger from my boot and edge toward the door. Most likely it’s a vagrant who took shelter in this seemingly abandoned shop. Nothing to fret over. Or it could be a Shadow Society patrol. Or what if it’s La Voisin herself? Or Lesage?
A thrill courses through me. Terror, yes, but also a vicious, ravening hunger. A burning hope that itisone of them. My bones scream for vengeance—for Rixenda, who took a knife for me. For my sisters, who deserve a life in the sun. For Mirabelle, who was rejected and forsworn to the enemy. And for my father—as much as it pains me to admit—who will never have the chance to see me as anything more than a bastard.
I roll my shoulders back and jam my boot into the door.
I’m so intent on finding La Voisin, shrouded in her double-headed eagle cape, I almost fail to recognize who stands before me.
“Desgrez?” A pulse of panic knocks me off-balance and my dagger clatters to the floor.
“You knew I would find you eventually.” His voice spreads like ice beneath my skin, and I step back. He stands in the center of the room, stance wide and arms crossed over another disguise—this time a tattered brown priest’s cassock.
“Desgrez,” I say again, cursing the bedamned tremor in my voice. “I can explain.”
“What is there to explain? You’re a liar and a traitor. Youattackedme and ran off with the poisoner. You abandoned your sisters.”
“I haven’t abandoned anyone. And I didn’t betray you without reason. You’re my best friend—”
He laughs—a quick, mirthless rush of breath. “You’re no friend of mine.” He means to lash me with his words, but a hint of emotion creeps into his voice, and he coughs to chase it away.
“I’m telling you, everything I’ve done is for good reason. We have a plan to take back Paris.”
“Would you listen to what you’re saying? Referring to yourself and the poisoner aswe!Yes, I’m sure she’llhelpyou hand the city right over to her mother. And your sisters along with it. Where is she?”
“Mirabelle wants nothing to do with her mother or the Shadow Society.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “If you would just listen—”
“And you’re foolish enough to believe her?”
“Has she ever given us reason to doubt? She guided us to safety during the procession, she healed the girls, she healedyou.Or have you conveniently forgotten?”
Desgrez grunts. “I would have recovered on my own.”
“You were a dead man.”
