After she disappears, I slip in. Circuit-phones line every inch of the walls like floating candlesticks. Cone-shaped receivers rattle left and right on top of each one. Their ringing pierces the room. I don’t know how Elisabeth can tolerate it. A rolling ladder scales the wall, giving access to the phones that nearly kiss the ceiling. Iron spintria safes sit like a stack of blocks beside the door.
I bolt to the corner desk. It’s covered with beauty-scopes, spyglasses, appointment ledgers, spintria pouches, post-balloon letters, and beauty pamphlets. I open each drawer, searching for an address book. One is cluttered with newspapers and tattlers and scandal sheets, another with petit-hourglasses and abaci. The last one is packed with unused post-balloons and parchment. I dig under them and discover a royal address ledger.
Thank you, Goddess.
I scour it for the address of the Pompadours from Le Nez, House of Perfumers. I use Elisabeth’s quill to write the information on my hand, and step out from the office just in time to hear her angry voice echo from the hallway. I race back to the bedroom and pull the string for Bree.
She steps out from behind the wall. “Yes, my lady?”
“Bree, pack the bed with pillows, tightly, and draw the bedcurtains as if I’m in there. If Elisabeth asks, say I’m not feeling well and went to rest. Tell no one I’m out. Will you do that?”
Her brown eyes grow big. “But my—”
I press a few leas coins in her hand. She shakes her head and pushes them back at me. “Go, and hurry back.”
I hug her. She helps me into my traveling cloak and gives me a veil; I tiptoe back through the main salon and out the front apartment doors. Rémy stands at attention as soon as he sees me.
“I need to go to the Rose Quartier,” I say.
“Has the travel been arranged ahead of time?” he asks.
“Of course,” I lie confidently.
Rémy marches forward. I’m careful to keep my head down as courtiers pass by. I search for signs of the Beauty Minister or Du Barry. We leave through the northern gate. The sky is a snow white, with the promise of ice-flakes and wind at any moment. A line of rickshaws sits, ready to carry important passengers into Trianon or beyond. Glamorous courtiers climb in and out of private carriages. Imperial canal boats load and unload people onto gilded docks beside the Golden Palace River. Heat-lanterns trail behind pedestrians to add warmth.
He pauses and looks around. “Where’s your official carriage?”
I scurry to the nearest rickshaw and tell the man the address. He helps me up into the seat.
Rémy runs behind me. “What are you doing?”
The man holds up the canopy’s thick brocade curtain so I can speak to Rémy.
“Get in,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”
He looks pained. “This isn’t protocol.”
“You can either come with me or stay.”
“Or I can take you back to the palace.”
“Please. I need your help.” I pat the place beside me. He stalks forward and climbs inside.
I peek through a small window that gives me a view of the front of the rickshaw. Two imperial runners take their places. Their graying hands stand out in contrast to the black lacquered finish of the rickshaw handles.
“Where are we going?” Rémy asks.
“To fix the mess I created last night.”
He doesn’t respond. The rickshaw bumbles forward. The runners’ braids slap their backs as we race across several Golden Palace River bridges. The wheels thunder over the cobblestones. I clench my teeth until the palace gates open, and we zip through the Royal Square and past the giant Orléans hourglass, waiting for the Beauty Minister or Elisabeth or Du Barry to appear and stop me. My heart races to the rhythm of the rickshaw’s movement.
Rémy drums his hands against his thighs. I steal glances at him. The silver streak in his closely shaven head glows in the subtle darkness, and the crescent-shaped scar under his right eye looks deeper. He even has a freckle on his left eyelid. The Belle who created his look paid attention to small details, made him unique. I want to ask him if he chose his look. I want to know if he cares about his physical appearance, or only about his duty. I can hear him saying, I have no need for beauty.
I laugh to myself.
“What’s so amusing?” he asks.
“You seem nervous,” I say.
“I don’t like breaking protocol.”
“I know.”
“But you do,” he replies.
“Guilty.” The pink brick of the Royal Square gives way to white limestone mansions and townhouses adorned with quartz roses and blush-pink lanterns above their entryways.
“Number thirteen is on the right,” the rickshaw driver hollers back. He brings the foot-carriage to a stop. I hand him a few coins.
“Thank you,” I say.
We climb out. The House of Perfumers’ Le Nez emblem shines brightly on the door—a bouquet of flowers tickling the underside of a nose.
I lift the heavy brass knocker. Its echo booms. A stout woman answers. “Can I help you?”
“Is Astrid Pompadour available?” I ask.
“Is she expecting you?”
“No, but—”
“She’s not seeing anyone today.” She starts to close the door. I put my hand on it and wedge myself into the doorway.
“Tell her it’s Camellia Beauregard. Please. And if she still doesn’t want any company, I will leave.”
“This is highly inappropriate and irregular. Just who are you?”
I lift my veil. She gasps when she sees my face. “My lady. I’m so sorry, le favori. I did not recognize you,” she says, giving a little bow. “Come into the foyer and out of the cold.”
I wave away her formal apology. She disappears farther into the house. The foyer spreads out like the base of an hourglass—open and round—and a gilded balcony juts out overhead. Countless vases sit on every surface, holding snow-season flowers—tangerine calendulas and creamy candytufts and crimson cyclamens.
“Camellia!” My name is screamed from the balcony. Astrid races down a plush spiral staircase. She wears a jeweled veil over her face. Two sad brown eyes stare out of it. She swallows me in a thick hug. I almost topple over. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I’m a mess. I’m suffocating you.”
“It’s all right.” I remove my veil. Her house servant takes my coat from my shoulders. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” I spot tears brimming in her eyes through her veil. “Sophia forced you.”
“I’m here to fix it.” I take her hand and squeeze it. Rémy smiles at me, but it’s so quick it could’ve been imaginary.
“Really?” Astrid squeals. “But what about—”
“It will be fine,” I tell her, sounding much surer than I feel. “Where can we be alone?”
Astrid squeezes my hand in return. “We’ll go to my bedroom.” She turns to her house servant. “Carina, bring me Belle-rose tea. We have a few leaves in the tea closet. Top row. Left-hand corner.”
“I’ll wait here.” Rémy stations himself beside the front door.
Astrid’s bedroom feels like a gigantic flower. Heather walls wrap around us. A domed ceiling holds golden lanterns that drip with light like raindrops made from the sun.
Astrid sits at her vanity. “I went to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse early this morning, but Madam Claire turned me away. Princess Sophia alerted all the teahouses to refuse service to me.”