The nurse returns, holding a porcelain jug.
“I’ll be there just in case you do,” Rémy says, and bows slightly before striding out.
As soon as he disappears, I use the pastels to write Edel a note in our secret code.
DON’T DO ANYTHING UNTIL WE SPEAK.
I slip it into a privacy case, tuck it into the balloon’s interior compartment, adjust the tiny golden compass, and send the palace-official post-balloon off the balcony. I watch until its lilac body disappears in the darkness.
22
An early sun pushes its way through the gauzy canopy over the bed. I roll over, reaching for the bed warmer’s rubber handle to pull it closer, but it’s cold. I sit up. Sounds of the tide drift in through the terrace doors. I’m careful not to make noise and alert the morning nurses, who are waiting for me to wake. I don’t mind following this advice from Ivy.
An edge of the bedcurtain lifts. “You awake?” Bree whispers.
“Barely,” I reply.
“I have something for you.” She fans out a spread of the latest newspapers, magazines, and pamphlets. “Look at the news,” she says, climbing onto the bed.
My heart thuds. “Is it bad?”
She flips through the papers. Headlines scatter and reassemble—the animated ink scrambling—as she turns the pages too quickly.
She opens a tattler and points.
*
NEW FAVORITE A FRAGILE FLOWER,
MAYBE NOT STRONG ENOUGH
QUEEN RUMORED TO REPLACE NEW
FAVORITE WITH ANOTHER, AGAIN
My heart sinks. Last night’s vomiting episode rushes back. The embarrassment feels like a fresh burn.
“By tomorrow, these will all be gone,” Bree says. “But there’s another one—about one of your sisters—that I thought you’d want to see.”
“Where?” I perch on my knees now, hovering over the spread of papers and tattlers.
She opens the Trianon Tribune, the kingdom’s most popular paper.
I scan.
She smoothes the page. “Here.”
FIRE TEAHOUSE BELLE RUMORED TO
HAVE RUN AWAY IN THE NIGHT
I touch the words. She left already? “No, Edel, no.”
Bree blinks at me. “I don’t know, miss. It might not even be true, but I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thank you. There’s only one way to find out.” I put on my robe, take the paper, and burst into the main salon. Morning servants wheel in breakfast carts and set out tea and plates. I press my ear to the wall panel that hides Elisabeth’s office. The tinny sound of circuit-phones echoes from the other side, and I can feel small vibrations against my cheek.
I knock. When there’s no answer, I knock louder.
The door creaks open. A sleepy Elisabeth, still in her nightgown, stares back at me. “I’m barely out of bed and haven’t had breakfast,” she whines. “What is it?”
“Is this true?” I push the paper in her face.
She squints, then snatches it from me to have a closer look. She laughs. “Edel has always been so dramatic.”
“Call the Fire Teahouse,” I say.
“No. You sound ridiculous.”
“Then I will.” I try to brush past her and into the office.
She blocks me. “It’s just a rumor. Clearly, you can’t handle reading these”—she waves the paper in my face—“and take them too seriously.” Elisabeth calls all the servants into the main salon. “Lady Camellia is not to have any newspapers or tattlers or scandal sheets brought to the apartments. Beauty pamphlets and beauty-scopes only.”
“Don’t listen to her,” I say.
“Oh, but they will.” Elisabeth grabs a luna pastry from a nearby breakfast cart and pops it into her mouth. “I am in charge here. And once I tell my mother, it will be as good as law.” She turns back to the staff. “If any of you are caught bringing these contraband items”—she taps the paper—“you will be beaten or put in the starvation boxes. I will see to it myself.”
“Elisabeth—”
“You, Camellia, should focus on being perfect so you don’t lose the title of favorite,” Elisabeth snaps before disappearing back into her office.
Hot, angry tears well up in my eyes. I bang the door again, but she doesn’t answer.
*
I furiously write letters. Five lilac post-balloons float to my left, waiting for messages, and to be set free off the balcony.
Valerie,
Have you heard from Edel?
I hate Elisabeth Du Barry even worse these days. I didn’t know that was possible.
I miss you and hearing you laugh. How big are the Belle-babies now?
Love,
Camille
Hana,
I haven’t heard from you. Is everything all right? Have you found out about the noises? Or asked your mistress if there are other Belles at the teahouse?
Did you see that headline in the paper about Edel? Have you spoken to her?
I miss you. And you won’t believe how Elisabeth Du Barry is behaving at court. It’s worse than when we were at home.
Love,
Camille
Padma,
Has Edel written you? Or Amber, even? I can’t get in contact with either of them.
Do you know if everything is okay?
Love,
Camille
Amber,
Please write me.
Did you see the headline about Edel?
I hope you’re all right.
I’m sorry.
Love,
Camille
Edel,
There’s a headline about you in the Trianon Tribune. Is it just a rumor?
Don’t leave. Come here to see me first. I can help you.
Love,
Camille
I roll up all the tiny parchments and slip them into privacy casings no larger than my forefinger. I tuck them into the compartments inside the balloons, light the post-charcoal, then close them again and tug the balloons out to the balcony by their ribbons. Below, ships dot the coastline. Waves crash against them.
I think about the lists my sisters and I made in our playroom as little girls, noting all the things we wanted to see when we grew up and left home: the spinning looms in the dress markets, cinema-graphs and avenue boards of famed courtier socialites along Trianon’s promenade, the pet shops with teacup elephants and teacup tigers lined up in the windows like treats for sale, the patisseries full of tarts, cakes, and cookies, the royal beach with its grains of pink sand and white-sailed ships. I still wish we could do these things together.
I send the balloons off the terrace. They drift out over the royal sea, then turn in different directions, obeying the tiny compasses on their noses—southwest for the Bay of Silk to Padma, north to home and Valerie, across the Royal Square to Amber, west to the Fire Isles and Edel, and out to Hana in the Glass Isles near the barrier of Orléans. The sun lights a path for my balloons as they hover above the dark ocean, careful not to get swept into the masts of large imperial ships. Air-postmen glide about in open-top dirigibles with hooks and paddles to help guide the balloons along.
I watch until I can’t see them anymore.