“Better dead than a traitor.”
“For the millionth time, I’m not a traitor!”
“If you’re not a traitor, what, pray tell, is all ofthis?” He flings his hand at the counter cluttered with phials and forceps and herb packets. “It looks like a damned poison laboratory.”
“That’s part of our plan. If you would care tolisteninstead of snarling like the chimera atop the towers of Notre-Dame, I’d be happy to explain.”
Desgrez folds his arms and glowers—the closest I’m going to get to an invitation.
“We’re brewing curatives—not poison,” I say pointedly, “which we’ve been distributing to the common people in the name of the royal family—to earn their favor and support. In addition to medication, we’re offering the people a say in the government once Louis is restored to the throne—elected officials who will bring their concerns before the king. And we are devising an antipoison to administer to the remaining nobles whom La Voisin plans to target, so they will be indebted to us too. It will be a union of the common man and noble man—something neither Father nor La Voisin could accomplish. We’ll be able to overthrow the Shadow Society with the strength of a unified city behind us.”
I look triumphantly at Desgrez. I’m getting rather good at making these speeches.
He’s silent for an endless moment, then he tips his head back and laughs. It feels like thousands of needles jabbing into my ears. “You poor witless fool! Please tell me the poisoner has tainted your water or sprinkled you with her devilish powders and that you don’t honestly believe this ludicrous plan will work.”
“It will work!” I bite back. “It’s a good plan!”
“Perhaps it would be if you could believe a word out of her wicked, lying mouth.”
“She’s innocent. She was used and betrayed by her mother—just like us.” Desgrez makes a show of wiping beneath his eyes and shaking his head, and my fingers curl into fists. “Stop laughing,” I say, my voice a growl.
“I’ll stop laughing as soon as you start using your head. I don’t care what she told you or what she claims. She’s lying. She’s still one of them. She will always be one of them.”
My heart bashes against my ribs like a caged bird, and my vision darkens around the edges, narrowing on Desgrez’s infuriating face.
“You’re impossible!” I shout. Then I do something very stupid—I lunge forward and ram my shoulder into Desgrez’s chest, which I know will end badly, since he’s the one who taught me to fight. He topples backwards and slams into the counter but somehow still manages to hook his foot around my ankle as he falls. Before I know what’s happening, the back of my head cracks against the dusty floor.
Desgrez scrambles on top of me. I kick out and my boot sinks into his stomach. He doubles over, wheezing, and I try to roll away, but there’s nowhere to go and I smash into the counter. A gallipot clangs to the floor, reverberating like a bell, followed by the crash of at least a dozen glass phials.
“What the devil is going on in here?” Mirabelle bangs into the shop. She looks first at her shattered equipment and then at Desgrez.“You.”
Desgrez props himself up onto his elbows, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. “How precious, Josse. Your poisoner has come to rescue you.”
“Tell him,” I say to Mirabelle as I rub my throbbing head. “Tell him he can trust you. That you haven’t hurt anyone, and you had nothing to do with the attack on Versailles.”
She blinks as if I’m speaking in tongues. “What?”
“Tell him what you told me.”
Slowly, she steps back and steadies herself against the door. Her eyes are wide and haunted, her cheeks the same chalk-white as the moon. “I don’t understand. I can’t… .” She grips her forehead. Droplets of sweat bead along her hairline. Her lips open and close, but she can’t seem to find her voice.
A prickle of dread traces up my spine. “Mirabelle?”
She clasps her hands and looks heavenward.
“Mirabelle!”
I can feel Desgrez watching us. His eyes flit back and forth as if this is the most enthralling tennis match he’s ever witnessed.
I clamber to my feet, heart battering inside my chest. “What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I’m sorry.” A shudder grips her shoulders. “So sorry.”
“Whyare you sorry?” She’s silent so long, I want to launch across the room and shake her. “Answer me!”
Finally, she looks down. Her gaze is as vacant and as faraway as it was at the Duc de Luxembourg’s château.
“It’s all my fault,” she says softly.
