I tilt my head back to gaze up at the unbearably cheery sky—the clouds white and airy, like spun sugar; the warm breeze dances through my hair. I release a breath I’ve been holding for a lifetime, and with it I expel every morsel of resentment and frustration and inadequacy until I’m cleansed—but not empty. I let the best moments and sweetest memories fill the newly purified spaces: Rixenda’s crinkled grin and the feel of her old, withered hands clasping my cheeks; the echo of my sisters’ giddy laughter and their small arms draped around my neck; Desgrez’s sly smile concealed beneath an outlandish disguise; and finally, Mirabelle’s intoxicating scent of sage and smoke and the feel of her callused fingers sliding between mine.
I long to reach for those fingers now, but cold shackles cut into my wrists.
A look will have to do.
I turn to Mirabelle and find she’s already looking at me, her dark eyes burning with fearless determination. She says something, but it’s swept away in the deafening clamor.
Words are needless anyway.
I smile and shift a hair closer, holding her gaze. And she knows.
That I’m sorry.
That I forgive her.
That there’s no one I’d rather stand by—in life or death.
Six guards file onto the platform, collect phials of Viper’s Venom, and stand before Mirabelle, myself, and the orphans. They hold the sparking blue liquid aloft for the crowd to see.
Gavril and his comrades shout at the guards and pull faces. We’re a sip away from death, but they haven’t a speck of remorse or fear.
I roll my shoulders back and look out across the writhing mob, hoping I look half as brave and defiant. But when La Voisin raises her hands to quiet the crowd, I have to clasp mine tightly to hide their shaking. “Let this be a warning to any other rebels who attempt to destroy the peace and endanger the good people of this city,” she cries. “This shall be your end.”
Her hand drops in a swift arc, like an ax, and the guards lower the poison to our lips. I draw a final shaky breath as warm curls of steam tickle my nose. Then I tense every muscle. Waiting for the poison to wet my lips. Waiting for it to twist and claw my innards.
A hair-raising cry rings out down the platform.
I presume it’s either Mirabelle or one of the orphans—that their guard had a swifter hand, and I lean into my own phial, not wanting to be the last. Not wanting to watch them suffer. But the cry comes again and a blue-green flash streaks through the corner of my vision. Lightning crashes into the center of the crowd, and suddenly the entire mob is screaming. Shoving. Running.
My guard whirls around and the phial of Viper’s Venom shatters on the scaffold with a hiss.
I look to my right, down the line of prisoners, and we’re all standing. All staring at Lesage, who collapses to his knees and releases another errant bolt of désintégrer. It smashes into the carvings of Saint Anne along the front of Notre-Dame, and as the smoke dissipates, I watch in stunned confusion as Fernand pulls a bloodied dagger from the sorcerer’s back.
Marguerite’s shriek is so loud and shrill, it feels like shards of glass stabbing my ears.
Lesage falls forward and coughs a spray of blood. He raises a quivering hand and streams of colored smoke explode overhead, forming into teeth and scales and claws.
With a furious howl, La Voisin rushes toward Lesage. Gris watches her approach, his eyes wild and feverish. Right before she reaches the sorcerer, he lunges. His shoulder slams into La Voisin’s stomach and they crash to the platform, tumbling end over end.
The guards abandon us and sprint to La Voisin and Lesage. Gavril and the orphans whoop like little devils and give chase. As if they expected this. They pull their ropes taut between them, which they use to trip and entangle the guards.
Go! Move!my mind screams, but unlike the orphans, I’m bound wrist and ankle by shackles and I still don’t understand what I’m seeing. I look over at Mirabelle and she’s gaping with equal shock.
From around the corner of the Hôtel-Dieu, a surge of stationers and ducs, fishmongers and viscounts, charge into the square led by Ameline and the Marquis de Cessac. They stampede through the riotous crowd and cut their way toward the scaffold, looking for all intents like angels, for they seem to be glowing.
No,sparkling.
With the last of his flagging strength, Lesage fires a cascade of désintégrer at them, but still they advance. Untouched. Unburned. “Impossible!” he gasps.
I laugh because it most certainlyispossible. They are covered in the fire powder we brewed for the crops, and they are tossing it into the air as they batter through the throng, covering as many as they can.
Back on the platform, La Voisin howls as Gris wrenches something from her hand and tosses it to Fernand. Then Gris rolls off the front of the platform seconds before a gargantuan black smoke beast breathes a stream of fire precisely where he stood. Fernand vaults over Lesage and sprints toward us. Marguerite tries to intercept him, but he bludgeons her over the head with the butt of his dagger, then throws it into the chest of an advancing guard. Without slowing, he brandishes his sword and spins to fend off the blow of another assailant.
The hairs prickle down my neck, and my mouth falls open. There’s something strangely familiar about his thrust and parry. The way he lunges and ducks, as if carried by wings. I know only one person who fights with such grace. One person who is small enough and slender enough to pass for the mercenary. When the guard’s sword glances off Fernand’s mask, shredding it from his face, I’m not surprised to see it isn’t Fernand at all.
Louis drives his sword through the guard’s stomach, kicks him to the ground, and skids to a stop before us. He releases Mirabelle first then moves to me, glancing up as he fits the key into my manacles. “Do you have something to say to me, brother?”
I stammer incoherently, still not believing he’s here. Rescuing me. It’s so absurd, I laugh as the iron cuffs fall away.
