“Are you in pain, Your Highness? Is everything all right?” I scramble to my feet.
A servant hands her another vial of her elixir. She brushes it away. “I’m just . . .” Her eyes blink, and her head moves left and right as if she’s having some sort of conversation with someone who isn’t there. “I’m done for today. You can leave.” She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even ask for a mirror.
“But—”
“Good-bye, favorite.” Servants sweep me out of the room like dust. My pulse races with panic and worry and fear.
She knows what I was trying to do.
34
The next day, the salon doors burst open with a flourish. I brace myself for the Beauty Minister, Du Barry, or even Sophia herself, with a reprimand for trying to soften Sophia’s manner without her consent.
But the Fashion Minister barrels in, followed by his team of dandies and a wardrobe closet with massive carriagelike wheels. Its white birchwood sides remind me of my Belle-trunk, but its gilded edges and damask pattern allow it to blend in with the rest of the luxurious room.
“My little doll,” the Fashion Minister cries out. He lifts me out of my chair and twirls me around and around, no doubt inspecting my day dress. His false hand presses into my back.
“Not too fast,” I say.
He chuckles. “Yes, no more losing your stomach. And, hmmm, looks like you’ve missed me. At least, your body and sense of fashion have.”
I smile. “Where have you been?”
“Locked in a tower. Forced to make dresses for the rest of my years.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ve been at the Dress Bazaar, trying to settle on the proper fabric for Princess Sophia’s wedding gown. I have to match your glorious feat from that day in the Receiving Hall somehow.” His team wheels the wardrobe closer.
I blush at his compliment. “Perhaps I can help you.”
He blows me a kiss. “Firstly, I have a few special gifts for you.”
“For what occasion?”
“No need for an occasion, doll. You are the favorite. It’s an honor to dress you.” The wardrobe doors open and the interior explodes with color. Dresses with full skirts, A-line cuts, empire waists, sheaths, long sleeves, cap sleeves, no sleeves, V-necks and scoop necks and plunging necklines. Dresses made of brocades, laces, velvets, glass beads, cashmeres, silks, and pastel satins in every color and pattern. Special carts follow the wardrobe, carrying vivant dresses inside large glass bell jars. These are dresses made of living things. Butterflies open and close their wings, exposing their dress’s inner rib cage. Honeybees buzz in and out of a honeycomb-shaped gown. Roses of every color wave their petals.
Elisabeth slips from her office and approaches the wardrobe jars with widened eyes. She stretches out her fingers, mesmerized.
“Don’t touch, little Du Barry,” the minister says, bopping her hand lightly. “Those are not for you.”
I can’t help but laugh at her pinched expression.
“Show some respect. Those are for the favorite. They are gowns and dresses befitting the most important person in the kingdom . . . aside from the king, queen, and princesses, of course.” He bows and then shows me each frock one by one, much to Elisabeth’s chagrin. She scowls as they’re presented like delectable pastry treats.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“You’ve outdone yourself.”
His eyes light up. “I know.”
We laugh.
“You must wear one tonight.” He pulls an invitation from his pocket. A mix of gold and black calligraphy announces: SOPHIA’S CARD PARTY. Glittery stars gleam on the parchment, holding the promise of excitement. He takes my hand and twirls me once more. “You won’t get sick again, will you?”
“No. I’ve learned my lesson,” I say, blushing.
We dance, swaying back and forth to the noise of people moving in and out of the apartments. He leans close to my ear, whispering, “I’ve been hearing good things about you, favorite. You are loved by our princess. She believes you can do anything and everything. That you could possibly bring the Goddess of Beauty herself down from the heavens.”
“I—”
“Don’t give me any flowery excuses.” He smiles. “You’ve been giving the princess just what she wants. Wise plan, for now. But don’t let your flame burn out, little beauty. You’ll be in trouble.” He turns me once more, taps his cane on the ground, and then kisses me good-bye. “Time to go.”
Rémy walks Elisabeth and me down the six flights of stairs and through the Grand Entry Hall to the south wing. I’m wearing one of the Fashion Minister’s latest creations—a honey-and-marigold bustle dress with a waffle texture and a waist-sash of striped fur. My Belle-bun is adorned with snow-white pearls to complement it.
The halls hold decorations for the upcoming Declaration of Heirs Ceremony. Cameos of Sophia’s face mark night-lanterns. Her favorite flowers have been made into garlands. Vendors sell dolls in her likeness, fitted with a tiny version of the queen’s crown. Five days until the kingdom-wide celebration. Five days left to decide how to answer the queen.
Newsies are swarming the halls, sending out black post-balloons full of gossip. Sparklers are bursting overhead. Night-lanterns oscillate with bright colors. Courtiers are wearing cold-themed headdresses and hats, adorned with snow-flecked branches and holly berries, owl feathers and foxtails. Everyone is eagerly anticipating the first snow. Bubbly, jewel-toned liquid fills their glass flutes and tumblers. Some lift up ear-trumpets to listen to the conversations happening in the halls. Men chase women down corridors, and laughter and spirited chaos ensue.
Rémy grumbles and then guides us through the pockets of people. “This way.” He pushes aside an eager newsie wanting to sketch my picture. “Not now. You know the rules.”
The newsie ignores his request. He moves one pen on his small pad, and three others sketch alongside it. The picture is complete before I can take two steps forward.
The doors of the Royal Game Salon open for us. The ceiling arches in jutting curves and slopes. Night-lanterns rub along its surface, bathing the enameled décor in light. The room spills over with sounds of clinking glasses and tumbling dice and whooshing table-lanterns and hissing candles and laughter. So much laughter.
Plush tabletops display porcelain boxes studded with gold and diamonds and precious gems. Game chips line a wall behind a kiosk labeled BANKER. Chaises and high-backed chairs and clawfooted sofas circle the game tables, which spill over with candles, desserts, and pastel-colored gambling chips. People stuff their mouths with treats, and blow onto game pieces for luck.
“Keep up,” Rémy says over the din.
Women smile and coo and wave their fans in my direction. “I guessed it would be you,” one calls out. “So happy to win, even if late.”
“I made back my forty leas in the lottery now that you’re here. I picked you from the beginning,” another calls out.