An Affair of Poisons(12)
“Isn’t this a dream?” Marguerite slides into the seat beside me. “Even the utensils are bejeweled.” She lifts a ruby encrusted fork like a scepter and uses it to point to the chair on my other side, at the head of the table where Mother will sit. I stand and trade her seats without complaint. I would rather not sit too close to Mother and Lesage anyway.
The banquet begins, and I glut myself on strawberries with cream and duck confit, hoping the rich food will fill the wound festering inside my stomach. But everything tastes of ashes, and my appetite sours entirely when Fernand reenacts the king’s final moments, complete with wine frothing from his lips. There are irreverent toasts and boisterous laughter, but to my surprise, Mother and Lesage do not participate. They’re too consumed by their whispered conversation, looking up only to cast furtive glances down the table.
When dessert arrives—pear tartlets and steaming bowls of persimmon pudding—the reason for their distraction becomes clear. As soon as Madame de Montespan finishes her pudding, she lurches in her seat. Her enormous blue eyes double in size and beads of sweat pour down her cheeks, cutting runnels through her powder. She bursts into a fit of coughs and grips the table so hard that my goblet rattles.
The hairs prickle down my neck. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d been …
I push my plate away, wishing I hadn’t eaten so much. I expect the rest of the table to do the same, but none of the Society members shy away from the feast. Nor do they rise to assist the marquise.
“Are you unwell?” Mother asks. Her voice is soft with concern, but her dark eyes are slitted like a serpent’s.
Madame de Montespan doubles over, hands clutched to her stomach, and when she tries to speak, droplets of blood spatter her golden plate. I scream as she collapses into her bowl. Poison. Undoubtedly. But why would Mother poison her ally? And where did she get it? I think of the Aqua Tofana intended for the Duc de Barra, and my insides go cold. Who knows if any of my draughts are ever delivered into the proper hands?
Mother stands and raises her goblet. “To loyalty,” she bellows. The other members of the Shadow Society echo her and drink. “If anyone else feels compelled to pen letters to the royal army or encourage the Duc de Vend?me to organize the former nobility to rise against us, this will be your fate.” She waves a hand at Madame de Montespan, then looks meaningfully from the Duc de Luxembourg to the Duchesse de Bouillon to the Marquis de Cessac, continuing down the line of her highest-ranking clients. Her features are painted with disgust, but I notice the slightest tremble of her arm, how she cannot bring herself to look at Madame de Montespan’s face.
“Fortunately, we’ve no cause to worry,” she says, forging on. “Thanks to the magical wards Lesage wove around the city, no one can come or go without my express consent. Which means the royal army never received word their king is dead. And if the Duc de Vend?me rises against us from within the city, we will quell his attack long before he breaches the Louvre—through poisonous means, if necessary.”
The others shout their approval and bang their goblets against the table, but I shove backwards. Out of my seat. The ground sways, and I barely manage to steady my balance on the table.
“Is there a problem?” Mother demands.
Yes. You promised the worst had passed. You promised this was for the greater good, yet we continue poisoning people.
I attempt to speak, but my thoughts are thicker than an overboiled draught. I’m trying to trust Mother, but she must see this has gone too far.
Irritation flickers in her eyes. When I remain standing, she glares as if she will wring my neck. “Excuse us for a moment,” she says to the table, finding a radiant smile for her guests. Then she grips my forearm and drags me to the corner. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
“Why must we poison Vend?me and his men? Surely our numbers are great enough—”
“Our numbers may be greater, but we’re trained in tarot cards and tea leaves. And our followers are farmers and tinkerers, not soldiers. You know what happened when we battled the officers, and Lesage is still too weak to use his magic. The task falls to you, Mirabelle. If the duc and his men refuse to stand down, we will poison them.”
“No.” The word slips out before I can stop it. Not loud, by any means, but loud enough. Several heads turn to peer at us. Whispers tangle down the table.
Mother grips my wrist, her nails slicing half-moon cuts into my skin. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I am any less horrified? My dearest friend lies dead on the table.” Her voice warbles and she draws a deep breath. “But in order to serve the people how we ought, we must squash these rebellions and establish a government that prioritizes the common men and women. So you will do as I say and make my poison, or I will find you other duties. Away from Gris and your precious laboratory. Do you understand?”
I curtsy on wobbly legs and sprint for the doors, falling to my knees as soon as I reach the hall.
I do not understand.
And I won’t do this.
All night I stew. Pacing my chamber, crying into my pillow, and screaming until my throat tastes of blood. By the time the sun rises, I am delirious and more than a little unhinged, but I have a plan. Mother requested poison, but she never specified what type of poison, so I brew a simple sleep poison made from mushroom spores and blue vitriol. It slows the heart and causes paralysis, but the effect is painless. Vend?me and his men will simply drift off to sleep and never awaken. It’s the best death I can give them.