“It’s going to be fine.” Sophia will be furious with me if she finds out.
Her house servant knocks, then enters the room with a tea tray. She pours a hot cup for Astrid. “Thank you. Thank you, Carina.”
“You must still wear this veil, and you can’t let the princess know you’ve changed your nose. Nor can you tell her it was me who did it.”
“Or course not, Lady Camellia. I wouldn’t dare. I’m so grateful.”
“It should’ve never happened.”
I pull the satchel of tools from my waist-sash. I examine her nose. The snout juts out of her face. My shame and disappointment overwhelm me.
I cover her nose with bei powder and dip one of my metal instruments into the pot of steaming water.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” Astrid nods and closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath.
The arcana ignite inside me. I feel the warm hiss of their movement through my veins. I sweep the broad-sided metal instrument across the bridge of her nose. The excess skin melts away. I sculpt it back to its original shape—high bridge, long slope. I shrink the nose hairs. The former snout now curves into a slight upturn at the tip. I touch up the gray in her hair and skin as a bonus.
“It’s finished,” I say.
Her eyes pop open. She exclaims, touches her face, then bursts into tears. “Thank you, thank you. I just . . . can’t . . . thank you enough.”
I rub her back.
“It’s the least I can do.”
I leave Astrid in front of the mirror, examining her new nose. Rémy and I walk out into the late morning sun, out of the Rose Quartier into the Market Quartier to hail a rickshaw back to the palace.
“That was nice of you,” he says.
“Nice?”
“I mean, I’m glad you did it,” he mumbles.
“Even though it wasn’t on the official agenda? And the princess will probably be upset?”
“Yes. It was the right thing.”
“So, do you break the rules for noble reasons?” I ask.
He grunts in response. A poor version of a laugh.
We navigate the bustling corridors of the Market Quartier with their cobalt-blue lanterns and clogged shops. Representatives of merchant houses parade their wares. Women wear dresses covered in products for sale: pearls, perfume bottles, spice pouches, and more. Men shout from their tents and lure customers with promises of what’s inside. I lift my veil to get a better look at it all.
“Can I trust you not to run off?” Rémy asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Stay right here, I’m going to get us a rickshaw.” Rémy trudges ahead to a carriage-and-rickshaw pavilion. Courtiers haggle over prices and admire trinkets. Rickshaws empty passengers full of happy laughter and gasps of excitement.
A royal carriage pulls up across the street. The emblem of one of Sophia’s ladies-of-honor winks in the sunlight. I move into the shadow of a nearby pavilion as the door opens.
It’s Claudine. She steps off the carriage and reaches a hand back. Out climbs one of the servant girls I’ve seen tending to Sophia. Her uniform peeks out from under a luxurious fur coat. Claudine opens a parasol over their heads, and they disappear under it like a pair of gossiping courtiers.
They giggle, exchange glances, and head into the market. I watch and follow them. They stop to admire baubles and necklaces, then enter a dress shop. The owner fusses over them with silks and brocades and taffetas. The woman pulls out a dress for the servant girl. When the owner turns her back, Claudine leans in, kisses the servant girl on the mouth, and runs her fingers through her cropped brown hair.
“You told me you’d stay put.” Rémy startles me.
I crash into the shop door. The owner turns around. The girls look at me and scamper away from each other.
Claudine stomps forward. “Who’s there?”
“Rémy, let’s go, quickly.” I try to hurry away.
Claudine snatches the door open and catches my arm.
My heart bubbles up into my throat. “Lady Claudine,” I say with a bow, and lift my veil.
“Camellia.” She stares with a terrified look in her eyes. Rouge-stick rings her swollen lips. “And just what are you doing here? Does Sophia know?”
“Pardon, Duchesse de Bissay.” Rémy bows. “It was my fault entirely. I was giving her a tour of Trianon.”
“Well, I was just looking for dresses,” Claudine says. “With my attendant.” She points to the servant girl, who stares at the floor. “I wasn’t doing anything.” She wipes a handkerchief across her mouth, fusses with her hair, trying to pull herself together. Tears shimmer in her blue eyes. She fans them away. “Violetta, go prepare the carriage. We’ll return to the palace.”
The girl rushes off.
A heavy silence expands among the three of us.
“Camellia, can we talk in private?”
“Yes.”
Rémy walks a few paces ahead.
Claudine takes my hands. “Please don’t say anything. Even if Sophia asks about me being in Trianon.”
“I—”
“Sophia can’t know.” Her bottom lip quivers and her hands shake. “I’m in love with Violetta, Camellia.” She gulps. “And I know I shouldn’t be because she’s without status. I’ll be ruined. Sophia is trying to secure a marriage for me. Someone suitable. Titled. Someone my father would respect and want for me. Someone who would help him settle his debts. And I know I need to tell her about Violetta. But—”
“I won’t say anything, my lady.” I hug her to get her to stop shaking. “I promise.”
Claudine takes a deep breath. We stand there until her body stiffens and she pulls away.
She steels herself. Wipes away falling tears, shakes out her arms. “I will marry the next person she proposes.”
Her words feel empty and practiced.
“Why not just tell her, and marry who you want?”
“As you are well aware, Camille, you don’t say no to Sophia.” The servant girl reappears. Claudine gives my hand one last squeeze, then gathers up the voluminous layers of her dress and leaves.
I’m numb as Rémy and I walk back to the market entrance, where a rickshaw awaits.
Once the curtain drops, Rémy whispers, “Be careful about carrying other people’s secrets at court.”
37
That night, light filters in through a slit in my bedcurtains.
“My lady . . .” Bree’s voice slips in. “Are you still awake?”
I set Maman’s book to the side.
“Yes.”
“A post-balloon just came for you.” She releases the canary-yellow balloon. It glows like a sun inside my dimly lit bed canopy, and knocks around the night-lantern.
“Thank you,” I reply, and close the bedcurtains again.
I tug the tail ribbons and open the back to retrieve the note.
C,
I’m safe.
More soon.
E
I turn the page over, and the words SPICE and PRUZAN are spelled out in pastels. I’m not sure what these coded words mean, but at least she’s safe. I press the tiny paper close to my heart, and a rush of relief surges through me. I blow out the night-lantern and drift off to sleep.
A rough shove awakens me. “Lady Camellia. Get up quickly.”