“What if I worked on her organs? Made them youthful again. Perhaps there’s some failing within her body that keeps Charlotte in this sleeping sickness.”
“You think Arabella hasn’t tried that already? The queen is looking for more from you.” Ivy starts to pace. “Your showing off made her think you’re a miracle worker. Made her think the arcana can be used in unintended ways. But only the God of Life can control sickness and death. Not us.”
I think of how Maman accidentally killed a woman. If we can bring about death, then why not life?
“But what if it can? The queen thinks Sophia will destroy the kingdom. Ruin lives. Is my life not worth the lives of so many others? Don’t you think we should find out?”
“No, I think you should leave.”
The word crashes through the garden like a bolt of lightning.
“Leave?” I stare at her, unsure if I understand exactly what she means.
“Yes.”
“I can’t leave. Where would I go? I worked so hard to get here. All I ever wanted was to be the favorite. I’m supposed to be here. I’m supposed to help.”
“I thought the same thing. It’s what Du Barry wants you to believe. It’s what the world tells us we should be.” She puts a finger to her lips and turns to the solarium door. “I hear something.”
My heart pumps hard, each beat fueled by panic.
When Ivy faces me again, she lifts her veil, and I take a step back, holding in a gasp. Her skin is a patchwork of colors—gray, white, beige—and wrinkled like a paper sack. Her lips resemble two leeches puffed up from gorging on blood. Her eyes have drifted toward the corners of her face, giving her the appearance of a fish. “Some days are better than others, and my arcana can repair it. But tonight is a bad one.”
“What happened . . . ?”
“Sophia,” she says, biting back tears. “I overused my arcana to please her. Now they are forever unbalanced. The proteins are unable to regenerate and keep me beautiful. Our arcana help us maintain ourselves, too. They keep us alive.”
I touch Ivy’s cheek. The skin feels like clotted cream. “Can I fix it?”
A tear escapes one of her eyes. “Not without damaging your own gifts.” She drops her veil. “But thank you. And it’s not always this bad. Only after I’ve used the arcana. My eyes will drift back into place after a few hourglasses.” She touches my shoulder. “You can’t let this happen to you. You have to get out of here.”
“Where would I go? Back home? And even if I did, the queen would just bring one of my sisters to court to try to help Charlotte. I have to find another way.”
Ivy clenches her fists. “You’re not listening.” She storms toward the garden door, shrinking the Belle-rose stems and returning the swollen petals to their original size.
“Ivy,” I call after her.
She doesn’t return. I linger in the garden alone. My thoughts are a tangle of Ivy’s words; the queen’s request; Sophia’s tinkling laughter and her worries about being beautiful; how the queen spoke about Sophia as selfish, jealous, and spiteful; and the ways in which Sophia and I are alike. The reasons line up next to each other like matching pairs of earrings—both of us want to please our mothers, both of us want to be the best, both of us want respect and adoration.
Maybe if I can’t heal Charlotte, I can help Sophia be a better version of herself. Maybe that’s the answer. Make her a better future queen.
“I can’t give up!” I call out, hoping Ivy is still somewhere near.
“What are you doing out here?”
I whip around and find Rémy in the solarium.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I lie. “And what’s your excuse?”
“My nightly security round.” He holds the door open as I step through toting the heat-lantern.
We stand in the hallway. I’m buzzing with questions and indecision. I’m not ready to go back to bed. “Have tea with me?” I ask, then immediately want to take it back. “If you’re busy, then never mind. I can just . . .”
He pauses. I wait for him to say no. He opens and closes his mouth two times before saying, “Yes, all right.”
“Meet me in the tea salon.”
He nods.
I take the heat-lantern and go to a smaller room beside the main salon. I pull three night-lanterns inside; their light illuminates two low tea tables and mauve-papered walls and cream floor cushions. I tug a string on the wall, and a woman appears from behind a panel. “Yes, miss.”
“Could I have tea? Enough for two. And would you mind lighting the fireplace?”
“Yes, of course.” She bows and disappears.
Rémy returns. His boots clomp against the floor as if he’s stomping bugs.
“You’re quite noisy for this time of night,” I say.
He grumbles and sits on the floor pillow across from me.
The woman returns with a tea cart and pours us both a cup.
“Thank you,” Rémy and I say in unison.
I laugh. He fights away a smile. She lights a fire, and the bright flames cast shadows across his deep-brown skin.
We sip tea in long stretches of silence. Whenever one of us can’t bear it any longer, we ask the other a question: What is your favorite season? Do you miss home? Do you have a favorite sister? If I was sitting with Auguste, the conversation might never stop.
But when the quiet expands and the tea grows cold, my thoughts return to the queen and Princess Charlotte, and Ivy’s fears. This is the time of night when I miss my sisters the most. Whenever one of us had a problem, we’d wait until our mothers were sound asleep and Du Barry’s snores roared through the belly of the house; then we’d slip out of bed, sneak onto the veranda, and climb up on the roof. We’d lie there lined up like snow owls, staring into the heavens and talking out whatever trouble Edel had gotten herself into, or Valerie’s newest upset about being left out, or Amber’s anxious nerves over her lessons. We’d entertain Hana’s latest fantasy of kissing someone, or Padma’s worries about the babies in the nursery, or my daydreams of seeing the world, or what might be in the dark forest behind our house. They’d argue back and forth about what I should do.
But I was never alone.
I steal glances at Rémy. The silver streak down the crown of his head almost glows as the night-lanterns sail over us. I remove the small mirror from beneath my gown and finger it. I wish I could find a way to use it—to see what his reflection holds, to see if I can trust him.
“What’s that?” He points to the mirror.
“Nothing.” I take a chance. “Actually, can I ask you a different kind of question?”
“It depends on what kind.”
I force a laugh at Rémy’s attempt at humor. “How would you respond if someone asked you to do something dangerous?”
He sets down his teacup. His eyes narrow, and somehow his perfect posture becomes even straighter. “Dangerous how?”
I search for the right word. “Something that could make you sick.”
“Why would anyone ask you to harm yourself?”
“What if it could save a life?”
“Is the person being asked you?”
“No,” I lie. “Of course not. I need to . . . I need to advise one of my sisters on whether she should complete a specific beauty request for one of her clients.”