She waves her hand, pushing me to scrutinize the poor girl.
A servant lifts the seat under me. I almost topple forward. Her ladies-of-honor Gabrielle and Claudine snicker at the mishap. My feet fill with lead, and moving each one forward feels like it takes an hourglass’s worth of time. The mirror hidden deep in my corset warms against my skin. I’m face-to-face with Astrid. She smiles again. My own smile in response is weak.
“What do you see, Camellia?” Sophia says. “It can’t be anything lovely. Not in the least.”
Astrid’s face crumples. Her mouth pulls down with sadness. Her eyes dart around. Courtiers whisper their agreement with Sophia’s statement. “Your Highness, I hope I have done nothing to offend you, but if I have, my sincerest apologies,” Astrid stammers out. A deep sweat rushes down her brow, taking her face powder with it. The tinge of gray in her skin is more visible now.
“You have offended me,” Sophia declares.
Gabrielle hands Astrid a scandal sheet called Sir Daniel’s Dastardly Delights. The vulgar words race along the page as if they’re afraid of all the candlelight in the room. The pictures morph into a dozen lurid scenes, and capture the salacious rumors circulating the kingdom this week.
“Extinguish a few of the candles so the ink will settle,” Sophia says.
Servants reach long-handled douters overhead and snuff out a few flames. Others herd night-lanterns into faraway corners. A candle is brought right beside Sophia. She places it on the game-table ledge. It illuminates her face but casts shadows in her eyes. She clears her throat. She’s terrifying. “Your offenses, Astrid Pompadour, are enormous. There’s the slovenly way you—and your sisters, I might add—carry yourselves, and embarrass Orléans, and your merchant house, Le Nez. And there’s the fact that your mother is rumored to be my father’s latest mistress.”
A roaring gasp rushes through the room. My hand cups my mouth.
Astrid shakes her head. “She is not.”
“Your mother is quite glamorous. I don’t know why she lets you parade around court looking a mess. Maybe all the family spintria are spent on her.”
“She isn’t—”
“Your assurances and promises mean nothing to me. I’ve heard it on good authority that she is.” She reaches for a platter of strawberries and dips one into the bubbly liquid in her flute. “Camellia, she must have a new look. To match her harlot of a mother.”
She waits for my response. Fear flashes in Astrid’s eyes. The words stick in my throat.
“Don’t you agree?”
I want to walk away. I will my legs to move. They shake instead, remaining fixed in place like deep roots. Astrid stares at me, her pupils dilated, tears brimming over at the edges.
“I’m waiting,” Sophia says. “I demand an answer.”
“Of course she does,” Elisabeth blurts out. I glare at her, and her eyes plead with me. Astrid’s breathing accelerates.
“If you say so, Your Highness,” I say.
Her mouth curves into a grin. “Yes, I do say so. I do.” She pops up from her chair and hands Claudine her teacup elephant. Claudine keeps her gaze low. Singe leaps from the game table and onto her shoulder. Sophia circles Astrid and waves the scandal sheet in the air.
I spot a few words and phrases:
MADAM POMPADOUR
MISTRESSES OF THE KING
SHAMEFUL
DISGRACE ON LE NEZ
Sophia takes a deep breath and beckons for us all to mimic her. The room sucks in a collective breath. She exhales. The whole room sighs.
“I smell a . . . PIG! That’s what.” She touches my shoulder. “Give her a face befitting one.”
Astrid cries out. “Oh, please don’t,” she begs, cowering. “Please, Your Highness.” Guards lift her arms and force her upright.
“Your Highness, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t have my caisse, the Belle-rose tea, my accoutrements,” I say in a panic.
“She’s right, Princess Sophia, Your Highness,” Elisabeth adds. “Beauty work must never be done without those items.”
Sophia whips around. “It can, and it will.”
“Please,” Astrid cries out again.
“SHUT your mouth!” Sophia says.
Astrid bites her bottom lip, desperate to hold in the sobs. Rouge-stick is smeared over her mouth.
“Now, Camellia, my favorite, do it,” Sophia says, returning to her seat to watch. “And not in an hourglass’s worth of time, but now.”
I purse my mouth to keep it from quivering. I take deep breaths. I search Sophia’s face, waiting for her to shout out that this is all a big joke.
“Do it,” Sophia hollers. “I order you to. Now.”
The conversation in the room halts. Eyes settle on me. No one dares to move or talk or take a breath. Sophia’s eager stare burns.
I close my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t, favorite. I beg of you, don’t,” Astrid pleads.
Astrid’s face appears in my head: her close-set eyes and graying skin and too-small lips and beaky nose. The arcana awaken. A rush of heat flashes through me. The veins in my hands swell. I open my eyes.
I stretch out the hump on the bridge of her nose like it’s a clay model. I dig out more space in her nostrils. I force her bones to twist and the cartilage to fill in.
Astrid screams.
I stop. I can’t do this. I can’t.
The guards hold Astrid still.
“Keep going,” Sophia snaps. “Do as I say, Camille.”
I shape Astrid’s flesh into a snout. Tears fill my eyes as she wails.
“Add hair. Add hair,” Gabrielle shouts.
“Yes,” Sophia demands. “Bristly hair.”
Some in the crowd laugh. Others grimace, no doubt thankful that this isn’t happening to them. A few look away. I thicken Astrid’s nose hair, and lengthen it so it pokes from each nostril like the stubble on a man’s chin.
Astrid screeches and drops to the ground, slipping from the guard’s grasp like a piece of silk. She’s a pile of sobs and moans. The guards hustle her back up onto her feet. She presses her hands to her face. A favored lady courtier yanks them away to reveal her new nose. The snout glistens with snot.
“Well done, Camellia. Beautiful. May you always find beauty, Astrid.” Sophia waves the guards forward. “Let’s go see what the newsies think. Give them something for their late-night papers.” She leads Astrid, her ladies-of-honor, and a train of eager courtiers out of the room and into the Grand Entry Hall. She announces that everyone should follow and head for the Receiving Hall for a night-parade.
“You must go with them,” Rémy says, unsticking my feet.
“I didn’t want to do it,” I say.
He is silent, but disappointment is reflected in his eyes.
“What was I supposed to do?”