An Affair of Poisons(20)
“Are you still afraid?” she’d asked in a hushed voice, even though we were alone in the room.
Something about the way her dark eyes burned like the coals in the hearth made me nod. “A bit, I suppose. But not nearly as much as before. Are you?”
She shrugged, which was more confirmation than I expected. After a long pause, she whispered almost too soft to hear, “Sometimes I can’t sleep. Their cries still haunt my thoughts.” She became very intent on picking at a loose thread in her stitching, looking so small and timid, so unlike my older sister, I wanted to say something to comfort her. Something genuine to return her honesty.
“I think we’re all haunted by ghosts. Sometimes I think I hear Father. I talk to him.”
Marguerite’s hands stilled and her eyebrows arched. “What do you say?”
“I ask what he makes of all this.”
Marguerite was never close with Father. She craved bedtime stories and kisses and rides on his shoulders, but she had no predilection for alchemy. “Does he answer?”
“In his way,” I said, thinking of his grimoire hidden beneath my bodice. “But I don’t think we have any cause to worry. The worst has passed.”
“The worst has passed,” she agreed, repeating Mother’s words with reverence.
There’s a certain air of camaraderie between us as we stroll through the doors of Mother’s chamber and leave Fernand grousing in the hall.
“Ah, my girls, at last,” Mother croons from the vanity, where her ladies are powdering her face and arranging her chestnut curls. They are swept up into a high pompadour that somehow makes her look regal and dangerous all at once—like a lioness. Only at her temples can you notice the threads of gray running through her hair, and her shadowed eyes are as large as a doe’s—black, depthless marbles set against the porcelain whiteness of her face. She hardly looks old enough to be my mother, but then, she’s been slathering her face with youth restoratives and drinking alchemical mixtures since she was my age.
She waves her maids away and rises with a flourish. Hundreds of golden two-headed eagles shimmer through the folds of her ceremonial cape, and the sumptuous velvet billows around her ankles, creating the illusion that she’s walking on wine-colored clouds. She is beautiful. Resplendent. A proper hero of the people.
Mother approaches me first and kisses my cheeks. Marguerite bristles, even though I was simply standing nearer. I try to catch her eye, but she purposely looks away, the easy energy between us doused as quickly as a candle.
“Mes petites Voisins.” Mother takes both our hands and guides us across the chamber. “Come, I have a surprise for you.”
Marguerite balks. “For us both?”
Ignoring her, Mother leads us through the dark-paneled sitting room and into her robing chamber, which is larger than our entire house on the rue Beauregard. “For the procession,” she announces, gesturing to the identical gowns draped across the cedar trunks.
“They are… .” Scandalous. An abomination. The most hideous things I’ve ever seen. The black and crimson silk is so delicate, it’s all but translucent, and the square neckline is so low, my hands fly to cover my breasts.
“We are to match?” Marguerite’s voice is flat. I lift my gown by the sleeve and hold it at an arm’s length—like it’s more poisonous than the vats of distilled mandragora in my lab.
“It’s so chilly outside.” I lace my voice with concern. “And raining constantly. Don’t you think a bit more fabric …”
Mother’s carefully penciled eyebrows lower. “Are you belittling my selection?”
Catching the venom in Mother’s voice, Marguerite takes up her gown and holds it to her shoulders with an excited squeal. “I think the gowns are exquisite. Mira knows nothing.” She elbows past me and kisses Mother’s cheek.
“Don’t stand there like a dolt, Mirabelle,” Mother says with a clap. “Dress. Or we shall be late for our own procession.”
Reluctantly, I bring the gown to my chest, and my fingers brush against something hard beneath my bodice.
Father’s grimoire.
Merde. I’ve grown so accustomed to its presence, it’s like a second heart beating outside of my chest. I didn’t even think to remove it. The herbs to counteract Lesage’s emerald fire are in a pouch beneath my stays, but if the maids succeed in removing my dress, there will be no hiding the grimoire.
All the air leaks out of me, and the monstrous gown slips from my fingers and plummets to the parquet floor.
Mother scowls and points at the rumpled heap. “The work of the finest seamstress in Paris and you toss it to the floor like rags.” “F-forgive me,” I stammer as I pick it up. “It’s exceedingly beautiful, but I fear I won’t be able to maneuver through the crowd to dispense curatives wearing such a delicate design. The dress I’m wearing is far better suited—”
Mother sighs loudly. “The dress won’t be an obstacle because you won’t be distributing curatives.”
“What?” I feel like I’ve been hit in the head with a cudgel. My breath comes in bursts. “But you requested medicines. I’ve been preparing all week.”
“Gris and other servants will distribute the syrups and salves, and you will ride beside me—in that dress. You’re a member of my inner circle now, Mirabelle. It’s time you took on duties beyond the laboratory.”