The lie is true enough. If the rebellion were Louis’s idea, I wouldn’t be included. Just as he isn’t included in our plans—not yet.
“When I escaped, all of the royals were ailing in a dilapidated hovel,” Mirabelle adds. “It would’ve taken a miracle for them to survive.”
Another clever half-truth. And deliciously ironic sinceshewas our miracle.
“I’ve heard nothing about the royals or a rebellion,” she continues, “but the smoke beasts are rather worrisome.” She artfully steers the conversation to the carcass on the board. “I found this one dead in the road and decided to study it to see how I might help the innocent people caught in the crossfire of their attacks, since they are evidently roaming the city.”
“I didn’t know Lesage had set them loose.” Gris studies the beast with a concerned expression.
There are a lot of things you don’t know,I’m tempted to say. But since I’m certain Mirabelle would kill me for admitting this, I keep my lips tightly stitched.
“Thank you for bringing more supplies,” Mirabelle says, reaching for Gris’s satchel, but he steps back and holds it out of reach.
“I want to help you, Mira, but you’re putting me in a difficult position.”
“I know,” she says quietly. “I would never ask you to go behind Mother’s back unless I was certain it was the right thing to do. And I’m certain. This is best for the people—I’ve already healed scores of men and women on the rue du Temple as well as the infirm at the Hôtel-Dieu—just as the Society used to. I’m asking you to trust me over her this once. To choose me this once.”
Gris looks down at Mirabelle, who clasps her hands before her chest and makes a pleading face. With a final glance at the smoke beast, then me, he relinquishes the satchel with a sigh. “Very well. But only because I’m slightly afeared for the people—that’s the reason I came tonight. I overheard Fernand and Marguerite whispering earlier today of a mass execution of the fishmongers on the Quai de la Grève. I’m certain La Voisin is only trying to appease the masses, but—”
“How would executing innocent men and women ever be the best way to go about anything?” I accidentally blurt.
Gris shoots me a hateful look and Mirabelle stomps her heel down hard on my toes before turning back to Gris. “Why would Mother attack the fishmongers? That doesn’t sound like something the Society would condone.”
“Apparently she demanded they donate two-thirds of their daily catch to distribute to the starving people, but they refused to comply.”
“Refused or simply cannot?” I interject. Gris scowls, but I press on. “It’s a valid question. Two-thirds is a staggering amount. They’ll starve to death and fall to ruin themselves, giving away so much.”
Gris says nothing, just frowns at the floor.
“How does she plan to kill them?” Mirabelle asks, pacing back and forth in front of the counter. “When?”
“Viper’s Venom, of course. And it’s already done. I distilled the poison yesterday with the understanding it would be used on traitorous nobles, but Marguerite collected it from the laboratory while I ate my midday meal. She tainted their nets and baskets not an hour ago while they supped. The fishermen will be poisoned when they return to set their nets and traps for the night.”
“Only an hour …” Mirabelle fumbles with the half-filled phials on the counter.
“Can we finish the antidote in time?” I ask.
“If we work quickly … all of us together.” She adds the last part with an imploring look at Gris.
He starts to nod but then bites his lip. “You realize she’ll blame me? I want to help, truly I do, but if the fishmongers survive, La Voisin will presume I made faulty poison.”
“She’ll test your work, to be sure,” Mirabelle agrees, “but since we’re administering an antidote and not altering the poison, she’ll find nothing amiss. Just make certainyouare not the tester.”
Gris moans and drags his fingers down his face.
“We haven’t time for your dithering,” I bark out. “Either help us or go.”
Gris whips around to face me. He’s a good hand taller and nearly twice as broad. He could easily haul me up by the back of my tunic and toss me out the door—which is precisely what it looks like he means to do. “Don’t act as if you’ll be of any help—”
Mirabelle bangs her fist on the counter. “Every second could mean a man’s life. We need every pair of capable hands.”
Gris gives a reluctant nod. “Very well.”
Mirabelle straps on her goggles and calls orders at us both, and half an hour later we stuff the still-warm bottles of finished antipoison into sacks and start for the door.
“I wish I could accompany you,” Gris says as we step out into the chilly, rain-soaked evening. “But it will look suspicious if I’m missing from dinner. Especially after word gets back to your mother about the fishmongers’ miraculous recovery. Do you think you can manage on your own?”
On her own?
