Poison Priestess, Lana Popovic [romance novel chinese novels .txt] 📗

“But he will, messire,” I interrupt softly, spearing his eyes with mine. Because I can see the possibility of this loss looming in his future, like a long shadow cast upon a spreading fog. “Even now he is telling your father that you have failed him as a son, that you harbor no true filial love. Convincing him to redraw his will and testament, so that your brother may properly honor his legacy once he is gone.”

The young heir’s lips compress into a vicious line. He swears under his breath and slams a bunched fist to the table’s surface, rattling the candle and his iron tankard. I manage to retain my impassive facade only because I saw this outburst coming, but the patrons at other tables startle at the sound. They cast us curious glances from the corners of their eyes, which only pleases me the more. Let them wonder what it is I am telling him that stokes his passions so.

Let them wonder what I might be telling them, were they in his place.

“Then I must put a stop to his scheming,” he mutters, a flurry of dark thoughts chasing one another across his face. “If he feels so very free to plot against me, why should I not do the same?”

“Perhaps you should, at that, messire,” I agree placidly, flicking one shoulder in a shrug. “It does sound as though he has brought a reckoning upon himself.”

His eyes latch ferociously on mine, though he takes care to corral his impassioned tone, shooting a wary glance over his shoulder.

“He certainly has, the ingratiating weevil. I … have heard of substances that might help at times like this. Poudre de succession, for one.” He lowers his voice even further, lifting a fine brow. “And if I should ask you to procure some for me?”

A bitter chill whirls through my veins at how readily the request falls from his lips. I know what inheritance powder is, of course. Though she would never sell such a thing, I have heard Marie mention it, and Agnesot’s grimoire contains many recipes for occult poisons meant to rid one of ham-fisted husbands and pestilential relatives. But it shocks me to hear it nonetheless, when I had been expecting something less insidious. Perhaps a duel at dawn to settle the brothers’ differences, or counter-stratagems to regain his father’s esteem. Nothing, in any event, so malicious and sly as arsenic.

The young heir’s eyes narrow calculatingly at my hesitation. “I could make it worth your while, Madame Monvoisin,” he offers in a whisper. “If you do not trade in such alchemy yourself, I would pay you for only a name. A reputable and discreet source for what I seek.”

I waver for a moment, sorely tempted by the prospect of additional coin; surely the alchemist Marie uses for her tinctures and abortifacients would have something deadlier at hand. But I find I cannot bring myself to go that far. His wretched brother’s death, should it come to pass, will not weigh on my soul.

“I’m afraid I do not deal in poisons,” I demur, shaking my head. “Too illicit a business for my tastes, you understand.”

The amiable facade disappears in an instant, like a candle guttered by a fearsome wind.

“You would refuse me?” he demands in a low, incredulous hiss laced with rage. “You, only a two-bit soothsayer without even a reputation to her name? Do you not realize how I could destroy you, with no more than a word in the right ear?”

I meet his eyes with a steely equanimity I do not feel, my stomach flopping like a landed fish. But if my spine is too fragile to bear me up against this overindulged brute of a peer, then I will surely never succeed in making myself a name.

“And do you not realize you are speaking to a divineress, who sees truths such as few others could possibly fathom?” I ask, lifting a cool eyebrow. “What else might I be capable of, do you not wonder? Other things … less pleasant, perhaps, than a stolen glimpse of your future?”

His eyes narrow, but I can see the fear that also flits within them, like fish glinting deep beneath the surface of a pond. “Are you truly threatening me? Surely you cannot be so brazen, especially when I have yet to pay you.”

“No, messire. I am merely asking you to consider whether antagonizing me might not be in our best mutual interest.”

Though I have mentioned nothing so overt as hexes, as his eyes rove a trifle fearfully over my carefully constructed sorceress’s facade, I can almost see the notion of dangerous magics take hold of his mind. Which means it is time to take another, less aggressive tack.

“And perhaps you will require another consultation in the future,” I add, gentling my tone a shade. “Would it not be better, for the both of us, if I were still inclined to grant you one at such a time?”

“Very well, then,” he grinds out, wariness winning out over pique. As he balefully drops a clinking money bag onto the table before he pushes back and rises, a warm bloom of triumph opens in my chest.

“It was my pleasure, messire,” I say, allowing a sphinx-like smile to curve my lips at his continued glower as he turns away. “And should you have a friend in similar need … please do not hesitate to tell them that they might find me here.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Skeleton and the Magician

After the reading, I am far too galvanized to go straight home, my skin still abuzz with lingering excitement. Instead, Marie and I strike off for La Pomme Noire, her arm looped through mine as we traipse down the cité’s night-shrouded narrow streets.

But when we reach the Pomme, we find our tumbledown tavern nearly deserted, the sagging tables bereft of their usual complement of merrymakers and scalawags. Exchanging puzzled looks, Marie and I sidle up to the