Poison Priestess Page 15

  After our success with the Marquis de Cessac, we select the Comte de Gassily and the Duchesse de Vivonne as our next targets. The comte’s vicious uncle and the duchesse’s cheating and violent husband are soon sent shuffling off this mortal coil, courtesy of a bouquet infused with venom, and candied truffles imbued with deathly substances. There is no outcry at either of their deaths, no talk of skul-duggery or poison. Only the same breathless gossip that followed in the wake of Prudhomme’s death.

  Perhaps, elsewhere, there might be more serious mention of wrongdoing. But it is to our advantage that court is such a dangerous place. So lousy with intrigue, and overrun with duels, fortuitous “accidents,” and even the occasional disappearance, that a few more deaths do not seem to inspire any overarching dread.

  “What of Monsieur Philbert next?” Adam asks as we laze in my canopied bed two months after our first Messe together, Megaera draped over the two of us. “He who so ardently longs to murder his former mistress? We should give it a few weeks, so as to not arouse undue suspicion. But after that, he would do quite well.”

  “I do not trust Monsieur Philbert any more than I would a parrot,” I reply, leaning into his touch as he combs his fingers through my curls. “The man favors his liquor a great deal more than he should, and it leaves him garrulous. Not to mention that, besides tiring of her married lover, Philbert’s young mistress has done nothing wrong. Certainly nothing that should doom her to a horrid death.”

  “But Philbert is one of the king’s best loved troubadours,” Adam argues with a cocked eyebrow. “Phenomenally wealthy, well positioned … think about it. We could do worse than having him in our thrall, Catherine.”

  “No, Adam,” I retort, somewhat more sharply than I intended. “I won’t have any hand in killing that girl. And please, do not ask me again. My answer will not change.”

  “Very well. Consider the subject dead.” He breathes a mildly exasperated breath, drawing away from me. Sometimes I feel as if even my scant scruples irritate him. As if, left to his own devices, Adam might be much less discerning in whom he saw fit to help kill, should the end result be favorable for him.

  I must not be quite so ruthless in my marrow, as sometimes my conscience nags even when it comes to the irreparable scoundrels we have agreed to kill. But each time this happens, I must remind myself that I am no quaking girl, but a Fate and Fury in my own right, an arbiter of justice. A divineress who holds her own life’s reins.

  “And what of the marquise?” Adam asks, parting me from my thoughts. “It seems an age since you’ve spoken of her.”

  “She attends our Messes religiously, does she not? Forever imploring Satan to keep the king well in her clawed grasp.”

  “But as I recall, you used to scry for her nearly every other day. Have you had a session with her lately, besides keeping her well stocked in philters? You know how she adores your visions, Catherine. All that pandering to her growing glory, ‘queen in all but name,’ and so forth.”

  “According to Mademoiselle Claude, the marquise has been plenty busy defending her territory against interlopers,” I reply, rolling my eyes at the marquise’s folly. “Both real and imagined. She mistrusts every woman who trades so much as a glance with the king, as if they are all brazen wantons scheming to catch his eye.”

  My good-natured little plant has kept me well apprised on the marquise’s household, though she clearly believes that the information she relays to me is only idle gossip shared between friends. Mademoiselle de Oeillets still speaks of the glamorous marquise in starstruck tones, as if she is fortunate merely to exist in her midst.

  “The king’s own Cerberus, that one,” I continue. “Prettier than a three-headed dog, perhaps. But no less ferocious when it comes to guarding his attentions.”

  “And she has not sought your help in fending her challengers off?” He hitches himself higher against the headboard, furrowing his brow. “I’d think in her paranoia she would be hanging on you night and day, desperate for your counsel.”

  “Oh, she has been quite insistent the past week or so.” I take up Megaera and settle her comfortably around my shoulders. “But what with our other projects, I haven’t been able to spare the time. She can wait until next week, for once.”

