“No.” I wipe my tattered sleeve quickly across my eyes.
“What’s wrong? Are you injured?” He cups my chin and sweeps his fingers below my lashes. Then he pulls me against his chest and his hands rove up and down my sides, inspecting every inch of me.
I slip my arms around his waist and clutch his tunic. As if I am a listing ship and he is my mooring. “I’m fine.”
“What, then?”
“Gris.” I try to say more, but the name alone slashes through me, reopening my wounds. After several shuddering breaths, I quietly add, “My mother. Marguerite. All of it. I know it needed to end this way, but they were still my family. It was still the only life I knew.”
Josse’s hold tightens and his lips brush feather-soft against my temple. “We’ll make a new life, you and I.”
A few short weeks ago, I would have laughed at the impossibility of his suggestion—a princeling and a poisoner. But now it seems like the only constant point on the horizon. The brightest guiding star. “And what will that life look like?” I ask.
Josse presses another kiss to my temple and then at my ear, trailing slowly and maddeningly down my neck. “I shall wake you every morning like this.”
“That would be acceptable,” I say with a shiver.
“Then I will obviously do the cooking, since we ought to take advantage of my kitchen skills.” I laugh and he continues, “After which you will spend the rest of the day ordering me about your laboratory, and I won’t once complain, because you’re brilliant and beautiful, and watching you work is like watching a master painter at the easel.”
“I might even let you help,” I say. “And of course I’ll teach Françoise and Anne.”
Josse stiffens and falls silent.
“What happened? Are they injured? Or unwell?”
“Louis sent them to live with their aunt, the Marchioness de Thianges.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He says we’re in no position to raise little girls. He’s given meotherduties.”
I cock a brow.
“He asked me to captain the police.”
“Josse, that’s wonderful! Aren’t you happy?” I shake his shoulders to knock the somber expression from his face.
“I think I will be once I recover from the shock. I would have liked to see my sisters before they left. To ensure they’re well. So they know I didn’t choose to send them away.”
I lean up on my knees and press my forehead to his. Pressing my strength into him, as he just did for me. “They know you adore them. And we’ll visit them soon. Imagine how they’ll coo over your officer’s uniform. They’ll be so proud.”
He nods and summons a small smile.
I grip the standing collar of his doublet, crawl onto his lap, and kiss his scruffy cheeks. He traces his finger over my lips, and goose bumps ripple through my skin. Then he repeats the motion with his lips. I return his kiss with a ferocity that thrills me, exploring his jaw line, his neck, the tender area beneath his ear.
Josse groans and lifts me up onto the counter, hitching my petticoats above my knees so my legs encircle him. My elbow knocks against a gallipot and we laugh against each other’s lips as it clatters to the ground. Camphor floats into the air, dusting us like pollen, but we don’t pull away, not even to breathe. His hands glide up my thigh, trail down my neck, and gently graze my breasts as they heave against the stays of my bodice.
“Mira?” he breathes. His fingers hover over the laces.
I answer with a kiss, nibbling his lower lip and dragging my hands down his chest.
He climbs onto the counter and hovers over me. Presses into me, whispering things that make my cheeks burn. He kisses my neck and eyelids, then my shoulder as he pushes my gown aside.
When we break apart, minutes or hours later, I lay my cheek against his chest and let out a long breath. Grief and uncertainty battle to reclaim me, but I hold tighter to the boy beside me until my resolve hardens and my skin thickens, forming a barrier so strong, not even Mother’s memory can penetrate it.
At the end of June there is a bonfire at the Place de Grève, as is tradition for the Fête de la Saint-Jean. But I do not attend. I have no desire to dance around the roaring flames—not when I know they are fueled by my sister, as well as La Trianon and the other devineresses. Twenty-six members of the Shadow Society met their end this morning, and their ashes paint the sky a sinister shade of ochre and brown.
We’ll all burn at the Place de Grève.La Trianon’s words echo through my thoughts as I work my pestle, grinding leaves of heather and sprigs of holly.
