I smile and wave. Elisabeth giggles beside me. “We’re going to make a ton of spintria, Camille, and Mother will be proud of me.” She grabs for my hand, and I jerk away.
“ I will make a ton of spintria,” I say.
A cold wind follows courtiers through the doors leading from the Royal Game Salon dock. The moon winks light across the golden pier. Canal boats float like jewels on the dark water. Men and women from merchant houses enter, displaying their families’ wares on their clothes, in their hair, or even embedded in their skin. Women wearing House of Spice dresses leave tiny trails of cinnamon and anise and saffron, and those from the House of Inventors are outfitted in gowns covered with silkscreen pictures of their newest products. Men are donning House of Bijoux top hats, indented with chambers to display pearls and rubies and sapphires.
Princess Sophia’s game table sits dead center in the room. Hand-painted plates boast a kaleidoscope of patisserie and petit-cakes pierced with flaming sparklers. Champagne bubbles over a tower of stacked glasses into a small golden well. Courtiers dip their flutes into it. Sophia bounces up and down in a high-backed chair, sipping from two goblets while a woman fans her. Her teacup elephant, Zo, sits in her lap, stealing sips from her glass and nibbling the strawberry on her petit-cake. Sophia laughs and directs her teacup monkey, Singe, to roll the die for her on the circular board that hooks around the champagne-flute tower. Hand-drawn boxes circle the center of the board and hold brilliantly colored numbers, one through seventy.
“Your Highness,” Elisabeth says, bowing. “I have the favorite, Camellia Beauregard, here as requested.” Elisabeth pulls me forward. I lower my head.
“You look well,” Sophia says.
“As do you.” She’s changed her look from the one I gave her. A halo of tiny blond corkscrew curls bounces up and down on her shoulders. I push down worries that she knows what I tried to do in our last beauty session.
Her ladies-of-honor stare. Sophia waves for a chair to be brought for me. “Sit, sit. And watch. I’m on my second official date with suitor number one—Alexander Dubois from House Berry.”
He nods. He is feeding Singe grapes, and grins at Sophia with a gap-toothed smile. His hair almost matches hers tonight—long and blond, with a hint of a curl. But his skin is the same warm brown as mine, and Sophia is as pale white as the porcelain die she clasps in her hand.
Gossip swirls around me: Lady Hortense Bellaire is rumored to have fleas and mice living in her dreadful wig, while Countess Isabelle Favro has no beauty tokens, so she’s taken to kissing Fabian, a well-known dandy, for spintria. Gabrielle lifts a smelling box to her nose when a courtier woman comes to say hello to Princess Sophia. She shakes it to release some of its lavender and lemon scent. The woman scampers off, near tears.
Princess Sophia claps her hands to gather the attention of her game table. “Singe is the banker. Place your bets.”
Courtiers slam colorful gambling tokens on various numbers. The teacup monkey stamps his tiny feet and points at the velvet bag beneath them. Hands move even more quickly, tossing chips on the game board.
“Singe, all bets are placed.” Sophia sits back with a smile. Singe unclasps the bag’s strings and disappears inside of it. The players await his return. The woman to my left holds her breath. The bag rustles; then Singe’s head reappears. He flashes all of his teeth and leaps forward onto the ledge in front of Sophia.
“Zo, take the ticket,” Sophia commands the teacup elephant in her lap. Zo drops her strawberry and trundles forward to the edge of Sophia’s voluminous gown. She reaches out her tiny gray trunk. Singe hands her the ticket. “Good girl, Zo. Such a good petit,” Sophia says. “You follow directions so well.”
She smiles at me as she takes the ticket.
“Number twenty-six,” she announces. “Whoever bet on twenty-six receives sixty-four times their stake.”
“That’s my number,” a young woman shouts from the far end of the table.
Singe dances along the table’s edge.
The young woman barrels through the thick crowd. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”
“It’s one of Madam Pompadour’s triplets. I should’ve been able to smell her coming,” Sophia says to Gabrielle and others nearby. Courtiers chuckle. The young woman bounds forward with an eager smile. A perfume atomizer sits atop her brunette head like a grand hat. It spits perfume every few moments. A person behind her sneezes. Pomander perfume beads coil around her corset like interlaced chains, and her waist-sash is swallowed by a stitched advertisement: VIVA LA POMPADOUR. She’s from the mercantile House of Perfumers, affectionately called Le Nez.
Sophia fans her nose, and Singe covers his. “My, my, Astrid, aren’t we smelling lovely this evening.”
The group laughs.
“Mother says she wanted the whole court to preview our new line of scents, just in time for the queen’s presentation of toilette-box allotments for the new year.” Astrid blushes and jumps with excitement, seemingly ignorant of Sophia’s jokes. “She will be so pleased to hear your compliment and to hear about my winnings. How much? How much?”
Nearby ladies cup their hands to each other’s ears and whisper and giggle and frown at Astrid Pompadour. My stomach squeezes.
“A question first,” Sophia says.
“Anything, Your Highness,” Astrid replies with a bow.
Sophia turns to me, then touches my hand. The unexpected touch makes me leap. “Do I frighten you, Camellia?” Sophia smiles—a slow, teacup-tiger reveal of teeth.
“No, Your Highness. I just . . .”
“Just what?”
Everyone listens and watches.
“You startled me.”
Her lady-of-honor Gabrielle whispers something in her ear. Her gaze fixes on me once more. “My favorite, I have a question. What do you think of Astrid? Her looks, that is?”
I turn my head like it’s on a slow swivel.
Astrid grins at me. Bright pink rouge-stick stains her teeth, and the face powder she has used doesn’t mask the tiny gray tint in her skin. Gray strands streak her hair, though she’s cleverly tried to cover them with beeswax and pomatum.
“She’s lovely,” I say.
Astrid squeals with delight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, favorite. Blessings to you. I do try very hard with limited—”
“Silence!” Sophia commands.
Astrid swallows the last bit of her sentence and her happy giggle. Laughing courtiers button their lips. A hush falls over the entire game room. Hands freeze over tables, mouths are afraid to chew their contents, dice and game chips dig into palms instead of being placed on lucky bets.
“Have a closer look, Camellia. You must be too far away to judge her beauty accurately,” Sophia says.
I search Sophia’s eyes, trying to understand why she’s making me embarrass Astrid in front of all these people. Is this retribution for attempting to change her manner during our session?