The doors open.
A trumpet flourish sounds. The princess saunters into the hall. Her day dress is buttercup yellow and perfectly complements her new skin color—a dusky light brown, like warmed milk with cinnamon and nutmeg stirred into it. A swirl of red hair sits atop her head like a tiered dessert stand.
“Do you still do her beauty work?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ivy whispers while bowing.
“I heard the new favorite was outside of my boudoir,” the princess calls out.
I join Ivy in a deep bow all the way to the floor. I lift back up. The princess takes my hands and kisses both my cheeks.
“Your Highness,” I say.
“Call me Sophia.” She smells like honey and anise.
A train of women cluster behind her. Newsies send navy story-balloons over our heads to try to capture any tiny bit of our conversation. Sophia’s eyes scan my face, staring intently, like she means to memorize each part.
“I like the way you look,” she says, reaching out to touch my cheek. “We will spend time together soon. I have so many questions.”
An attendant approaches and bows before us. “Your Highness.”
She turns to address him. “What is it?”
“The infirmary staff is ready,” he says.
“Take her,” Sophia orders before turning back to me. “Camellia, my mother’s summoned me. And when the queen calls”—she sighs—“I can’t ignore her, as much as I might want to.” She touches my cheek again. “More soon. I’m very excited about you.” Her eyes flash with eagerness. Her procession of women and attendants and newsies trails her down the hall like an army of ants.
The doors to her chambers reopen. Male attendants carry out a young woman on a stretcher. Her limbs flop like dying fish. Moans echo through the halls and scatter nosy women in a dozen directions.
“What do you think happened to her?” I ask Ivy.
She stiffens, and her gulp is so loud it almost echoes. “Princess Sophia,” she says.
19
An afternoon fireworks display explodes over the Royal Harbor to celebrate the princess’s birthday. The popping and crackling sounds boom through the apartment. I watch from the balcony. Colorful lightning spiderwebs across the sky; silver, white, and emerald green weave the most beautiful and terrifying exhibition to mark the hour of the princess’s birth. The garden arcades and grounds are abuzz with movement as the palace prepares for the royal birthday party. A hopeful thought wells in my chest—my sisters will most likely be here for the party. It’s an official kingdom-wide holiday.
I prepare two urgent post-balloons—one to Edel and one to Amber.
Edel,
Is anything better? Will you be at the palace tonight?
Please come. I need to see you. We need to talk.
Love,
Camille
Amber,
What happened to you at the palace? There are rumors, but I don’t believe them.
I’m sorry. Please write me. I hope to see you at the palace tonight.
Love,
Camille
I wait for a pause in the fireworks to send the two palace-official post-balloons off the balcony. An air-postman will check their compasses and sweep them to their destinations this afternoon. I just hope Amber will read the note and write me back, and maybe even come to the party tonight. I need to see her. I watch until their lilac forms disappear among the clouds.
A violet dress and a matching mask of sunbird feathers arrive in the main salon. The princess’s masked garden party starts in two hourglasses’ worth of time. I ring the bell near the Orléans tapestry.
“Yes, my lady?” Bree asks.
“Where’s Ivy?”
“I’ll—”
A heavy knock rattles the apartment doors. She scurries to answer it. Rémy’s thick boots clomp against the wooden floors.
“Lady Camellia.” His voice has a single, unaffected tone. The pitch of it booms in my chest like he’s speaking into a voice-trumpet.
“You can call me Camille,” I say.
“Lady Camellia,” he repeats without making eye contact.
“Lady Rémy.”
He clears his throat and sighs. “I’m here to discuss the plan for this evening’s festivities, and review the protocol with you.”
I sigh. “But of course.”
He adjusts his uniform jacket. “When you go to the princess’s chambers, I’ll be stationed right outside. When you’re in the gardens, I cannot allow you to venture more than fifteen paces away from me. At dinner, I’ll be posted behind you with the other guards.” He speaks as if I’m a child in need of a leash. And maybe I am.
“Will you come to the commode with me, too? Stand beside me while I use it?”
“I’ll be outside the door.”
“It’s a joke,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “There are risks at court.”
The roses in the bathroom come to mind.
“Where’s Ivy?”
“Her presence has not been requested,” he says.
“Well, I’d like her with me.”
He turns without another word and leaves. I bathe and get dressed, then return to the main salon. Rémy reappears with Ivy.
“Will you come with me today?” I ask.
“I wasn’t invited.”
“Why not?”
“Camellia, my time is up. I bring no more value, other than to do beauty work until you’re trusted to do so, and train you to replace me.”
The way she talks about herself reminds me of Du Barry discussing a worn-out pair of shoes. We learned that after our time is up at court or the teahouses, we train the next generation for a month before returning home to La Maison Rouge to become mamans and raise the next group of Belles. Maman once said that it went so fast she felt like she’d only been at court for a single turn of a télétrope.
“I disagree.” I take her gloved hand.
“That seems to be a trend with you,” she says, and if I could see her face, there might be a tiny smile playing across her lips.
“Will my sisters be here tonight?” I ask.
“All official Belles are invited.”
“Official? What does that mean?”
“Just what I said.”
Her ability to always use the fewest words infuriates me. She’s like a locked door I can’t pry open.
The Belle-apartment doors swing forward. An attendant announces: “The Royal Beauty Minister.”
The Beauty Minister strides in. She wears a model ship inside her nest of hair. “Camellia, the princess has requested your presence while she dresses for her party. This is a great opportunity to get to know her and to learn her preferences.”
“Yes, Madam Minister.” Sudden nerves make my hands quiver. This is the first time the princess has asked to see me.
The Beauty Minister glances at Ivy. “What are you doing here?”
“Lady Camellia requested me,” Ivy mumbles.
“It seems highly unnecessary. You won’t be able to attend. They won’t have a place setting.”
Ivy steps back.
“Ivy must come with me to the princess’s boudoir,” I say. “I need her counsel.”