I can’t imagine the queen and Sophia being anything alike.
“I must tell my people. The newsies are starting to speculate. They’ve been ruthless with me as of late. The sicker I get, the more the gray seeps to the surface, it seems. The more I return to my natural form.” She takes a deep breath. “Orléans will not survive having Sophia as its queen. I need you to wake Charlotte. Use the arcana in any way you can to heal her. Experiment. Do trials. Something. Anything. It would be a sacrifice, I know, but you would save us.”
I open my mouth several times. The words stick at the back of my throat.
“Your Majesty,” Ivy says, stepping closer, “Camellia will die if she attempts this. The arcana aren’t—”
The queen puts her hand in the air. Ivy swallows the rest of her sentence.
“I need you to consider doing this for me. I’ll need an answer and a plan in eight days’ time. By the Declaration of Heirs Ceremony, Charlotte must be awake. We must try.”
My heart leaps with each beat. “But—”
“The kingdom needs you. I need you.” She leaves me at Princess Charlotte’s bedside. “Ivy, come with me.”
They leave me alone with the servants and nurses and their charge. I’m a mess of worries and questions. Princess Charlotte’s soft breaths hum. Her chest lifts and falls. I touch her cheek. She doesn’t react. Her skin is warm to the touch.
“What happened to you?” I ask her. What if I can’t help you?
I watch her lying there. I wonder what Maman would do: risk her arcana to help her country and queen, or refuse. What if I fail? How terrible of a queen would Sophia be? Why doesn’t the queen trust her own daughter?
I crave the way the queen looked at me—her eyes full of admiration and confidence. I want to be able to meet every challenge she gives me.
I slip the chained mirror from around my neck, then take a pin from my Belle-bun and stick my finger. The seed of blood climbs through the mirror’s ridges. The roses twist and reveal their message—BLOOD FOR TRUTH.
I place the mirror before Charlotte and wait for the fog to reveal her true reflection.
“What are you doing?” a voice says.
I scramble to shove the necklace down the front of my dress. A round veiled woman stands behind a screen; only her silhouette shows.
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“Arabella.”
“Yes.” She steps from behind the screen and joins me at the princess’s bedside. She’s reed-thin and tall, her limbs swaying as she walks. Her unusual veil is the entire length of her gown, giving away nothing of her outward appearance.
“What happened to Princess Charlotte?”
“One day she wasn’t feeling well, and she went to bed, and never woke up.”
I glance over her again. “Have you tried—”
“I’ve tried it all,” she whispers tersely. “Nothing I’ve done has worked. My arcana cannot fix her.”
“Then why does the queen think I can help?”
“The papers speak of your legendary feats,” she says with curiosity. “And I saw what you did in the Receiving Hall with Sophia’s wedding looks. Your arcana are more powerful than mine. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”
Her compliment surges through me with a mix of excitement and nerves and concern. I’ve always felt the same as my sisters—the only difference was that I liked to experiment with my arcana, even if it landed me in trouble.
“She thinks you can do miracles. She takes your power as a sign that the gods haven’t forsaken her child.” Arabella sits on the bed and rubs a gloved hand along Charlotte’s cheek. “Maybe they’re right. You might be the only one who can save her.”
32
I chase Maman around the perimeter of the forest behind Maison Rouge de la Beauté in my nightmares. She’s a dream specter racing past the naked trees, her red hair a flame against the darkness. My bare feet find every discarded twig and branch on the forest floor.
“Maman!” I shout behind her. “Wait for me.”
She looks over her shoulder and smiles, leading me farther in.
I ask her what to do about Charlotte and the queen. “I need help.”
She stares back at me.
“Tell me what to do. They say I can use my arcana to heal,” I shout.
“What do you think?” Maman asks without turning around but instead ventures deeper into the forest, dodging massive roots poking out of the dark soil.
“I don’t know,” I say, almost catching up, but she turns left, just out of reach. “I need you to tell me what to do.”
“I can’t. You have to decide for yourself.”
“But what would you do?” I stop to catch my breath.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Her words dig under my skin like pinpricks.
“You have to decide for yourself. It is you who must live with the outcome.”
“What if I die?”
“Do what is right. Always.”
Camille.
“Camille.”
A hand jerks my shoulder. I startle awake and jump at the sight of Ivy’s dark veil leaning over me.
“I need to talk to you. Get up, quickly.” Her whispers are panicked.
“What is it?” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”
“Just after the midnight star. The staff have gone to bed.”
I sit up. Ivy hands me a fur-lined robe and points at satin slippers on the floor. She lights a heat-lantern and tugs its thick ribbons. My nightmare still hums through me.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“Shh.” She takes my hand in hers. It trembles. I squeeze it tight to keep my own hand from quivering. We tiptoe down the hall. Dim night-lanterns float overhead, bathing our footsteps in light. The marble floor holds the cold, pushing it up through my slippers.
Ivy eases open the solarium door. A garden of Belle-roses reaches up toward a dark sky, their petals large and rich as sunshades, their thorns glistening like arrows. We step into the chilly garden crusted over with a layer of frost.
“Why—”
“Whisper, so your voice doesn’t carry.” She takes a deep breath. Rose vines push from their pots, curling and lengthening to create a thick and thorny arbor over our heads. Ivy is manipulating them. The Belle-rose petals bloom so big we’re now inside a pavilion of flowers, shielded from the solarium’s glass walls. The heat-lantern bobs between us. I warm my hands under its fiery belly.
“You can’t do what the queen asked. It’s too much,” she whispers.
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You have to say no.”
“I thought . . . maybe . . . I should try.” The queen’s desperate voice is a sharp memory alongside Maman’s dream advice.
“Do you understand how our arcana work?”
“Yes, of course. We study—”
“If you truly did, you would have said no immediately. This could warp your blood proteins. The arcana are meant to beautify. The Goddess of Beauty blessed us with them to help enhance people’s natural templates. The template she gave them, buried deep below the gray. They are not meant to heal like medicine.”