Once again, a lady stared back from the mirror. She still looked entirely false; but this time Rachelle looked at her and thought, Amélie believes I deserve to look beautiful.
It was a strangely intoxicating feeling, and as the preparations went on, she only felt more drunk: the same dizzy exultation, the feeling that her body was lighter than air and no longer quite attached to her.
Sévigné descended upon her, and once she had molded Rachelle’s hair into suitable ringlets—muttering all the while about how there wasn’t enough time—she looped it up on top of her head with pink ribbons and pearl-ended pins.
The corset was very different from the simple stays Rachelle usually wore under her shirt: not as uncomfortable as she’d expected, but far stranger. It pressed into her ribs but also straightened her spine; though it was maddeningly confining, it felt like it added inches to her height and made her float off the ground.
And then came the dress itself: deep rose silk that fell about her body in luscious folds. The puffed sleeves were slashed to show white silk underneath, and strings of silk flowers tightened the sleeves around her elbows. With all the shifts and petticoats beneath, it was the heaviest garment that Rachelle had ever worn, wrapping her like a suit of armor; yet the neckline dipped wide and low, barely clinging to her shoulders. Not only did it expose more of her breasts than anyone had ever seen, but it showed off to all the world the bloodred star at the base of the throat.
Rachelle looked in the mirror at the star and its echo on her cheek, and she thought, Amélie says it means courage.
“Here’s your fan,” said Amélie, putting it in her hand.
“Thank you,” said Rachelle, and went to get Armand. The little arched heels of her shoes gave her steps a strange, rocking rhythm that she’d never felt before.
Armand was waiting in his sitting room, standing with his back to the wall, arms loose at his sides, mouth bunched in a wry half smile.
Erec stood beside him.
“What do you want?” Rachelle demanded, trying desperately not to think of how low her dress was cut and completely failing.
“My lady,” he said, stepping forward and bowing. “I am here to escort you to the salon.”
“You’re not invited,” said Rachelle.
“I think you’ll find I’m invited most places.” He took her hand and kissed it.
She wanted to protest, but he would only laugh. And Rachelle had decided long ago that she could bear the occasional mockery for the sake of his friendship.
“I think you turn up most places, and people can’t be bothered to chase you out,” she said. “But come along if you please.”
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Of course Erec had to put her hand on his arm so they could make a grand entrance together. Rachelle didn’t fight him over it. Once they were inside la Fontaine’s sitting room, he would doubtless find five other girls—prettier than her and more elegant as well—and forget her, leaving her in peace.
But when they stepped through the doorway, Rachelle was the one who briefly forgot him. The sitting room was impressive enough by itself: it was quite large, with a ceiling painted like the sky and walls covered in murals of rolling green hills and shepherds. (She thought they must be shepherds because of their crooks, though the lounging, silk-draped youths looked nothing like the actual shepherds she had known. But the other option was bishops, and that seemed even less likely.) La Fontaine, though, had transformed the room into a garden. There were potted trees of every kind: apple and oak, orange and palm. Roses grew among them—southern woodwives used roses in their charms, but Rachelle doubted that la Fontaine knew enough about actual country life for it to be a conscious allusion.
There were no sun or moons painted or sculpted anywhere. She was so used to checking rooms, she hardly noticed she was doing it.
The guests, sitting on little cushioned stools, for a moment really did look like they were figures from the idyllic murals come to life. Then they all turned to stare and whisper behind their fans, and Rachelle remembered that she was an intruder in this perfect, pastoral world. She was a wolf among porcelain sheep, and Erec would probably tell her that ought to make her unafraid, but her skin crawled when she saw their eyes turning to her.
The room flurried to life as five or six of the guests converged on Armand. Rachelle noticed his shoulders tense as they bore down upon him, and for one instant her own body sparked with the readiness to fight—but then he was smiling and nodding to the flock gathered around him, and she realized he had only been preparing himself to charm and lie.
She turned away, feeling sick, and found that la Fontaine had descended upon them.