“You’re right.”
Then his eyes narrow and he leans toward me. “There’s something on your neck.” Auguste touches a forgotten leech. He jumps back with a shout. “What is that disgusting thing?”
“Hah. It’s just a leech. Are you afraid?” I tuck it back into its hiding place beneath a neck ruffle on my dress.
“Why do you have that?” He looks a tad green.
“Another secret of the Belles.”
“A horrifying secret.”
“They help reset our arcana and purify our blood. And don’t insult the sangsues.”
His eyebrows lift with curiosity. I realize I’ve said too much. Du Barry’s voice thunders inside me: Don’t reveal the secrets of the Belles. The heat of my mistake lingers in my stomach.
“Clear the way,” an attendant calls out. Four imperial servants carry a windowed palanquin. Its golden edges shine like a trapped sun in the early evening darkness. Inside rests the sleeping Princess Charlotte on an embroidered pillow. A veiled woman wearing a crown walks alongside the palanquin with her hand resting on the glass. A group of newsies trails closely behind.
“Where are they taking her?” I ask. “And who is that woman with her?”
“The princess is—” Auguste starts to say.
“Princess Charlotte takes the air every evening around this time. That’s her Belle, Arabella,” Rémy interrupts. “We should be going, Lady Camellia. I’ve received word that dinner has been served in your apartments, and Madam Du Barry awaits.”
Reality crashes back in like a heavy ocean wave.
“Thank you for the walk,” I say to Auguste.
“I’m sad it’s over so soon.” He smiles handsomely.
My cheeks flame again. “Good night.”
“Good night,” he says, “and don’t forget to write me back. I’m waiting. I expect a response.”
“Yes, all right.”
I follow Rémy back inside. His footsteps clomp. I start to thank him for not insisting I return immediately to the Belle apartments. I know it can’t be exciting to follow me around all day. Not when you’re used to defending a kingdom or training for battles. But the words get stuck, and by the time we’re back and he’s taken his stance outside the doors, the moment seems lost.
Dinner carts sit in the main salon, chock-full of steaming hot food.
Bree greets me. “Where have you been?”
“I went for a walk.” She removes the leech from my neck and helps undo my waist-sash.
“You’re blushing, and your skin is all warm.” She smiles. “Also, a post-balloon arrived for you several hours ago from the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. I tied it to your desk.”
I leap toward my bedroom.
“Your dress is half unbuttoned,” she yells out with a laugh.
A magenta post-balloon floats over my desk. The Chrysanthemum Teahouse emblem glimmers on its side. I open the back and fish for the letter inside the compartments. My fingers fuss with the fold. My heart thuds. I drop the note, then scoop it back up.
Camille,
I’m sorry, too. And I’m all right.
I miss you.
Be careful.
Amber
I turn the letter over. Pastel colors make a series of lines.
Another message reads:
I THINK EDEL HAS ESCAPED. AN IMPERIAL INVESTIGATOR CAME TO THE TEAHOUSE LOOKING FOR HER. BUT SOME OF MY CLIENTS TOLD ME THAT BEAUTY WORK CONTINUES THERE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING?
27
The bedcurtains snap open. Night-lanterns float in, their light glaring down on me. I cover my face. After tossing and turning, worrying about Edel, I feel as though I’ve just now fallen asleep and it couldn’t possibly be morning.
“What is it?”
A sleepy-eyed Bree stares back. “You’ve been summoned.”
“By whom?” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Her Highness, Princess Sophia.” She pulls back the blankets. “And it’s two hours after the midnight star.”
“Why?”
“Her first servant, Cherise, didn’t say.” Bree drapes a fur-lined robe over my shoulders, and I step into slippers. “She said the princess wants you to come as you are.”
I fuss with my hair, removing the silk scarf and trying to pull the mess of frizzy curls up into a Belle-bun.
“Come, quickly. She’s in a foul mood and does not like to wait.” Bree rushes me out of the Belle apartments, where Rémy awaits me.
“Good evening,” I say.
“Actually, it’s good morning,” he corrects.
I sigh. “Do you know how annoying you are?”
“My older sister told me often.” He walks ahead. I’ve memorized the way to Sophia’s apartments, but we go in the opposite direction, toward the south wing of the palace. We pass grand ballrooms and glass solariums and ornate parlors.
“Where are we going?” I ask Rémy.
“Where I’ve been instructed to take you.”
“And you wonder why I don’t like having you around.”
He stops, and faces me. “I was trying to joke with you.”
“Well, you’re terrible at it.”
“I’ll try harder next time.” He stalks ahead again. “The princess requested you come to her private workshop.”
“Do you know why?”
“They don’t pay me to know, just to follow orders.”
Thick black doors shine bright with the House of Inventors emblem—a chrysanthemum growing out of a stacked tower of cogs and gears. A trio of imperial guards block the entrance. Rémy salutes, they step aside, and he takes his place beside them.
The doors open. Enormous shelves scale the walls and split into hundreds of balconies. Books choke every spare place. Silver-gray work-lanterns dangle over long tables. Their surfaces are scattered with beakers, tubes, droppers, spoons, a set of mortars and pestles, and graters. A caged catlike animal with blond fur and black spots purrs. There are baskets full of flower petals, and a monstrous stove in the corner releases tiny clouds of steam. The shelves are lined with apothecary bottles that twinkle like jewels, as well as clear jars and magnificent flasks containing resins, balms, waxes, and oils made from flowers, plant secretions, and extracts. Powder puffs, brushes, and pots of rouge sit like macarons on a sweets tray.
Sophia is peering into two flower terrariums, tapping her fingers against the glass. One contains bloodroot, a flower with white petals and a yellow center. The other holds pale pink and white blooms in starry clusters—mountain laurel. She coos at the flowers as if they’re teacup pets. Her hair is a static-filled cloud around her shoulders. Her pale skin is flushed pink with anxiety. She still looks like my mother, and I regret the decision. It turns my stomach.
“Camellia.” Sophia rushes forward. Her nightgown sweeps behind her like a tail. “I want to show you something special.” She smells like sweat and salt. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot. “My favorite.” She takes my hand and drags me merrily forward, like she’s one of my sisters and we’re headed to lessons, or breakfast, or to sneak off someplace we aren’t supposed to go. “I need your help again.”
A part of me is thrilled to be the one to help her. This is what I wanted.
We pass the terrariums. “Do you know much about plants?” she asks.