  “You should tread very carefully with her, Cat,” Adam cautions, trepidation creeping into his tone. “She is your patroness. And a known viper, even in the tangled nest that is the court. No good will come of putting her off.”

  I feel my own muscles tighten in response, at his unconscious echo of Marie’s words so many months ago. What a schemer that woman is, Marie said to me then. Be careful of her, ma belle. She may be grateful to you now, but such outsized ambition knows neither lasting loyalty nor bounds.

  Though the ache of Marie’s absence never dissipates, sometimes it cuts the keenest when I am at odds with Adam. Though we have thrown our lots in together, become both lovers and partners in our dark endeavor, anything between us is built only on the promise of mutual benefit. Adam may be my confidant, but I am under no illusion that he is either my protector or a friend. Should the tide ever turn against us, he would abandon me in an instant if it meant saving his own precious skin.

  I cannot hold this selfishness against him; not when I guard my own interests just the same, and understand exactly where I stand with him. While we each admire the other’s talents and dedication, there is nothing between us that even hints of love.

  Adam will never—could never—be what Marie once was to me.

  “But you barely even see the vicomte,” I argue, exasperated. “When did you last have a session with him?”

  “It is not the same,” he counters. “The vicomte merely likes the glamour of having a sorcerer in his keeping—he has little need of actual divination. But you, Cat; not only are you indebted to her, you are here at her express pleasure. And if she takes against you …”

  “I can handle her, Adam,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “I have thus far, have I not?”

  “What we are doing together is much bigger than anything either of us has tried on before,” he presses. “Should the marquise become displeased with you, who knows what she might do? You know as well as I do, Cat, that we cannot afford to anger her.”

  “I will make sure to see her soon, then,” I reassure him, nuzzling my cheek against Megaera’s coils to stifle my growing unease. “I promise it will all be well.”

  Though I take Adam’s advice to heart, the marquise does not give me the opportunity to rectify my mistake.

  A day later she blows in unannounced, as if carried by the wings of an ill wind. When I come to meet her in my salon, she is icily resplendent in blue silk sewn with shard-like diamonds, her fine neck looped with pearls like frozen milk. As I sit across from her, I see that my offering of elderflower cordial and lavender petits fours has been left pointedly untouched.

  “Good afternoon, Marquise,” I say, masking my unease with courtesy. “A pleasure to see you as always. How have you been faring since our last Messe?”

  She ignores my greeting, trailing a frosty look around the room’s gaufrage velvet walls.

  “Tell me, Catherine,” she says in a tone like a lash. “Whose lovely drawing room is this that we are sitting in?”

  “Yours, my lady,” I reply, swallowing down a swell of trepidation. It seems I have indeed made a dangerous misstep; perhaps an even worse one than Adam feared. “Or mine, I suppose, by your leave.”

  “Exactly,” she spits at me, her eyes slitting like a baited wildcat’s. “By my leave. You occupy this place, and your position in society, only by my leave. This being the case, how is it that you no longer seem to find the time to attend to your patroness’s needs?”

  “My apologies, Marquise,” I say, bowing my head so she cannot see the revolt brewing in my eyes. “It is only that this has been … such a tumultuous season at court. The many friends you have sent my way have consumed a great deal of my time.”

  “Oh, spare me,�
� she says. “Would you truly pretend to have been busy in my service, when you and Lesage have been passing the time between your Messes by assiduously poisoning half the court?”

  The words all but turn me to a pillar of stone, so petrifyingly matter-of-fact is her tone. It is nowhere near half the court, of course, only four so far. But that is more than enough to spell my utter ruin, should she choose to wield this knowledge as a weapon against me.

  I stare at her mutely, tongue-tied, forcing myself not to wring my hands in my skirts.

  “Come, Catherine, did you truly think that word of it would not reach me eventually?” she exclaims, scathing incredulity dripping from every word like venom. “The Duchesse de Vivonne—loose-tongued lush that she has become, upon being liberated from her late husband—implied to me that the duc’s death was no accident. The silly twit did not elaborate, ostensibly not wishing to wind up in the Bastille. But she did let slip your name, likely assuming I would already know of my own divineress’s exploits. I imagine Lesage is mixed up in this as well, now that you two are thick as thieves.”

