An Affair of Poisons(19)
5
MIRABELLE
Mother has requested curatives. Hundreds of remedies she wishes to dispense to the crowd during our victory procession: Cadmia for ulcers, Arcanum Corallinum for gout and dropsy, Oil of Brick for palsy and tumors, as well as dozens of salves and syrups for headaches and fevers and coughs. As many tinctures as Gris and I can manage in a week’s time.
I stare dubiously at the note Mother’s attendant delivered to the laboratory.
“You see.” Gris stands behind me, reading over my shoulder. “It’s just as La Voisin promised. We’ve silenced the dissenters and can resume the true business of the Shadow Society.”
I fold the note into my apron pocket and try to muster a hopeful smile, but the voices of the dead still call to me from the dust. Condemning me.
Gris watches me with a frown. “Did I miss something? Isn’t this a good development?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“So why do you look like you’re going to be sick?”
I fidget with a pile of fennel seeds on the counter. “I’m pleased we’re returning to healing, but all of the curatives in the world will never bring back the dead.”
Gris places his hands on my shoulders. “Sometimes succession is ugly. But we can rest easy in the knowledge that those who perished deserved their fate.” I start to protest but he speaks over me. “We tried to be reasonable, but the nobles kept rising and fighting and forcing your mother’s hand. She would never choose poison or Lesage’s magic. She was backed into a corner and did what was best for the majority.”
I nod grudgingly. “I suppose you’re right.”
“This order is proof I am. We have to trust her, Mira. She’s done nothing to make us doubt.”
I can’t argue with that. Since Vend?me’s slaughter, there have been no more uprisings. Mother hasn’t ordered additional poison. Even Lesage has been strangely absent from my laboratory—requesting only one more blood draught.
A warm ember of hope flickers inside my chest.
“Very well.” I tie back my curls and flash Gris a genuine smile. “Let’s get to work.”
Gris and I throw ourselves into distilling curatives, waking with the sun and burning candles long into the night. The healing scents of basil and cinnamon and lavender slowly overpower the pungent remnants of Viper’s Venom and the rusty tang of Lesage’s blood draught. We amass trays and trays of curatives until they crowd every corner of the board and cabinet. Even the crates and boxes and floors are cluttered with colorful packets and bottles. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen—proof that all has been set to right—yet the trickle of unease in my veins refuses to run dry.
Sleep continues to evade me. My hands tremble on my pestle and mortar. And I am haunted by images of withered, bleeding bodies.
The only time my mind is truly quiet is when I’m alone in the laboratory, distilling my treachery. I know I should stop. It’s dangerous, treasonous, and above all, useless now that we’ve returned to brewing curatives. But the need to experiment lingers like an itch. A terrible twitching sensation that makes me sweat. Father’s little red grimoire feels like a living, breathing entity tucked inside my bodice. It calls to me like a siren song, wrapping its wicked tendrils around my legs and guiding them back to the laboratory.
In the dead of night, when even Gris has gone to bed and only ghosts haunt these chambers, I tiptoe down the spiral staircase, bar the laboratory door, and slip into my secret world of alchemy. Under Father’s imaginary direction, I modify the cure for désintégrer until I’m certain I have it right. Then I tuck a pouch filled with the ingredients beneath my stays so I’m ready at a moment’s notice. Once formulated, the potion only keeps for an hour or two, and I want to be prepared to test its effectiveness should Lesage unleash his magic without warning. While I may trust Mother, I will never trust him.
On the morning of the procession, I climb the stairs to Mother’s chamber feeling calm and hopeful and almost entirely like my old self. I’m eager to leave the palace and distribute our medications, to interact with the people and chase away the final vestiges of my guilt. I even smile at Marguerite and Fernand when they fall in stride with me on the second-floor landing—which may be a bit overzealous.
“How nice of you to clean up for the occasion.” Fernand plucks a bit of straw from my hair. “Have you taken to sleeping in your laboratory too? Or maybe not sleeping at all?” he adds, pulling at the bottoms of his eyes. “You look terrible.”
“Still better than you,” I retort. It’s a mystery to me what my sister sees in him. Fernand’s thin black hair is even stringier than usual, and his velvet mask, which he never removes, clings to his cheeks like a second skin. I don’t know if I hate him because he’s a weaselly, scheming mercenary or if it’s because Marguerite used to whisper with me before he came along and widened the gap between us.
Marguerite turns around and cuffs Fernand on the head. “No one asked you.”
It seems that only she is allowed to harry me. A development that suits me quite well, if I’m honest. We’ve been oddly amiable since that night in my bed. Marguerite saved me the last religieuse after dinner two nights later, and when she and Fernand and his cohorts downed an entire cask of ale and sang bawdy drinking songs until dawn, I did not shout complaints. Marguerite and I even sat by the fire in my chamber and worked on our samplers together Thursday last.