“You’re not very discreet.” Marie appears at my side, smirking.
I cough to mask my surprise. “I haven’t a clue what you mean.”
“It looks to me like you’re in love with her.”
“Josse is in love with Mirabelle?” Anne pops out from behind Marie and grins up at me. Françoise materializes on my other side, giggling hysterically.
“Josse is in love with Mirabelle!”
“Keep your voices down,” I hiss. “Mirabelle and I are allies, nothing more.”
Marie rolls her eyes. “Your words say one thing, but your actions say otherwise.”
“You mustn’t lie, Josse,” Françoise says with a tut. “Madame Lemaire says lying is a mortal sin, and you’ll surely burn in Hell for it. Though I think she’d also condemn you for loving one ofthem,so either way, you’re doomed.”
“I’m not in love with her!” I say again, nearly shouting.
“Not in love with whom?” Mirabelle strolls up behind us at the worst moment possible, and she’s grinning like she knows precisely whom. I want to crawl into one of the cauldrons and die.
“This isn’t the time nor place forlove.” Desgrez shoots me and Mirabelle a ridiculous google-eyed look that sends Anne and Françoise into another bout of giggles. Then he calls the group to attention. “We have only until sundown to distribute the powder—the razing will take place after dark so there’s no missing the blaze—which means we must focus and work quickly.”
As promised, he passes out disguises. I don’t know where he finds them, but today they’re drab, faded farmers’ rags, patched and pieced with crooked stitching. Mirabelle wears a brown scarf over her shorn hair and an oversized apron. My shirt has a yellow sweat stain around the collar that smells as if the previous wearer keeled over from exhaustion.
“If anyone should ask, we are farmers leaving Les Halles with our unsold wares,” he announces.
When we pass Madame Bissette’s, I kiss Anne and Françoise on the head and tell them to behave for Marie, and then we follow Louis and the Marquis de Cessac across the bridge and down the left bank, our haggard party bumping along like a convoy of swaybacked mules. For the most part, no one pays us any mind. We blend in to the dusty bustle of these outlying streets. The few people who do notice us either turn up their noses or yell at us to get out of the way. Swift carriages haven’t the patience for a weary procession like ours.
The cluttering of townhouses with peeling shutters and slate roofs slowly gives way to a smattering of cottages followed by the occasional shack surrounded by fields and fields of green and brown and yellow. It’s nearly summer and the waves of wheat sway like dancers in the wind. Wild and rippling, like Mirabelle’s hair before she cut it. I gaze longingly at her back, five or six barrows ahead.
“Pull your head out of the clouds and start on that barley field down the way.” Desgrez shoves my shoulder. He sounds annoyed, but he’s grinning and shaking his head. “You might as well take the girl with you. I can’t have you two mooning across the fields at each other.”
“We wouldn’t—we’re not …” I stammer.
“Josse. I used to spend my days interrogating prisoners. Your lies are wasted on me. And it’s unnecessary. She’s agreeable enough … for a poisoner.” He cuffs my shoulder and strides off, ordering the fishmongers and stationers to different fields, some within and some positioned around the exterior to achieve the fastest and most efficient coverage of the crops. Countrymen and field laborers wander over to ask what we’re about and readily volunteer their help, nearly doubling our numbers. Louis remains with the carts so he’ll be able to reveal himself when everyone returns with their empty jars.
Mirabelle trails her fingers gently across my back as she passes by to take her place down the fence line, and my entire body shivers. From beneath her scarf, her dark eyes sparkle with mischief and eagerness andhope.I feel it too—like a fountain bubbling to life inside my chest, rising higher and higher until it spills over the edges of my being. I tilt my head back and inhale the warmth and sunlight. For the first time in months, the sky is a vivid, watery blue, and the tiny white clouds look like dollops of cream floating toward the horizon. My jar of fire powder catches the light, throwing fractals of indigo and rose and saffron.
Desgrez climbs atop a stack of hay bales in the centermost field and waves his hands to call us to attention. He may lead with the authority of a police captain, but he doesn’t resemble one in the slightest. Today he’s wearing a frayed tunic and wool trousers that leave a wide swath of skin exposed above his boots. He’s completed his ensemble with a limp straw hat, half eaten by moths.
I chuckle and remind myself to tell him the look suits him when we return to the millinery. I already know his response. He’ll brush the dust from his shoulders, sweep the hair from his face, and say,When you’re this handsome, everything suits you.
“On my mark,” he shouts. “Let’s be quick and efficient.”
I uncork my jar. Desgrez raises his hands. But before I toss the first handful of powder, a flash of green explodes in my periphery.
I know only one thing that moves so quickly.
“Desgrez!” I scream, but it’s swallowed by a crackling hiss. Lightning smashes into the bales of hay, and the fields burst to flame like a heap of dry kindling. A wall of scorching green rolls across the countryside, licking my cheeks and singeing my eyebrows. I hold up my arms, but the searing brightness blinds me.
Desgrez.
I throw myself toward the inferno to drag him out, but a second bolt strikes directly in front of me, so close that it sends me sprawling on my back. The impact of the ground punches the air from my lungs, and I’m coughing. Retching. But it doesn’t register as pain. Not compared to the razor-sharp agony impaling my heart. The world goes dark, and waves of heat and dizziness batter me. I press my fists into my chest and command myself to breathe.Breathe, Josse.When at last I catch my breath, a splintering sound tears from my throat—like a howl or a scream but so much louder. So much wilder.
How did they know? The Shadow Society wasn’t set to arrive for hours yet. We had plenty of time. It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be safe.
Biting my fist, I stare at the dark outline of Desgrez’s body until it’s consumed by the fire. Then my gaze flicks to the others who lie smoldering beside him—Étienne and the other fishmongers and laborers who were stationed in the fields. It’s too much. Gasping, I tilt my head back, but the sky offers little comfort. A piece of Desgrez’s straw hat cartwheels through the smoke and lands on the grass beside my boot. I clutch it tight, even as it burns my fingers. It’s all that remains of him. All that remains of any of them.
It could have been me.
