If the world was ending, she owed it to Amélie to keep her promise and let her do what she loved.
And that was how Rachelle ended up sitting in a chair by the table full of little pots and brushes. Amélie, standing beside her, picked up a brush and set it down again. She put two fingers on each of Rachelle’s temples and slowly tilted her head from side to side, scrutinizing her face. Then she let go and bit her lip.
“Something wrong?” asked Rachelle.
“The question is,” said Amélie, sounding like she had just come to the end of a long speech, “are you brave enough?”
“What?”
“I can’t make you beautiful,” said Amélie. “I’m going to give you the most beautiful makeup you’ve ever seen, but if you just sit under it and—and wilt, you’ll look pathetic. It’s like a sword. If you don’t wield it, then it isn’t any use to you. And it’s all right if you want to look pathetic most of the time, but this is my one chance to show anyone what I can do, so you are not going to ruin it. Understood?”
“Do I usually look pathetic?”
“No,” said Amélie, “but you do get a look of terror when I talk to you about dresses.”
“I’m not . . . I don’t know how to be a lady,” said Rachelle. “If you wanted that, you should have gotten someone else.”
“No,” said Amélie. “I don’t want anyone else. Just walk into that salon and defy them. Promise?”
“All right,” said Rachelle after a moment. The words I don’t want anyone else drummed through her head, desperately comforting. Amélie didn’t know everything Rachelle had done, so it should be no comfort at all to be wanted by her, but it was.
“Good.” Amélie nodded sharply. Then she raised her voice and called, “Sévigné!”
The chambermaid—a short, plump woman with a few gray hairs peeking out from under her cap—appeared at Amélie’s side, and they had a short, swift discussion in low voices, Amélie frequently jabbing a brush at Rachelle’s face to make a point. Then Amélie unbraided Rachelle’s hair and first piled it loosely on top of her head, next pulled it all back so tightly her scalp felt stretched. Sévigné clucked her tongue, took hold of Rachelle’s hair, and seemed to do exactly the same thing—but it set off another little flurry of discussion.
Rachelle didn’t listen to what they said; they were speaking in half sentences about things she didn’t understand anyway. She let the patter of their words wash over her. They were both talking as if she weren’t there, which was something that normally drove her to distraction. But they were talking about how to use her face and body for a canvas, and it made her feel oddly treasured.
When the consultation was over, Sévigné bustled off while Amélie went to work with the makeup. She gripped Rachelle’s face, tilted it, and started painting on the foundation with quick little strokes like a cat lapping up milk.
The tension unspooled from Rachelle’s shoulders and the weariness seeped out of her bones. The Forest and the Devourer stopped mattering. The world had narrowed down to just this: the warm pressure of Amélie’s fingers tilting her head. The tickle of the brush. The soft sound of Amélie’s lips opening—she was forever clicking her tongue and making faces while she worked, nose wrinkling or mouth scrunching to one side.
Then came the dusting of pearl powder. Then the rouge, which Amélie applied with her fingertips, rubbing it into Rachelle’s cheeks. Then the burned clove brushed into her eyebrows to darken them.
“Can you cover the mark?” Rachelle asked abruptly as Amélie finished with her eyebrows.
“No,” said Amélie. “If I cake on that much powder, it will just flake off. Besides, the mark matches your dress and the patch I’m going to put on your face.” She held up a tiny black velvet star. “Did you know there’s a language to patches?”
“No,” Rachelle said warily. “What does a star mean?”
“Assassin.”
“What?”
Amélie laughed. “Actually, it means ‘courage.’” She dabbed glue on the patch, set it on Rachelle’s right cheekbone, and then pressed it in with her thumb. “I wouldn’t put anything on your face that wasn’t true.”
“You just covered my face with nineteen kinds of paint,” said Rachelle. “I don’t think there’s anything true left on it.”
“Three kinds of paint. Look at me and open your mouth.” Rachelle obeyed, and Amélie started to paint rouge on her lips. “And don’t ever talk about my art that way. I’m not painting you to hide you. I’m painting you because you’re beautiful.” She wiped her thumb under Rachelle’s lip to clear away a smudge. “There. All done.” She handed the mirror to Rachelle. “This is just the beginning.”