  I swallow hard, my blood coursing with ice. Part of the reason we had selected the Duchesse de Vivonne at all was that she was so self-contained, so rigorously controlled that she barely even imbibed at the fetes following our Messes. It had not occurred to either of us that being freed from her husband’s oppression might alter the very fabric of her character.

  “Then I thought to myself, hmm, have there not been quite a few unexpected noble deaths of late?” The marquise tips a finger to her chin, pleased with herself like a cur that has treed a cat. “Perhaps more than one might expect would arise from the natural order of things?”

  “I …” I begin, my mouth rank with the taste of iron. “Marquise, it is not …”

  “Please, do not bore us both with tiresome professions of innocence,” she says, waving her hand. “I’ve no intention of seeing you hang for your hand in this—not when you are far more use to me alive.”

  She leans forward, resting her palms on her thighs and fixing me with a flinty glare. I curse myself inwardly, for what, I am not even sure. For not having been more careful, though I am not certain how I could have been so. For, at the very least, having underestimated my patroness’s fearful intelligence.

  Athenais may be many unpleasant things, but she has never been anyone’s fool.

  “As long as you do a better job of remembering your place, that is,” she adds. “Might I remind you that it was I who installed you here, plucked you from that stinking quagmire in the Seine and made you into my sorceress? And our agreement is what it has always been—that you see to me before you occupy yourself with anything else. Do we understand each other?”

  “We do,” I respond woodenly, my heart settling like a crushing boulder in my chest. She has no proof of my involvement in any of the murders, of course, given the occult origin of my poisons. But what proof would the maîtresse-en-titre even need to plant a seed of doubt, when she has the king’s own ear? “Again, I beg pardon for my neglect, my lady. It was unintentional. I … I shall resolve to do better by you.”

  “I know you will,” she says easily, her ire vanished in an instant now that she has me pinned, speared in place like a butterfly behind glass. “And you shall start by removing that simpering twit Claude de Vins des Oeillets from my sight.”

  “You wish your new lady’s maid gone from your household?” I ask, perplexed by the sudden change of pace. “Surely I can find another position for her, but why?”

  “I do not want her merely gone,” she responds witheringly, as if I am an abject simpleton. “I want her dead. She sashays like a strumpet in front of Louis when he comes to visit me, seeking to ensnare him. To win his favor in my place.”

  “She does?” I ask, utterly disbelieving. “But she is such a sweet girl, so naive! And she credits you so highly. She idolizes you, even, styles herself after you in every way.”

  “I suppose it might not be wholly calculated on her part,” the marquise concedes, shrugging, as if intentions do not matter a whit. “But either way, the fact remains that she has caught his eye. He says nothing of it, but I am not blind to how his eyes follow her about the room, like a dog tracking a bitch in heat. I will not have it, Catherine. Not when I have worked so hard to make him mine.”

  “What about a love philter instead?” I attempt desperately, my entire being quailing at the notion of causing that darling girl’s death. “A new one, something more potent than what we have used for His Majesty thus far. I have a recipe for a remarkable Italian concoction of cantharides that—”

  “No,” she says, slicing a hand through the air. “There is nothing for it but her death. And she must sicken first, in a way that compromises her fair looks. I will compensate you for the poison’s preparation, of course, as this goes beyond the scope of our original arrangement.”

  “Compensation is not the issue, Marquise,” I say tightly.

  “Then what is?” She tilts her head curiously to the side. “It is not as if I am asking for anything beyond the pale. Is murder not your latest business endeavor?”

  “I do not make a habit of targeting the innocent, Marquise,” I reply, gritting my teeth.

