I can’t tell whether she’s paying me a compliment or an insult. I stutter out a thank-you.
The next lady-of-honor doesn’t move from her spot, sprawled across one of the sofas. She barely turns to look at me, too busy pushing a strawberry crème tart into her mouth. “I’m Lady Claudine, Duchesse de Bissay,” she grunts out, and waves a hand in the air.
“Mind your manners,” Gabrielle snaps.
She flashes Gabrielle a smile full of food bits. “And Lady of the Dresses, though I haven’t been helping the Fashion Minister with Her Royal Highness’s wardrobe lately.” Her hair is a frizzy nest haloing her plump white face.
“My lady,” I say, with another curtsy.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just grieving the loss of her last marriage prospect,” Gabrielle teases. “Though she might never get another one if she doesn’t stop eating.”
Claudine shoves two tarts in her mouth and licks her fingers loudly to make Gabrielle and the princess both cringe, as well as all the other people in the room. “I’ll just have one of her people”—she points a sticky finger in my direction—“fix me right up. Slim me down even smaller next time, so I have more room to grow.”
“Or we could just make curves a trend again. You have a beautiful shape,” I say. “More women should covet your natural template.”
Claudine winks at me. “I’d still like to see how small I could be.”
Sophia steps out from behind the screen. The dress hugs her frame, a tornado of tulle and lace in emerald, turquoise, plum, cobalt, and gold. A mask of peacock feathers is fitted over her face.
Everyone applauds and whistles and shouts out compliments. I join in. She waves her hand and the room goes silent.
“Claudine, you know my mother has outlawed deep body restructuring,” Sophia says. “Being too skinny is forbidden.”
“But we all know you’ll change that when you’re queen,” Claudine says, a satisfied smile spreading across her face.
Sophia’s eyes narrow. A strange energy seeps through the room. No one speaks up until the last lady-of-honor pokes her head out from behind a high-backed chair. She’s the youngest one, barely older than the little girl, Holly, from the carnaval night. She curtsies; her dress is reminiscent of a bluebell flower.
“I’m Lady Henrietta-Maria.” She strokes the curls poking out of her long dark braid, and tucks a book into her dress sash. Her eyes glaze over with indifference. She’s all freckled, and reminds me of a caramel drop cookie. She gestures toward a puffy chair in the nearby corner for me to sit on, before retreating back to her place near the window. “I’m in charge of nothing.”
“That’s not true, Henrietta-Maria. You are my beloved. Come here.” Sophia reaches her arms out.
Henrietta-Maria scurries over to her. Sophia plants a kiss on her forehead. “Now, remember what I told you last week? You’re going to be the Lady of the Jewels.”
Henrietta-Maria’s hazel eyes light up. “Oh, right, I forgot.”
“Go fetch the jewelry boxes.”
The little girl skips off.
“Camellia,” Sophia says, turning to me. “I love my ladies and court so much. They’ve been so supportive and loyal. I like to reward those who are good to me.”
Henrietta-Maria returns pushing a cushioned cart covered with tiered jewelry stands, each dripping with bracelets, earrings, and necklaces. The gems twinkle under the beauty-lanterns.
Sophia’s court ladies remove their own jewelry. Servants mill around, collecting the pieces in velveteen boxes. The women clasp their hands in anticipation.
“Pick something new,” Sophia says.
The women rush forward, swarming over the jewelry cart and fussing over who will get which piece. Gabrielle orders them around.
“Your Highness is too kind,” one says.
“So magnanimous,” says another.
“Camellia, would you like a necklace?” Sophia asks.
“You are too gracious, Your Highness. I couldn’t accept,” I say.
“You can, and you will.” She has the cart brought closer to us. “Pick one.”
My fingers glide over the glistening pieces as if they’re petit-cakes ready for tasting. I choose a necklace with a cherry-size ruby. She helps drape it around my neck. The clasp pinches so hard it feels like the prick of a needle. I flinch.
“Sorry, favorite. My jewelry has a tendency to bite.”
Her ladies-of-honor chuckle and swap glances.
“Out,” Sophia says to the crowd. “Please leave me, now that you’ve gotten your gifts. I want a little privacy. It is my birthday, after all.”
“Your makeup is not done, Your Highness,” the attendant replies.
“Camellia will tell me if it’s beautiful. I do not need all of your opinions today.” She shoos everyone—except her ladies and a handful of servants—from the room. They grumble as they file out. “You, too, Ivy.”
I’m not ready for her to leave me here yet, but she exits with the group. After the doors shut, the girls resume their conversation.
“You know Patrice is bringing her new lady tonight,” Gabrielle reports to Claudine, who grunts in response.
“I hear she’s a wonderful singer.” Sophia makes a chirping sound. Gabrielle bursts with laughter.
“Are you ready to see her with someone new?” Gabrielle asks.
“Well, I have to be, don’t I?” Claudine snaps.
Gabrielle plucks the tart from her hands, and they fuss back and forth until Claudine orders the servant to bring her another. “I’m grieving. Just let me be.”
“You’ll embarrass the crown. You’re already embarrassing all of us in front of the Belle,” Gabrielle says.
“It’s Camellia,” I remind her. “Or Camille, which I prefer.”
She jumps back like I’ve hit her.
Claudine grins at her. “Forgetting names already, superintendent Gabrielle?”
“I don’t forget anything.” Her eyes hold annoyance. Sweat slicks my neck. Little quivers pulse through my hands. I hold my dress skirts and don’t break eye contact until she looks back at Claudine.
Gabrielle orders the servants around, telling them how the princess will wear her hair for the evening—three single plaits twisted into a low bun—and she tells the other ladies-of-honor how to drape her with jewelry. Her slender brown arms wave about like wings as she doles out every command.
A body-length mirror is set before Sophia. She turns around and around, then slaps her hands against her legs. “I hate this look.”
Her ladies-of-honor spring into action. They fuss over her like it’s a competition to tell her how beautiful she is. Even the little one lingers at the edge, holding swansdown puffs, ready to spray Sophia with a perfume atomizer. Sophia’s maids glue extra feathers onto the gown, creating trailing folds like a peacock’s tail. They sew sparkling charms along the sleeves. A diadem is placed in her hair.
“I need to be the most beautiful girl at my party.”
“Of course you will be,” Gabrielle says.
“Why would you think otherwise?” Claudine adds.