I suck in a sharp breath. Maman killed a client? The arcana betrayed her? How could she have kept this a secret? Could the same thing happen to me?
I slam the book shut and tuck it back into its hiding place in my beauty caisse.
Two post-balloons zip inside, trailed by more leaves.
The first: a crimson one, burning bright with Maison Rouge de la Beauté’s house emblem.
The second: a silvery white one covered with a twinkling collage from the Glass Teahouse.
I tie their ribbons to the balloon hook on my desk. I cut open the one from home first. I pluck out the parchment.
Dear Camille,
I haven’t heard from Edel. I asked Du Barry, but she just keeps saying everything is fine and to focus on my own work. Is everything all right? What have you heard?
The babies have grown even more. Du Barry had us celebrate their sixth birthday two nights ago. I don’t quite understand how it all works. Did we grow this fast, too? The nurses hum them songs and call them rose babies. I’ve included a drawing of the one who looks like you. She could be your twin—dimple and all. I keep accidentally calling her Camille, but she doesn’t mind. She wants to be just like you when she comes to court. Her name is Belladonna. We call her “Donna.”
Love,
Valerie
I unfold the second page and see a portrait of a smaller version of myself. Bright eyes. Warm brown skin. Dimple in the left cheek. Curly hair with a pile of frizz. Why would the Goddess of Beauty create another Belle who looked like me? Du Barry gave us pamphlets about our births. She told us Beauty had sent each one of us to our mothers. That we’d fallen from the skies like shooting stars. That she’d handpicked all of our features. That we were all flushed and warm with blessed blood. What isn’t Du Barry telling us? And what about the Belle at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse with the deformed face? Did Beauty send her, too?
I open the second post-balloon—from Hana.
Camille,
I’ve been staying up late at night, trying to find whoever keeps crying. My Madam, Juliette Bendon, says it’s just overly drunk courtiers at her late-night parties. But I don’t believe her. I think there are other women here. But I can never search for long. I’m so tired these days. I don’t have a moment’s rest.
I haven’t heard from Edel, but I saw the headline, too. She won’t answer my post-balloons.
Hana
I pace the room. Where are you, Edel? Why haven’t you written back? Amber might be right. Maybe she did escape. But if so, how is she surviving? Where did she go? How is the teahouse continuing to operate without raising alarm?
“Lady Camellia.” Bree interrupts my thoughts.
I tuck the letters away and join her in the main salon.
“What is it?”
“Come, have a look.” She waves me to the Belle-apartment doors. “Rémy is with his sisters.”
We peek through a space in the door. Rémy holds the hand of a little girl a quarter of his size while two others fuss over him. The little one’s hair is a dark cloud of coils and glitter, complete with metallic threads reminiscent of lightning streaks. They all share his rich midnight coloring, and standing together they look like a bouquet of black calla lilies.
“What’s she like?” the little one asks. “You promised to tell me everything about the favorite, and you’ve only sent two post-balloons. How can you fit everything in only two letters?”
He smiles down at her with an easy demeanor that I’ve never seen.
“You haven’t told us anything,” the tallest one says. The silver color of her gown makes her skin glow and hugs her curves like silk around an hourglass. “Even Maman’s been asking.”
“She’s nice,” he says.
His compliment warms me.
“That’s it?” the third one replies with a stamp of her foot. She shoves his shoulder and pouts, her lips a brilliant shade of coral.
“She’s a little stubborn.”
I smile.
“Can be a bit impulsive or reckless,” he adds.
I scoff. Bree chuckles.
“That’s why I like her,” the tallest one says. “She does what she wants. Or that’s what it seems like.”
“I bet you just love that, Rémy,” the third one replies. “She’s probably not listening to you at all.”
They all laugh together, their voices at a similar pitch. A set of warm-toned pavilion bells. A family. It makes me miss my sisters.
“Have you rescued her? Protected her from evil?” the little one asks, like this is all some fairy-tale adventure.
“More like escorted her places and followed her around,” he says, picking the girl up. “Mirabelle, you are missing nothing. I promise you.” He presses his forehead to hers and they rub their noses together.
“I’m missing everything.” Her bottom lip quivers, and tears well up in her eyes.
“Shall we sing our song?” he says.
“Yes,” she whimpers.
He hums, the deep baritone of his voice rippling through the hallway, resonating inside me. She sings a little tune about a yellow frog and its lily pad and pond. He kisses her cheeks and she bursts into laughter. It makes me wonder about his life before the palace. It makes me wonder about how he might be, if he wasn’t my guard.
“Can we meet her?” the tall one asks.
“No,” he says with a frown, and now I recognize him again.
“But please,” little Mirabelle begs.
“Soldiers of the Minister of War aren’t supposed to use their positions to seek special treatment or favor. It’s against the code.”
“Everything is about rules with you,” the middle one says.
“Always has been,” the tallest one adds.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he says. “You three shouldn’t even be up here, and I’ve indulged you already too long.”
“We were just passing through,” the tallest one says.
“No one just passes through the residential parts of the palace.”
“We were invited to court to see the princess’s wedding dress,” Mirabelle says. “I saw the invitation.”
He pinches her cheeks. “I don’t doubt you. But I suppose your sisters invited themselves up here?”
“Why would you—” the middle one starts to say.
“I admit, we did,” the tallest one says. “We just missed you.”
“That’s a lie,” he says.
“Fine. We just wanted to know more about her. The papers say she’s stronger than the other favorite. And the Trianon Tribune said she might have a fourth arcana.”
I glance at Bree and mouth, Really? She nods with a smile on her lips.
“You know how I feel about tattlers, scandal sheets, and newspapers. And you can’t just use my name to come up here. It’s not—”
“Appropriate,” the three of them say in unison.
Bree and I exchange a mischievous grin. I smooth the front of my dress and make sure all the curls in my Belle-bun are neatly in place. I yank open the door.
The girls gasp.
“Rémy?” I call out, as if annoyed.
He steps forward at attention.
“Oh, there you are. I was looking for you.”
Mirabelle has her hand cupped over her gaping mouth. The other two are statues, frozen in place.
“Hello,” I say. “Did I interrupt?”