Gavril spits into the road and bunches back his shirtsleeves.
“With a very useful skill set,” Josse says in a rush, placing himself between Desgrez and Gavril. “What if I told you, in exchange for continuing to hunt the smoke beasts and badgering the Shadow Society patrols, I could offer you not only medication for your illness but all the food you can eat? And a proper roof over your heads. No more stalking the streets—unless you wish to, of course.”
The children whisper in excitement, but Gavril holds up a hand. “Who are you to offer such things? And to what end?”
“I’m Josse de Bourbon, bastard son of the late king. My brother, Louis, is alive and plans to make a stand against the Shadow Society and reclaim the throne. But he needs the help of the commoners to do so. We needyourhelp.”
“We’ve no need for a king!” one of the children yells, and several others agree. “What did he ever do for us?”
“The dauphin will be a different sort of king,” Josse says. “He will listen to the voice of the people. You will have representatives at court and proper food and shelter. As well as medication, as I said before.”
The children sneer and roll their eyes. I don’t blame them. Every time we make these proclamations, a small measure of doubt simmers in my own belly. I want to believe our plan will work, but we’re making an awful lot of promises on behalf of a person who detests me. Who wants to kill me. Who has probably never even considered these orphans’ existence. I can’t imagine Louis will be eager to work with them—or any of our recruits.
Gavril chews the inside of his cheek and his eyes take on a mischievous gleam. “What if I said our price was the Palais Royal? Would you let us live there?”
He knows it’s a monumental demand.
So does Josse. He tugs his collar and swallows several times before saying, “Consider it done.”
Desgrez coughs so hard, I’m shocked his eyes don’t burst from his head. “Josse, be reasonable! That’s the residence of the Duc d’Orléans, second only to the Louvre in grandeur! The duc and nobility will never stand for it.”
“Ifhe’s alive, the duc will be forced to accept it. In this new era, we all must make accommodations. The Palais Royal is a small price to pay for such an advantageous alliance.”
A delighted smile illuminates Gavril’s dirty face, and he looks up at the bastard princeling as if he were the king himself.
How does Josse do that?Make a person feel needed and confident, no matter their status. He makes youwantto help him because he genuinely wishes to help in return. I think of how he spirited me from the sewer and snuck me into the Louvre, how passionately he argued to convince me to join him on this crazy venture to unite the people, and warmth rises within me like heat in a forge.
My eyes flit to his face, but he stiffens and clenches his jaw, refusing to turn.
Gavril spits into his palm and offers it to Josse, who returns the handshake with gusto. Something a true royal would never do. “A pleasure doing business with you, Master Gavril,” Josse says with a bow. The children burst into applause, whistling and clapping.
“Now, about that curative …” Gavril says.
“That, you’ll have to take up with her.” Josse gestures over his shoulder at me, and after a deliberate pause, he finally meets my gaze and grinds out, “Mademoiselle La Vie.”
A lump of emotion gathers in my throat. For a moment, I can’t speak. It’s far from absolution, but if he’s still willing to call me that, it gives me hope that someday I might be able to crawl out from beneath the weight of my crimes. It gives me the strength to stand a little taller and hold my chin a little higher and make a somewhat unorthodox request.
“Of course,” I say, bobbing a curtsy at Gavril. “I just have one small favor to ask. If we’re all headed in the same direction, would you mind helping me carry the body?” I point to the hulking smoke beast, and the gaiety dies out. The children stare as if I’ve lost my mind.
Desgrez, who hasn’t stopped grumbling since Josse began negotiating with Gavril, slaps a palm to his forehead and groans. “What could you possibly want with the creature’s body?”
“What any good alchemist would want,” I say fiercely. “To experiment.”
18
JOSSE
The millinery feels oppressively quiet after Gavril and his gang depart with their tincture. Every crackle of the fire makes me jump; the steady drip of the smoke beast’s blood on the floor bores a hole into my brain.
I would have left with them, but the majority of the orphans made it clear they’re not comfortable rubbing elbows with a royal just yet. And I couldn’t return to the sewer with Desgrez to check on my sisters, despite how desperate I am to see them. Apparently Louis isn’t ready to see my “traitorous, double-crossing face.” I’m not ready to see his haughty, piggish face either. Which means I’m trapped here, inside these four shrinking walls, with Mirabelle.
We both retreat to our separate corners and fall asleep immediately—a welcome reprieve. But as soon as she wakes, I can feel her looking at me. She’s pretending not to, hunched over the grotesque body of the creature on the counter. It looks like a gutted fish on the wharf—or a whale, more like. She had to cut it into pieces to fit it through the door. Most are still piled in the alleyway behind the millinery. A portion of its belly is splayed across the board, and despite being elbow-deep in its foul black innards, she glances my way every few seconds. Hoping to catch my gaze as she did on the street.
Stare all you’d like,I want to snap.It’s not going to help.But that would require speaking to her, which I’m also unwilling to do. With an overloud sigh, I turn to face the wall and tip my tricorne hat over my face. It’s the easy way out, but I don’t know what she expects me to say. I can’t pretend I’m not bothered by the fact she murdered my father—and Rixenda, too, in a way—then conveniently omitted those details when I asked her about Versailles.
So, I settle in and pretend to be exhausted. Which doesn’t require much acting at all. My limbs still feel like curdled pudding, and I’m covered in cuts and bruises from the bedamned smoke beast.
The creature continues to assault me, even in death. Its drying scales reek of rotting eggs and it makes horrid squelching noises as Mirabelle drags a knife down the center of its gut and peels back the pulpy skin.
