“I think she’ll make an exception in this case,” I say as Marie steps into the light and removes the hood of her cloak.
The guard’s eyes widen and he drops to a knee. “Madame Royale!”
“This is no time to stand on ceremony!” I hiss. “Let us in, man!”
He fumbles with the lock and leads us through the forecourt into the château. A tiny part of me is pleased to see these perilous times have affected even the highest born—the black and white marble tiles are smeared with muddy boot prints and the candles in the chandeliers are burnt to stubs. We find the Duchesse de Bouillon in the music room wearing a shabby muslin gown without a speck of powder on her face.
She glances up at the sound of our footsteps. “Did I not tell you, I do not wish to see …” Her voice trails off and a stifled cry burbles from her lips. “It cannot be!” She shoots to her feet and rushes across the room, slowing a few paces away to self-consciously touch her shabby gown before taking Marie’s hand. “My dear girl. You’re alive.”
“It’s nothing short of a miracle.” Marie smiles, places her other hand atop the duchesse’s, and guides her to a seat. I stand at a distance, melting into the wall like I always have—like a servant. The realization makes me jump forward as if the wainscoting bit me. I take a breath for courage and join them in the parlor, standing directly beside Marie. The duchesse frowns up at me, but my sister turns and smiles. “The dauphin lives as well, and it’s in large part thanks to our brother, Josse.”
The duchesse inspects me for another moment, as if I’m a fly that has landed in her tea, then returns her attention to Marie. “Praise be to God the rightful heir lives. I didn’t dare to hope. That witch and her minions are threatening to exterminate anyone with a drop of noble blood.”
I clear my throat, itching to point out that until recentlyshewas a dedicated client ofthat witch and her minions,but Marie digs her elbow into my thigh and speaks over me. “Which is exactly why we’ve come.” She removes the small phial of antipoison from her skirt and explains how we plan to save the nobility and unite the people.
“Yes, of course. I’ll gladly pledge my support. Whatever you need. I also know the location of the Comtesse de Soissons and the Marquis de Cessac—they’ve gone into hiding but would be most grateful for this elixir. I’m certain they’ll side with you as well.”
And they do. Over the next few nights, Marie and I repeat the same routine, seeking out nobles of varying degree and title, sometimes in their grand châteaus, but more often hiding in dingy inns and hovels. As word of our visits spread, our hosts become increasingly more decent to me—clasping my shoulder and soggying my shirt with salty tears of thanks. And I’m horrified to discover that it plucks at my ribs and squeezes my heart, the same as when I healed the men and women on the rue du Temple.
These people mocked my heritage and spat at me at court. The laws of justice say I shouldn’t care whether they live or die, but there’s no denying the swell of emotion that thickens like cream inside my chest every time we deliver a dose of salvation. How it fills me up with a sweetness I’ve never known before.
The feeling only grows when I finally get to accompany Desgrez, Anne, and Françoise to the Quai de la Grève a week later to deliver coughing draughts and fever tonics and to seek the fishwives’ help brewing antipoison. With the added capacity of so many kitchens, we would be able to distill more curatives than La Voisin could ever hope to counter with her Viper’s Venom.
Anne knocks on the door of Ameline, the most outspoken fishwife. “Greetings, my good lady. I am Louise Marie Anne de Bourbon, Mademoiselle de Tours.” She lowers into an impeccable curtsy that would have made Madame Lemaire coo with delight.
“And I am Louise Françoise de Bourbon, Mademoiselle de Nantes,” Françoise says, bobbing a curtsy of her own. “We are here to deliver medications and beseech your help in reclaiming our city. We hear you and your colleagues are most proficient in the kitchen, and we were hoping you might assist us in brewing antipoison.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Ameline crows, wiping tears from her laughing eyes. “Your cock-and-bull story was true,” she says to me and Desgrez.
“We’re not supposed to saydamn!” Anne looks at me with worried eyes. Ameline laughs harder, her black hair shaking like a waterfall.
“Let them in already.” Ameline’s husband, Étienne, appears behind her in the doorway. “It isn’t proper to keep the king’s daughters waiting in the cold.”
The only dark spot to our otherwise extraordinary progress is that I’m forced to spend far more time with mybelovedbrother than I’d prefer. Which isn’t surprising, since the amount of time I’d prefer to spend with him is none.
He passes his days either skulking around the sewer complaining about being left behind, or hovering over Mirabelle’s shoulder in the millinery, pretending to take an interest in alchemy. A poorly veiled ruse to nettle me. I wish Mirabelle hadn’t suggested he assist her. The millinery was our safe haven. Where this rebellion began. Wherewebegan. And now Louis is there every waking moment. Driving me within an inch of my sanity.
“It turns out I’ve a natural proficiency for healing,” he tells me late one afternoon when I come to collect the curatives to be delivered to Les Halles that night. He’s working a pestle and mortar, and a sheen of sweat coats his face, making his golden hair stick to his forehead. Hisrealhair. The wig has been tossed to the corner like a wet rag. And he seems oblivious to the smears on his doublet.
I scowl at his insipid act. He may fool the others, but not me. “The only thing you’ve a natural proficiency for is irritating everyone around you.”
“You’rebothirritating me.” Mirabelle slams her father’s grimoire down on the counter. “Would it kill you to be civil to each other?”
Louis and I both respond with a zealous“Yes.”The first time in our lives we’ve agreed.
When I return hours later, I’m eager to tell Mirabelle of the rumors swirling through Les Halles: tales of the angel, La Vie, whose phials of antipoison are said to raise the dead; how La Voisin can be heard howling with rage from the Louvre each night; and—most shocking of all—that Shadow Society heralds have been crying from the crowded square of the Palais de Justice, condemning anyone found brewing, distributing, or using antipoison.
Our plan is working. The Shadow Society is losing control.
But before I can utter a word of this good news, Louis launches into an interrogation: “Describe the exact expression on the peasants’ faces when you said my name … Did they seem inspired? Uplifted?”
“If they wereinspiredandupliftedit was due to the curatives, not you,” I say.
“Yes, but they must have some opinion of me. If only I could go before them—”
“Absolutely not. Even if it wasn’t too dangerous, you would sway them from the cause entirely.”
Louis sets his pestle down and says in a pathetic, warbling voice, “Am I that unbearable?”
