Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [80]
“Ah,” murmured Raymond, peering interestedly beneath my arm at the drama unfolding in his shop. “La Vicomtesse de Rambeau.”
“You know her?” The shopgirl evidently did, for she abandoned her attack on the footman and shrank back against the cabinet of purges.
“Yes, madonna,” said Raymond, nodding. “She’s rather expensive.”
I saw what he meant, as the lady in question picked up the evident source of altercation, a small jar containing a pickled plant of some kind, took aim, and flung it with considerable force and accuracy into the glass front of the cabinet.
The crash silenced the commotion at once. The Vicomtesse pointed one long, bony finger at the girl.
“You,” she said, in a voice like metal shavings, “fetch me the black potion. At once.”
The girl opened her mouth as though to protest, then, seeing the Vicomtesse reaching for another missile, shut it and fled for the back room.
Anticipating her entrance, Raymond reached resignedly above his head and thrust a bottle into her hand as she came through the door.
“Give it to her,” he said, shrugging. “Before she breaks something else.”
As the shopgirl timidly returned to deliver the bottle, he turned to me, pulling a wry face.
“Poison for a rival,” he said. “Or at least she thinks so.”
“Oh?” I said. “And what is it really? Bitter cascara?”
He looked at me in pleased surprise.
“You’re very good at this,” he said. “A natural talent, or were you taught? Well, no matter.” He waved a broad palm, dismissing the matter. “Yes, that’s right, cascara. The rival will fall sick tomorrow, suffer visibly in order to satisfy the Vicomtesse’s desire for revenge and convince her that her purchase was a good one, and then she will recover, with no permanent harm done, and the Vicomtesse will attribute the recovery to the intervention of the priest or a counterspell done by a sorcerer employed by the victim.”
“Mm,” I said. “And the damage to your shop?” The late-afternoon sun glinted on the shards of glass on the counter, and on the single silver écu that the Vicomtesse had flung down in payment.
Raymond tilted a palm from side to side, in the immemorial custom of a man indicating equivocation.
“It evens out,” he said calmly. “When she comes in next month for an abortifacient, I shall charge her enough not only to repair the damage but to build three new cases. And she’ll pay without argument.” He smiled briefly, but without the humor he had previously shown. “It’s all in the timing, you know.”
I was conscious of the black eyes flickering knowledgeably over my figure. I didn’t show at all yet, but I was quite sure he knew.
“And does the medicine you’ll give the Vicomtesse next month work?” I asked.
“It’s all in the timing,” he replied again, tilting his head quizzically to one side. “Early enough, and all is well. But it is dangerous to wait too long.”
The note of warning in his voice was clear, and I smiled at him.
“Not for me,” I said. “For reference only.”
He relaxed again.
“Ah. I didn’t think so.”
A rumble from the street below proclaimed the passing of the Vicomtesse’s blue-and-silver carriage. The footman waved and shouted from behind as pedestrians were forced to scramble for the shelter of doors and alleyways to avoid being crushed.
“A la lanterne,” I murmured under my breath. It was rare that my unusual perspective on current affairs afforded me much satisfaction, but this was certainly one occasion when it did.
“Ask not for whom the tumbril calls,” I remarked, turning to Raymond. “It calls for thee.”
He looked mildly bewildered.
“Oh? Well, in any case, you were saying that black betony is what you use for purging? I would use the white, myself.”
“Really? Why is that?”
And with no further reference to the recent Vicomtesse, we sat down to complete our business.
9
THE SPLENDORS OF VERSAILLES
I closed the door of the drawing room quietly behind me and stood still a moment, gathering courage.