Rachelle recognized him: Vincent Angevin, one of the King’s nephews and very likely the person sending assassins after Armand. He was also likely the next heir to the throne, if his royal uncle ever got done pretending to be immortal.
“Such a pity you haven’t the wherewithal to join us,” Vincent went on, looking at Armand’s hands, and then ruffled his hair. “But it would hardly be proper for a saint to gamble, would it?”
Two of the ladies at the table giggled. La Fontaine snapped her fan open. Vincent chuckled and slapped Armand’s back. “Preach me a sermon when I’m done winning, cousin.” He grinned at the room: the lazy, mischievous grin of somebody who knew he could get away with being cruel.
Rachelle had known a boy who smiled like that, back in her village. For years he had charmed all the adults while beating the younger children bloody. Without meaning to, she edged closer to Armand. She was sure she was the only one who saw the very slight way that his chin raised and his shoulders set.
“I haven’t heard that card games are a sin,” he said. “I’ll play a round if Mademoiselle Brinon will hold my cards for me.”
“I don’t—” Rachelle started.
“Just do what I say.” Armand sat himself down at the table. “Well? Will you deal me a hand?”
Vincent smiled expansively. “I can’t deny you any consolation, dear cousin. Play with us, if it comforts you.”
La Fontaine dealt out the cards. Rachelle picked them up. She could read the numerals well enough, but they were decorated with various other symbols and figures that meant nothing to her.
“Let me see,” said Armand, leaning over her shoulder.
“Pity Raoul isn’t here,” said Vincent. “I seem to remember him always helping you when you got in trouble.”
“Where is Monsieur Courtavel?” asked one of the ladies. “We all miss him.”
Raoul Courtavel was another of the King’s illegitimate sons. He was widely considered a contender for the throne, despite his famously not getting along with his father, because he was enormously popular with the people for fighting pirates in the Mare Nostrum. Rachelle did not much care about the pirates—safe trade routes meant nothing when the daylight was dying—but at least Raoul Courtavel had never called for the bloodbound to be exterminated. He’d also never tried to recruit any of them as his personal retainers, which Vincent apparently had.
“I believe Raoul is still resting at his country estate,” said Armand, “ever since Father told him that he was overworking himself.” He looked at the cards, then at the faces of the other players. “Put that one down,” he said, pointing at the leftmost card in her hands.
Rachelle never worked out exactly what the rules of the game were, except that some of the cards could be laid down, some could be demanded from another player’s hand, and some must be held on to at all costs. But what she realized very quickly was that players were allowed to lie about their hands—except when they weren’t—and that successful bluffing was the only way to win.
Armand smiled politely, lied through his teeth, and in ten minutes he had won all the money that everyone else had put down on the table.
“A marvelous conquest,” said la Fontaine. “Clearly fortune favors the holy.”
“Or the—” Vincent Angevin cut off whatever he’d been about to say. He shoved back his chair instead and bowed stiffly. “Good evening.” Then he was gone.
“I do believe that’s a miracle itself,” said la Fontaine. “Vincent Angevin, leaving the gambling table before dawn.” She rapped Armand’s silver hand with her fan. “You still have not come to my salon. You will be there tomorrow morning, I command it.”
“If the King permits it,” said Armand, not looking at Rachelle.
“You too, Mademoiselle Brinon,” said la Fontaine. “You must be there.”
“I’m his bodyguard,” said Rachelle. “Of course I have to follow him.”
She stared grimly at the cards scattered across the table and tried not to remember la Fontaine finding her in the King’s outer chambers.
“I mean as a guest,” said la Fontaine. “I’ll insist to my lord, if you need a royal order.”
It was probably some bizarre scheme to humiliate her. But she couldn’t afford to get in any trouble with the King.
“You can call me a guest if you like,” she said.
The next morning, Amélie looked her in the eye and said, “You’re going to wear a dress this time. You’re going to wear a dress and let me paint your face, and no, you don’t get a choice about it.”
“I’m not there as a guest,” Rachelle muttered.
“Yes, you are,” said Amélie. “A page delivered a note last night. She officially invited you, and that means a dress and cosmetics.”
“She wants to humiliate me,” said Rachelle. “That means it doesn’t matter what I wear.”
Amélie clapped her hands. “Then you’ll just have to be more beautiful than her.”
What does it matter? Rachelle thought. The world is ending and I’m trapped attending parties.
But then Amélie met her eyes and said quietly, “We had a bargain.”