“I do.” He turns his head so his cheek lands in my palm. I re-center his head and move to the side of the table.
I fold over the towels to reveal his legs. The sickly gray skin resembles an elephant’s trunk with thick hair poking out. I grab for a charcoal stick. I draw lines along his thighs, then move to his stomach. The women study every movement I make. All four of them inspect my lines. I cover him with bei powder.
Bree presents a tray of tiny skin-tone pots. I pluck one that matches his royal look. Its rich yellowy hue reminds me of smashed bananas. I finger the round bulb in my hands. I mix a little russet brown in to deepen the color and add several undertones.
The women inch out of their seats. Servants usher them back.
I use a paintbrush to finish coating the man’s skin with the paste, like sticky marmalade on toast.
I close my eyes and focus on the man’s arm. I rub my fingers along the skin. Sweat coats my forehead. The beat of the man’s heart, and the noise of his blood as it circulates through his body, grow louder and louder. I mix the pigments.
I open my eyes and wipe off the paste. The color climbs over the man’s arm, changing his skin from pale gray to a warm color with yellowy undertones.
The women gasp with awe and approval.
“How’s the pain, Your Highness?”
“Just fine. I’m like a thoroughbred,” he says. I motion for a servant to blot his sweaty brow.
“I’m moving on to the deeper work you requested now.” I run my finger over his stomach.
He squirms a little. “Give me muscle definition.”
I close my eyes, picturing his body. I push a metal instrument along his belly.
He grimaces and grunts. Muscles appear. His skin tightens and reddens. He winces with pain.
I wave the servants over. “Sit him up. Give him another full cup of Belle-rose tea. Add a drizzle of elixir.”
I do exactly what Ivy did with Princess Sabine. They lift his head and place the cup to his mouth. He thanks me. “Also, prepare an ice bath for him.”
Bree scampers out.
“Are you all right, Alfie?” one of the attendants calls out.
He puts his hand up and flicks it to the right. The women stand on command and file out the door.
“Where are you going?” I say.
They don’t answer, and close the door behind them.
He sits up.
“Sir, please lie down. I’m not finished.”
He grabs for me—one hand closing on my wrist, the other pawing at my dress and neck. His mouth presses against my face. Panic tears at me.
“Your Highness.” I push him away.
“I want to know what you taste like. If being born with color changes the way you feel.” He rips one of my skirts and tries to untie my waist-sash. “You must all be different. I visited one of your sisters. The white-haired one—Edelweiss, yes, that was it—and she was lovely.”
I scream out.
His hands find their way under my skirts. We knock into the trays, scattering Belle-products across the floor.
“I like screaming.” He hisses at me like an animal.
I kick him and escape to the opposite side of the treatment table. He jumps at me again and presses me against the wall. He kisses my neck and smells my hair. I reach for the tools in my belt, grab a metal smoothing rod, and stab him with it. The rod pierces his belly. He grunts, but still pushes forward, trying to sandwich me between his body and the treatment table. I shove the rod in harder and finally make the space to slip away.
“Get back here!” he bellows. “Just one kiss.” He yanks the rod out of his flesh and tosses it aside, like it’s nothing more than a splinter.
He chases me around the table and catches me by the waist. I use my arcana to call the Belle-roses in the teapot back to their younger forms. They surge; the teapot explodes. The porcelain shatters. Liquid splatters all over, and he flinches as the hot droplets sting his back. I uncoil the flowers, stretching out their petals and stems. They bloom into thorny chains that I use to press Prince Alfred’s arms and legs against the wall. He fights against the restraints.
“I like you. You’re feisty,” he says. Blood trickles down his arms and legs. I push the thorns deeper into his skin, then let a vine hook around his neck. He makes a kissing noise at me.
Anger pushes my arcana further. The sound of his heart pounds in my ears. Its fleshy red shape sears through my mind. Its erratic beat is a drum.
I slow it down, beat by beat.
The color drains from his face.
I tighten the rose thorns around his throat. They dig deeper, drawing more blood. His eyes bulge. He chokes and coughs and sputters.
The door bursts open.
Rémy bounds in. “Camellia!” He grabs me. My concentration breaks. I release the roses. Prince Alfred collapses forward, crashing into two carts. Belle-products shatter everywhere. The female attendants flood inside and cry out with concern.
I almost hit the floor, too. Rémy catches me, sweeping me up in his arms. I curl into him, arms tucked under his, legs pulled up, my head against his chest.
40
I’m immediately taken to see the queen—still covered in Prince Alfred’s blood and Belle-rose tea, still angry from his disgusting advances, still shaky from almost stopping his heart. A veil covers me, an attempt at protection against the ever-present newsies and courtiers in the palace halls.
“What will Sophia’s forever look be?” many shout out as I pass, ready to cast another wager in the newest palace-wide game. They flash animated cameos at me.
“What about this one?”
“No, this one.”
“Will she be a blonde?”
“Freckles?”
“Will she take the coloring of her mother or father?”
Rémy blocks them from getting too close. I don’t look up from the ground. The buzz in my head and heart and body make it impossible to think of anything else. We take a palace lift to avoid more courtiers.
Rémy posts himself outside the queen’s door.
Chafing dishes melt medicinal pastilles, and steam vases release vapor into the room. The fireplace burns brightly.
“Your Majesty. Lady Camellia, the favorite, here to see you,” her attendant says.
She sits beside an arched window. The Beauty Minister and the Minister of Law flank her sides.
“Sit with us here, Camellia.” Her voice is soft and reminds me of my mother’s.
I take the seat across from her.
“Let me see you.” She motions for me to lift my veil. A nearby servant helps me remove it. She tsks at the bruise on my cheek left by Prince Alfred.
A teacup and saucer find their way into my nervous hands; I take small sips.
She rubs my cheek. “I heard about the unfortunate incident with Prince Alfred. We’ve called you here to let you know what we’re going to do about it,” she says. “First off, let me apologize for his terrible and ungentlemanly behavior.”
“I don’t want an apology. I want him to be punished. I want it to never happen again. To anyone.” The rage inside me flares and leaks out. I think about how he mentioned going to see Edel. Did he do this to her, too? Is that why she ran?