I brush past her into the hall. I listen again. The whoosh of night-lanterns and the sounds of one of Madam Claire’s parties drift through the foyer. The clink of glasses, the giggling of excited women, the laughter of men. “I heard it.”
“Maybe it was a night-lantern. They screech a little when the candles are about to go out,” she says. “That must be it.” She tries to guide me back into my room.
I plant my feet. She avoids my gaze. A sheen of sweat appears across her forehead.
“Why is my door locked? And where is Bree?”
“Just a precaution, miss,” she says. “Your safety is important to Lady Claire. Bree is having her nightly meal. Would you like me to get her?”
“No, it’s all right.” I walk back inside the room.
“Good night, miss,” she says before closing the door. The tiny click of the lock echoes.
“Good night,” I whisper back. I bite my bottom lip and go right past the bed to the wall. I rub my fingers along the beautiful cream of the damask-printed paper. Tiny air streams push through the panels.
“Bree?” I whisper.
No answer.
I nudge at the hidden door Bree uses to enter my room. The panel swivels forward and reveals Bree’s quarters.
Two oil lamps cast their yellow glow through the space like a pair of great eyes watching for movement in the dark. The walls hold cupboards lined with cutlery and plates, piles of silk, linen, candles, and bottles of every kind. Sets of wing-backed chairs spill over with laundry. A lap-size washbasin sits at their feet. On a footstool sits a half-eaten meal of soup and a hunk of bread and cheese. Steam still rises from the bowl.
I listen harder for the crying. The sharp sobs ring out beneath the party noises. I exit through the room’s back door and land in a salon room made rich with russet sofas and ivory tea tables. I slip out, and up the back staircase that the servants use. Night-lanterns nip at me as if they know I shouldn’t be out of bed or using these stairs. I follow the whimpering noises and the laughter.
Dark sets of doors lead to sprawling chambers and bold apartments. The cries grow louder and louder alongside a crescendo of laughter. I enter an adjacent tea parlor to peek into the party room. The floor is a stretch of marble with gilded piping; cushioned chaise lounges in shades of indigo and crimson sit in a circle; tiered trays spill over with tarts and petit-cakes and sugar-dusted fruit; beauty-lanterns whiz above well-dressed guests, providing them with the perfect amount of light to look their best.
“You’ll be fine, Sylvie,” one woman says.
“It really isn’t that bad,” another adds.
“But it’s terrible,” the woman cries out. “You’re all lying.” She paces the center of the room, and her dress blooms around her, the color of fresh blood. A deep gash cuts across her face in the shape of a sickle. She dabs it with a handkerchief.
“Men will still find you attractive,” says a third person.
“Don’t speak for all men,” a male voice says, sending raucous laughter through the room.
“Well, they’ll still be attracted to your purse, if nothing else,” someone says.
“I don’t care if men want me. To be found beautiful by other women is worth more leas than affection from any man,” the injured woman snaps back.
“Anything can be fixed,” the man calls out, “with the right amount of spintria. And we all know you have a bounty of it.”
“I can’t believe your teacup bear did this. Did you get her at Fardoux’s? I hope you return the little beast,” a woman says.
“Where is she, by the way? Lurking about this room, ready to maul someone else?” another man says.
The women scream, and glance over and under their chairs and chaise lounges.
“She’s off hiding,” the injured woman says. “And where is Claire with the Belle? I’m terrified my skin might fall right off.” She snaps at a nearby servant, “Go and fetch Madam Claire. Tell her that her hospitality is lacking, and I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
The servant scoots out. The Belle? I panic, wondering if Madam Claire is in my room right now, looking for me. I turn to leave, but hear Madam Claire’s high-pitched voice.
“We’re here. We’re here to the rescue,” she screeches.
I return to my hiding spot at the door. Madam Claire parades a girl with a Belle-bun and veil around the room. My heart thuds. Is that Aza? Did she lie to me about my big sister being here?
I crane to see.
The woman in the red dress circles the Belle. “Why can’t I have your new Belle? Camellia, is it?”
The sound of my name knocks into my chest.
“Lady Sylvie, Camellia has just arrived. Her ledgers are chockfull of daytime appointments. She does not work after dusk. I reserve specific Belles for the night.”
Belles for the night?
“This one will suffice and is talented,” Madam Claire says.
“I want to see her before she works on me,” Sylvie demands.
The Belle whimpers and cries. The same sound I heard before. The pain of it sends a shiver across my skin.
“What’s wrong with her?” Sylvie asks.
The rest of the room bursts into laughter.
“She’s just nervous,” Madam Claire assures her. She tightens her grip on the Belle’s arm.
“Lift her veil. Let me see her,” Sylvie says. “Hurry up.”
“Perhaps we should go into one of the treatment salons. We have dozens. Anything that suits your fancy. It would be more appropriate to inspect her in one of those.”
“I don’t care what is proper. I want this over quickly so I can go back to enjoying myself. We’re headed into the Rose Quartier just before the midnight star. We’ve got a card game. I need to be fixed now.”
Madam Claire forces a smile. “Yes, yes, of course.”
I hold my breath.
“Lift your veil, Delphine,” Madam Claire orders.
Who is Delphine? I crane my neck farther. The Belle slowly uncovers her face, but her back is to me, and I can see nothing.
Sylvie leans in and frowns. “Why does she look that way?”
“They don’t all come out the same. Or as beautiful. It’s an imprecise art, is what my sister says.”
Sylvie turns the Belle around so everyone can inspect her. I press my face so close to the door it’s slick with my sweat. The left side of the Belle’s face is fused into hard wrinkles, like melted wax. I cover my mouth with one hand and step back.
What is this? What is going on?
“I don’t want her,” Sylvie says. “I demand you wake Camellia.” She removes a coin purse from the folds of her dress and jingles it. “I’m prepared to spend thousands of spintria for the trouble. And you don’t want to run me off to the Silk Teahouse, because I will go and take all my rich friends with me.”
Madam Claire trembles and clutches her hands together, almost like she’s begging. She points at a nearby servant. “Wake her. Get Camellia up and dressed.”
I race out of the room and back through the servant entrance to the staircase. I bolt through Bree’s quarters. She jumps from her seat.
“Lady Camellia, what are you doing—”
“I’ll tell you later.” I shove through the panel door into my bedroom, just as I hear the click of the lock. I open the bedcurtains and dive under the covers.