Guests are coaxed into their seats. Little handwritten labels tell us where to sit. Royal relatives, ministers, and titled courtiers from high houses and merchant houses crowd the table. I scan the names, looking for my sisters, hoping Rémy lied, but I don’t see them.
An attendant approaches. “Lady Camellia, may I escort you to your seat?”
I nod, happy to be taken from Rémy’s watchful presence and deposited between the Beauty Minister and the Fashion Minister.
Auguste enters the room. He looks up and catches me watching him. He winks. I laugh and look away, willing the flush rising in my cheeks to vanish. I find him absolutely ridiculous, and a little interesting, if I’m honest with myself. I glance around, worried that someone might’ve seen, and pretend to participate in the conversation at my end of the table. It’s full of speculation about the queen’s toilette-box allotments and new beauty laws. I need to be careful. I need to be perfect. Especially if any of that gossip about Amber is true.
“I heard the queen wants to extend royal beauty restrictions to high-house courtiers. All of us might have to settle for a single definitive look,” one woman says.
“I think that’s all newsie trash and gossip,” another one replies.
“I’m just ready for her to announce the new toilette allotments. I’m excited to shop. The Pomanders will be releasing their new scents soon—and I don’t want anything that’s been picked over,” a third adds.
The doors open, and the royal family emerges: the king, queen, and princess. The guests fall silent.
“We’re so elated that you could join us in celebrating the birthday of our beloved daughter.” The king speaks into a voice-trumpet, and his words echo from a sound-box peeking out of the flower arrangement on our table. It feels like he’s standing right beside me. “My little girl is all grown up.”
The applause is thunderous. I watch Sophia’s eyes sparkle as she looks at her father.
He puts a hand on the queen’s shoulder. “We will feast, have the presentation of the gifts, and conclude with much dancing and merriment. Bon appétit.”
Servants release a set of sparkler balloons into the air. They glimmer above our heads, leaving glowing trails above the table, until they explode with color and light, and take the shape of Sophia’s royal emblem. The brightness of the chrysanthemum blinds me.
“Happy birthday, my love.” The king blows her a kiss. “Papa loves you.”
He makes me wonder what it’s like to have a father. As little girls, my sisters and I asked about ours, after being read stories full of mothers and fathers and their misbehaving children. We were told Belles had mothers. Several of them. We were told that Belles didn’t need anything else.
The king and queen sit in their high-backed chairs. Sophia and her ladies are led to the opposite end of the table.
The queen rises again. Everyone stops talking. “My husband forgot to introduce another new member to court this season. Our new favorite Belle of this generation, Camellia Beauregard.” My name booms through the sound-box like an explosion. Unexpectedly loud.
The Fashion Minister stands and pulls out my chair for me.
I flash them all my best smile and walk over to the queen. I execute a full bow before taking her hand.
“Your Majesty,” I whisper. The queen’s eyes remain cold, her face and words formal. I wish she’d look at me the way she looked at Amber after she named her the favorite. Elated. Thrilled.
My stomach tightens. Eyes are sweeping over me from head to toe. My knees shake, and I’m grateful for the thick layers of tulle.
I glance up and feel Auguste’s eyes on my face. The heat in my cheeks threatens to melt my makeup.
Polite applause echoes through the hall.
I curtsy, keeping my gaze on the floor. I return to my seat. Sweat pools beneath my arms, and I use a lace handkerchief to blot my face.
The meal is served. I can’t keep up with all the silverware and dishes appearing and disappearing in front of me.
A servant dips a spoon into the princess’s bowl, tasting it. Sophia studies the girl’s face as she swallows, then after a few moments waves her off. She spots me watching the exchange, and frowns. I drop my gaze and dig into the wedge of cheese that’s been left beside my bread.
“Isn’t that goat cheese just divine, Camellia?” The Beauty Minister leans close to my ear. “Just keep smiling and pretend that I’m discussing the cheese. Be wary of staring too much. I know this environment can be shocking. I swear, Madam Du Barry shelters you Belles way too much for my tastes.”
“But what was that woman doing with the princess’s food?” I whisper.
“That woman was a food-taster. That young girl’s tongue has been trained to detect over ninety-eight types of poisons to be found in our kingdom.”
I try not to let the shock show on my face. Instead, I smile and ask another question. “Is it common to find poison in the palace food?”
“Poisonings have become more frequent than an assassin’s dagger, my dear. The illness of Princess Charlotte makes the queen even more vigilant in taking care of her children.”
With that, she turns her attention to another courtier. I remember the pictures of Princess Charlotte from our history books and the newspapers. Two years older than Sophia, she fell into a deep sleep after her fifteenth birthday, and hasn’t woken up for four years. Periodically, the queen releases a new portrait of her—sleeping soundly in a four-poster bed—to assure the kingdom that their heir is still alive.
Another plate is put in front of me. I eat to distract myself.
“Camellia.” The queen’s voice travels through the sound-box again.
My fork clatters against my plate. People stare at me—eyebrows raised, expressions puzzled. My etiquette is usually impeccable. We had years of lessons on it. But now Du Barry glares at me, appalled.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” I say.
“How are you enjoying your first few days at court?” the queen asks.
The Beauty Minister nudges me to lean closer to the sound-box. “Speak into it,” she whispers.
“They’ve been wonderful, Your Majesty,” I say. “Thank you for your kindness and generosity, and for this second chance.” The noise of my voice drifts down the long table. Du Barry nods at me with approval.
The Fashion Minister draws the queen’s attention away from me with a question about silkworm production and winter gowns. I exhale.
Auguste’s voice travels as he tells a grand story about a sea monster he kept from capsizing the imperial fleet last year. The women don’t take their eyes off him. Elisabeth puts an ear-trumpet up so she can hear every word.
“Did you capture the creature?” Sophia asks him.
“Of course,” he boasts. “I’m quite strong.”
“Did you cut its head off to make a trophy?” her lady-of-honor Gabrielle asks.