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

The maréchale’s eyes light like candles at the thought. “Perfect,” she breathes. “How much?”

More than poor Madame Geneviève Leferon paid for the reading in which I encouraged her to attend the banquet and seek the queen’s favor for herself—but less than Geneviève will have to pay for a “counterspell” to lift the enemy’s “curse” that will now keep her from attending.

The counterspell I plan to sell her the next time she comes to call, and which will be a simple tisane to calm her roiling belly.

“Forty louis,” I reply blithely, as if it is no great sum to ask for a tincture of castor oil and bearberry that will barely cost me a pistole to brew.

“Forty …” The maréchale blinks rapidly at the exorbitant number, then recovers her composure. “They do say anything worth having is worth the price, do they not? I will take it.”

“Lovely.” I lean back in my chair, the matter settled. “You shall have it on the morrow.”

Though I would still never sell the noblesse any deadly draught, I run a brisk trade in equipping them with pricey but less lethal things. And though I peddle potions to cause unsightly boils, aphrodisiacs for unrequited lovers, and tonics for inflicting and lifting curses of my own invention, my conscience has yet to prick. Most of the noblesse are even worse than I imagined when I whispered curses into their candles, more ruthless and depraved than I could have conceived of for such a cosseted lot. Ever battering themselves against each other and thrusting blades into their own friends’ backs, so desperate are they to curry favor with the king and queen. To gain entry to their sphere of influence, to win their own hearts’ desires at any cost.

Their envy and ambition twists them into shallow parodies, like the pantheon of spoiled and ever-feuding Olympian gods. And if they are staunchly determined to trick and undermine each other, why should I not line my pockets with the coin they spend so readily on their own malice?

The maréchale moves to stand, then thinks the better of it and resettles into her seat.

“You know, I am hosting a fete a fortnight from now, a bal masqué in honor of my birthday,” she says, lacing her hands and eyeing me speculatively over them. “Do tell me if I overstep, Madame La Voisin, but … perhaps you would like to attend?”

“I’m afraid I only do my readings here,” I demur, shaking my head. “As I’m sure you are aware.”

“Oh, no, no! I did not mean for you to come in any professional capacity.” She casts me a fawning smile, but I can see the stratagems whirling like a cloud of midges behind her eyes. “Merely for your own amusement, if you were so inclined. As my honored guest.”

Although I know that this overture serves a purpose—that she would be enhancing her own standing by hosting the maîtresse-en-titre’s sorceress at a private event—I feel a simple spike of pleasure at the notion of being feted on my own account, as more than the glorified help.

As one of the wolves instead, festooned in finery, my own savagery concealed behind a courtly masque.

“It is only that I’ve never seen you at any of this season’s fetes,” she wheedles deftly, sensing my indecision. “And I thought perhaps you might enjoy an evening away from these ethereal pursuits. A night to indulge in some more earthbound fare.”

I waver for another moment, wondering if I am risking my carefully cultivated aura of mystique by agreeing to attend. But I have never been to such a fete, and I find I want to go to this one rather badly.

And would it truly harm anything to spend one single night as one of them?

“Perhaps I might at that, Maréchale,” I tell her. “I will think on it.”

CHAPTER NINE

The Prohibition and the Masks

I attend the maréchale’s masquerade ball as Medusa, unable to resist.

I’ve dispensed with my signature black, opting instead for a jade-green Grecian gown fastened over one shoulder, and a filigreed silver masque to conceal my face. An intricate jeweled headpiece rests upon my head, crafted on extremely short notice by my very own grateful husband’s hands. It is a wonder, a profusion of gold and silver snakes rendered in lifelike detail, down to the notched ovals of their scales and the glinting gemstones of their eyes. My own copper curls have been shaped by my chambermaid’s clever hand into serpentine coils roped through the headpiece to support its weight.

I could have worn a sturdy wig beneath it instead, like most of the other guests. I normally strive to avoid stirring the marquise’s jealousy by keeping myself drab, my face unappealingly powdered in heavy white, my bright curls always covered by a shawl.

But I happen to know that the marquise is unlikely to attend tonight, as she mentioned the possibility of plans with the king himself, so I make this fete an excuse to show myself off just a bit.

As I step into the palatial ballroom, buxom shepherdesses and sultry Cleopatras whisk obliviously by me in a whirl of color, their male escorts attired as jesters and gods, or in simple Venetian domino masques. The maréchale’s residence is staggeringly huge, and it is clear she has spared no expense. The ballroom has been transformed into an aviary, hung with cages of exotic birds whose cacophonous caws and trills jangle above the tide of music. A tremendous banquet table sprawls along the room’s imposing length, groaning beneath a wealth of food. Glazed peacocks arrayed with their own feathers, massive breads baked into Gordian knots, tiered cakes festooned with sparkling sugared fruit. An ice sculpture dominates the center of the room: Zeus in the form of a colossal swan poised to pillage Leda.

As I accept a goblet of wine from one of the attendants, I’m overcome with longing for Marie, who will poke ruthless fun at my retelling of all