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

that is, whom I still steal off to see whenever I can. Marie, who still glows steadily on my horizon.

I lean forward, taking just a little pity on the maréchale. “Don’t fret, madame. I assure you my girls are only here to help. Snakes are halfway creatures, you see, straddling the divide between this life and the next. Their presence draws the spirits closer to us, thereby thinning the veil. Allowing me to peer into the future for you that much more clearly.”

The maréchale glances around uneasily, as if she expects to see a tiny ghoul perching on her shoulder. “There are truly spirits here with us?” she says nervously. “At this very moment?”

If there are indeed spirits here, I cannot feel them any more than she can, but that is beside the point. The same holds true for the instruments of magic scattered across the table: the scrying ball with a scorpion suspended in its center, a sinister-looking ceremonial knife that I actually use to trim my wicks, a gilded Marseille deck that I have no intention of consulting. I still rely on the clever runes from Agnesot’s grimoire to help me clarify the more elusive aspects of a vision, but these more elaborate occult trappings are only a performance meant for the maréchale. I have very little need for such scrying tools. My sight only grows keener with constant practice, especially once I latch on to the hook of a client’s hidden need.

But the marquise’s chosen come for the spectacle as much as for a reading—for a taste of the forbidden with which to intrigue their fickle friends. They thrill at curved blades and decks and milky scrying balls, and so that is what I give to them.

I nod curtly, lifting an imperious hand to silence her. Then I let my head fall back and eyes slide closed, my lips parting as if I am gripped by some otherworldly sensation.

“By the Moon Mother Selene and Asteria of the Stars, I call upon you lingering souls to gather ’round,” I intone, the phrase that Pascal knows signals a transition. A swell of music skirls around us as if from everywhere at once, both enchanting and discordant, hanging like smoke in the sweet night air. “Be welcome among us, fantômes. Seethe and teem, cluster and swarm, and know that we are grateful for your presence.”

I open my eyes and reach for the maréchale’s hand with both of mine. She offers it up readily enough, but barely refrains from snatching it away with a muffled squeak when Megaera and Tisiphone come coiling down my arms. Extending their heads curiously over the cup of her palm, tasting it with their tongues.

“Madame La Voisin,” she gasps, squinching her eyes shut and giving an agonized squeal when Megaera ventures higher over her wrist. “Are you absolutely sure there isn’t another way … Ah, mon Dieu, she is cold. And slimy.”

I could swear that Megaera, who has never been slimy a day in her life, stiffens with affront before withdrawing indignantly back up my arm.

“Hush, Maréchale, please. It can be dangerous to disturb a gathering of spirits once underway,” I warn as I bend over her hand. I keep my voice low and somber, verging on sepulchral, though I am sorely tempted to laugh at her distress. “And there is no other way—not if you truly want to know which of your so-called friends is plotting to oust you from the queen’s favor by claiming the seat of honor to her left at the next banquet.”

“What?” She half screeches, her eyes flying wide open, both spirits and snakes all but forgotten. “Oh, but I knew it! Tell me, is it Geneviève? Is she the adder in my bosom?”

“I’m afraid she is,” I say gravely, though the hazy vision I’ve glimpsed so far does not actually reveal the culpable lady’s face. But no matter, because I scarcely need it—not when I had Madame Geneviève Leferon in the maréchale’s chair not a week ago, seeking advice on how to best supplant her friend. “Though it pains me greatly to compromise your friendship, I cannot deceive you.”

I also happen to know that several other ladies wish the maréchale ill for her conquest of their husbands, along with a spurned lover who plots his own revenge against her. But since that is not the need that has brought her here tonight, I keep it tucked away for future use. After all, now that she has impaled herself upon my fishhook, the one thing I know for certain is that she will be back.

With ever more coin in hand for me to stash away.

Fuming, the maréchale chews on the inside of her lip, her doe eyes turned calculating.

“To hell with our friendship,” she sneers, “if that petite salope schemes to take my place. And after all I’ve done for her. Such effrontery! Can you see whether she will succeed?”

I tilt my head back and forth, considering.

“Not as of yet,” I allow, though in truth I have not even bothered to look. “But I do see how you might regain the upper hand, with a little help.”

She nods eagerly, urging me on. “How might I do it?”

“It is an audacious solution, madame.” I hesitate, as if reluctant to even share it. “One that I would never offer lightly—or at all, if I did not think you singularly bold.”

And utterly unscrupulous, I think but do not add.

She flushes with pleasure, tossing her ringleted head. “I’m glad to know we understand each other so well already. Dis-moi, what sort of solution do you have in mind?”

I cant my head thoughtfully, lifting an eyebrow. “Madame Leferon cannot very well court the queen’s favor at the next banquet if she is indisposed, can she? And I have just the thing. Not to worry, it will cause her only temporary discomfort. The sort of griping in the bowels that incapacitates but passes quickly.”

I smile conspiratorially at her, as though we are partners in collusion. “Lasting just