He’s worse than Father’s bedamned ministers, looking through me, pretending I don’t exist. I give an exaggerated wave, but Mirabelle steps between us and throws her arms around Gris.
“We’ll manage fine. Thank you for coming—for telling me about the fishmongers. I’ll find a way to send word of how they fare.”
“And I’ll return if I hear of any more worrisome developments.”
Mirabelle leans on her toes and kisses his scruffy cheek. For some reason it makes me stiffen. “Thank you, my friend. Be safe.”
Gris squeezes her hand, pulls up his hood, and jogs off into the driving rain, but not before throwing one last glare in my direction.
19
MIRABELLE
“We need to make a quick stop,” Josse says as we race toward the Quai de la Grève. The rain falls in lashing torrents, making it difficult to see, and my boots are heavy with the fetid gutter water that’s streaming down the streets.
“Where?” I demand. “There isn’t time.”
“It’s on the way. We need to collect Desgrez from the Méchant Meriée.”
“Why in the world would we do that? He made it very clear he doesn’t wish to work with me. He stalked off before we even moved the smoke beast to the millinery.”
Josse wipes his face on the back of his sleeve. “This healing could turn him fully to our cause.”
“We don’t need him committed to our cause!”
“Trust me. I know you two don’t get along exactly, but think of Desgrez like Lesage’s smoke beasts—hotheaded and difficult, but undeniably useful.”
“You have twenty seconds,” I say when we reach the tavern. I begin to count aloud as Josse bangs through the door. To my surprise, he returns with three seconds to spare, and Desgrez doesn’t even scowl too deeply at the sight of me. He presses a gray wool cloak and tricorne hat into my arms.
“You’re welcome. I won them straight off the back of my opponent.”
“What’s this for?”
“For wearing—what else? You’re too conspicuous in that palace maid’s uniform. If I’m joining you on this senseless endeavor, I’d rather not be caught. And the leader of a rebellion should have a bit more … panache.”
“How can you be worried aboutpanacheat a time like this?” I say, but I pull the cloak around my shoulders and tug the hat over my drenched curls, thankful for the extra layers.
The bottles of antipoison rattle and clink in our sacks as we run down the rue Saint-Denis, and my nerves rattle with them. My lips move in silent prayer when the riverside comes into view.
Please let them live,I beseech God and all his heavenly angels.
Please let it work,I beg Father for alchemical blessings from beyond the grave.
When we reach the waterfront, we duck beneath the shadowed awning of a boathouse and inch closer to the docks, straining to see and hear over the drum of the rain. The long, wood-planked wharf is packed, as it always is each evening. But instead of fishermen gutting the day’s catch, and merchants haggling at the fishwives’ stalls while mud-caked children race past on bare feet, everyone lies writhing and flapping on the moss-slicked boards. The wind batters us with rain and river water, and the scent is so foul, it drops me to my knees. The wharf is never pleasant-smelling, but now it’s unbearable: blood and vomit, mingled with damp wood and rotting fish innards. And the sounds are even worse. Wailing and moaning and retching like I’ve never heard.
I clench the bottles of antipoison tighter, wanting to charge down the quai and help, but a few Society soldiers linger at the water’s edge, watching and laughing.
I sink my teeth into my trembling lip to keep from screaming. This is not the Shadow Society I knew. How could Mother allow this?
“It sounds like a massacre,” Desgrez says, his voice hoarse. “Worse than the dungeons of the Châtelet.”
“Itisworse,” I say. “Prison would be a mercy compared to poison. Never have you felt such pain, like claws sinking into your gut and twisting your innards.”
Josse stiffens beside me, and his mouth pinches into a line. “You speak as if you know from experience.”
“It happened fairly often when I was young. Father claimed poisoning was essential to my training—to know how the body reacts to different toxins in order to determine which herbs would counteract the damage. He also wanted to be certain I could perform under pressure, in case of accidental—or not so accidental—poisonings. An alchemist must always be ready.”
Both men gape at me, blinking through the rain streaming down their faces.
