I rip the canvases into shreds, breaking them into parts— cotton, linen, glue, and aged hemp. They add to the windstorm. I use the Age arcana to smooth the hemp, bringing life and moisture back to the material, then form it into legs, arms, a torso, and a head, like I’m a little girl playing with papier-maché. I give her my sister Valerie’s gorgeous voluptuous shape.
I use the Aura arcana to extract the paint and coat the new body-shaped canvas, coloring it the same shade as the sand that lines the royal beach. I make her eyes the color of a stormy gray sky to honor the people of Orléans, but add tiny golden sunflowers around the middles to mirror the royal chrysanthemum. I tug the silk threads from a nearby tapestry. They crawl along the floor like golden and white snakes. I fashion them into a blond halo of tight curls, and create a cream wedding dress.
The final product stands like a life-size doll beside me. Women cover their mouths with gloved hands or lace fans, and the men’s eyes bulge. Many stand motionless.
No one speaks.
My legs threaten to give out. My eyelids droop. I inch down into a bow, waiting for the queen’s reaction, and to hide my utter exhaustion. I try to stop panting.
Sophia claps furiously and races down the throne platform. She pulls me up to my feet, hugs me tightly, and whispers, “I knew you were the best.” She links her hand in mine. “Together we’re going to be more powerful than any queen and favorite.”
The queen starts to clap, followed by the rest of the court. Sophia releases me. I bow again, but struggle to push up from the floor. Rémy’s hands find their way around my waist, lifting me like a baby that’s fallen from a chair. The words thank you catch in my throat.
The queen leaves her throne. She descends the stairs and admires the statue I’ve created.
“Camellia, very lovely,” the queen says, giving me an appraising look. My heart races. Another wave of exhaustion hits me. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The court gives me a standing ovation.
“It’s more than lovely, Mother,” Sophia says. “It’s spectacular.” The princess turns me away from the queen. She hugs me again and whispers close to my ear, “I made this happen, you know. I got you back here. And now you’ve proven I was right all along.”
Sweat drips down my back.
“What do you mean?” I stutter out.
She flashes me a smile, and the world spins—chairs stretch into colorful putty, laughter crescendos in peaks, and the floor beneath my feet wobbles like the land is melting out from under me.
30
After Sophia’s wedding-dress presentation, the newsies go wild with their headlines: NEW FAVORITE TOPPLES QUEEN’S CONCERNS WITH HER SKILL
PRINCESS SOPHIA ECSTATIC ABOUT THE NEW FAVORITE
SOPHIA’S WEDDING LOOK TO BE THE
MOST COVETED IN THE KINGDOM
CAMELLIA IS RUMORED TO BE THE MOST
POWERFUL FAVORITE THAT EVER EXISTED
THE BELLES’ ARCANA MAY BE ABLE TO DO MORE
THAN THE GARDIENS HAVE REPORTED
My days settle into an ebb and flow like the crystal-blue waters of La Mer du Roi crashing onto the beach below the Belle apartments. I become stronger, pacing myself and using the sangsues to keep from fainting. Sophia doesn’t invite me to her workshop again.
The morning appointment ledger is usually only filled with lady courtiers from all over Orléans.
But today it shows:
Auguste Fabry, House Rouen (son of Minister of the Seas) 09:00
Duchess Midori Babineaux, House Helie 10:00
Countess Anzu Charron, House of Bowyers (Favored Bowmaker) 11:00
Lady Daruma Archambault, House of Spice 11:30
I run my finger across Auguste’s name, believing Elisabeth’s handwriting might disappear. I count the letters in Auguste. Seven. A number loved by the God of the Sea. Did his parents do that on purpose? I can feel his sly smile, almost as if he’s in the room with me. A tiny flutter flits in my chest.
Bree opens my bedroom door. “Treatment salon four is ready.”
I gaze down at my teal work dress and apron. “Bring me a day dress instead. The lavender one. No, the buttercup yellow with the ruffled sleeves.”
“But it’s against trad—”
“Please, Bree.” I add a smile. She leaves for the wardrobe room.
I pace in front of my desk. I think about sending my sisters post-balloons. I think about telling them more about Auguste. I think about asking for their advice: Is there anything wrong with being nice to him? Is there anything wrong with being friendly?
Edel’s face flashes in my mind. She would tell me to flirt and let myself laugh.
Answer a post-balloon, Edel. My worry for her piles on top of itself. She has to be at the Fire Teahouse still. There would be more headlines if she wasn’t. Maybe Du Barry sent one of our older sisters back there? But Du Barry wouldn’t do that. When a Belle leaves court, she is to return home and remain there. Or what about the Belle from the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?
I lift my pen from its inkpot, but my hands feel too light to hold anything. I shake them out.
Bree returns with the day dress. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, fine.” I change, then drape my mirror around my neck. Its cold glass presses against my too-hot skin.
“Your client is in the salon with Ivy.” Bree opens the bedroom doors.
“He’s here already?”
“Yes, my lady. It’s almost time to begin his treatment.”
I walk down the hall. I try not to break into a run. I pass the wall of favorites and stop in front of Maman’s portrait before entering the main salon. Her eyes twinkle. I hear a memory of her voice: Don’t be silly about meeting boys and girls at court. Keep focus on your arcana, your strength, and your sisters.
“Camellia.” Bree touches my shoulder.
I startle.
“He’s waiting,” she says.
I take a deep breath before stepping through the entryway. I let it out slowly, like the air in a post-balloon. Auguste stands beside the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the tapestry above it. Elisabeth fires questions at him, but he doesn’t answer. Attendants buzz in and out of the room, and servants carry supplies and push golden carts. Ivy sits in a nearby chair.
Bree announces me.
Auguste whips around with a smile.
“Have a great session,” Elisabeth says, trying to attract his attention. He glances around her. She pouts, then retreats into her office, closing the door behind her.
I fight with my lips, trying to press them into a serious and professional frown rather than the grin that threatens to overtake them. “Hello, Mr. Fabry.”
“So formal now? Are we not friends?” He steps forward.
“Friends?” I say with a laugh, then swallow it. Standing with him feels like we’re exchanging a secret in front of everyone.
Ivy clears her throat.
“Have you had tea?” I ask.
“Yes, and it’s awful.” He lifts off a teapot lid. Hot vapors drift up like smoke. “Couldn’t you slip honey or sugar into it? To make it more pleasant?”
“That dulls the Belle-rose effects, unfortunately,” I say.
“Or fortunately, if you like pain.”
“Who enjoys pain?”
He starts to push his finger into the teapot, as if he’s going to plunge it into the hot liquid.
“No, don’t.” I reach for his hand.
“Are you worried about me?” he asks.
I pull back. “If you want to burn yourself, go ahead.”