  “A murderess with scruples, how absolutely charming!” she crows, clasping her hands in mock rapture in front of her chest. “But I’m afraid you shall have to make an exception for your patroness. Whatever you have been using for poison, it is clearly both unusual and quite cleverly made to not have aroused any suspicion. A pattern I should wish to continue in this case.”

  “And if I do not agree? Claude and I … you must know that we are friends.”

  Though her smile does not falter, a dangerous glitter sparkles in her eyes, like light glinting off icicles dangling from an eave.

  “If you do not, I shall have to reconsider your worth to me, Catherine,” she says, soft yet barbed with malice. “Perhaps I will even discover a newfound need to see you face justice for your crimes. And even if there should be no proof, well, you would still be jailed while an inquiry was carried out. How do you think it would suit you, languishing for months in Vincennes?”

  My entire body suffuses with a stinging rush of adrenaline, as though I have been brushed with poison ivy from within. She would do it in a heartbeat, I know beyond the inkling of a doubt. Claude’s death is a test of my loyalty, my continued willingness to put the marquise first, just as much as it is her true desire to see an imagined rival dead.

  I hate her so much, loathe her so thoroughly it beggars belief. And should I fail her, she will not hesitate to throw me to the wolves.

  “And so?” she prompts. “Do we understand each other in this as well?”

  “We do,” I say, though it costs me dearly to look her calmly in the eye when I wish to fly at her instead, rake my nails down her smug face. “Of course we do, my lady.”

  “Lovely!” She beams at me, clear-eyed as a cherub, unaccountably beautiful for a creature so evilly made. A basilisk wearing Aphrodite’s transcendent face. “I knew someone so clever as you could be counted upon to see sense.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Summons and the Prophecy

  December 2, 1667

  After a debilitating decline, Mademoiselle Claude de Vins des Oeillets dies before the first snow.

  And I fall headlong into a dreadful agony of remorse.

  Perhaps I might have borne it better had I not been forced to witness the sweet girl’s demise, but Claude had truly considered me a friend, enough to seek the comfort of my presence during her final ravaged days, when the poison had leached the color from her bright cheeks and stolen the luster from her hair. And I did not have the heart to refuse her requests to see me, not when I was the cause of her suffering.

  The least I deserved was to see what I had done to her.

  “How could I do it?” I bemoan to Adam as we walk the winding path through my sparkling garden, buried under the weight of newly fallen snow. “How could
I have thought to pair such an innocent with a hyena like the marquise? And then agree to poison her with something so unforgiving?”

  “You had no choice, Cat,” Adam soothes briskly, tucking my hand into his elbow. “There is no use in berating yourself over it. Had you refused Athenais, she would have had us both clapped in brodequins. That harridan cannot stand being denied.”

  “Perhaps we belong in brodequins,” I retort, turning bitter eyes up to the leaden sky, swollen with more impending snow. “Perhaps Claude’s life was worth more than both of ours combined.”

  “I cannot speak for you, ma chère, but I value my life more than some stranger’s, no matter how sweetly dispositioned,” Adam responds with a touch of impatience. He does not approve of my prolonged melancholy, not when, in his estimation, I chose the only rational path available to me. “You know that the marquise would have disposed of her even without our help. And there is always a price to pay for a triumph such as ours. I should pay it gladly a thousand times over, if it means making something of myself.”

  And am I equally willing to sacrifice others for my benefit? I wonder bleakly, my eyes still cast up. While I have reconciled myself with the necessity of meting out well-earned deaths to the reprobates at court, am I just as ready to cull the innocent when it suits my purposes?

  And if I am, does that not make me into a villainess far worse than the marquise?

  The gimlet sky stares grimly back at me like some forbidding god, offering no reply.

  I might have wallowed in my misery for weeks or even months to come—that is, had Adam and I not been summoned to Versailles to perform a Messe Noire for the king himself.

  “This royal summons is her handiwork, mark my words,” I repeat to Adam as we rattle like peas in my carriage, along the rutted road that wends through the snowbound countryside and culminates in Versailles. “It smacks of the marquise. What do you suppose her design might be?”