“Yes—I’m grateful I never have to marry.”
My answer seems sufficient.
“Well, if you did, what kind of dress would you wear?” She stares straight into my eyes, as if she’s searching for the answer somewhere deep down inside me.
I don’t think of my preferences, but of Sophia’s. How she changes her look almost daily—how she detests the idea of choosing one royal appearance for life.
“I would consider a dress that would change throughout the ceremony and reception. Not just in color, but in shape. Something that will morph into all your favorite dress cuts. A ball gown for the ceremony, a slim silhouette for the receiving line, a flounced skirt for dancing—but without you ever having to leave the party.”
Sophia’s eyes widen. “Do you think it’s possible?”
“It could be. We could work with animated ink, and experiment with silkworms,” I say.
Sophia winks at me. “You know how much I love to test things. I knew I wanted you around for a reason.” She steps behind a screen.
Her attendant prepares to dress Sophia by removing her coat and gloves. Gabrielle lifts the hanger and carries the dress back to her. For a moment there is nothing but bustling and murmured compliments—and then Sophia screams. The sound pierces through me.
Guards rush forward. Rémy moves me aside as he helps to remove the screen. Sophia is crouched on the floor. Attendants flock to her. They rip the gown from her body. Ugly hives and burns mark her arms and chest. Tears course down her face, taking her makeup with them. Her body is racked with sobs. She suddenly seems so small and vulnerable.
“It’s poisoned,” someone says.
“I didn’t do it,” the shopkeeper says. “I swear.”
The guards turn to arrest her. She runs off. A few chase her out of the store. Bodies swarm inside—newsies with post-balloons, nosy courtiers, passersby. Rémy and the remaining guards work to establish order and clear out inquisitive onlookers. Voices ping like sparklers around me. Flurries of hands reach for the princess, trying to comfort her.
More guards flood the space. In the chaos, I let my heat-lantern get too close to one of the hanging dresses and it ignites. Adding fire to the chaos only draws a greater crowd. Rémy whisks me out of the shop.
“Stay here,” he says.
“I will,” I lie.
The moment he turns to put out the fire, I flee down the winding corridor. I fight through the crowd to get to a set of staircases. I jump down three at a time and almost fall.
“Is this the way out?” I ask someone.
“Yes, three flights down. Or the lift is faster, miss. Oh, wait, aren’t you . . .”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I’m spurred on by fear, trying to apologize as I knock into shoulders and purses and small children. I make my way out of the maze and onto the street. I step out into the path of an approaching rickshaw and wave my hands.
The man halts. His fur hat flies forward. A woman snatches the privacy curtain back and screeches at the man and then at me. The woman sitting next to her joins in the barrage of insults until she sees me.
“Viola!” She slaps the woman’s arm.
“Oww,” Viola says.
“That’s the favorite.” She points.
“No, it isn’t. Couldn’t possibly be.” She leans forward. Her nose scrunches as she inspects me. “Oh my!” She clutches her large bosom.
“Are you going to the teahouse?” I ask. “Can I have a ride? I promise to give you both a beauty token for your troubles.”
“We aren’t, but we’ll take you there. Get in.” She waves me forward. “Help her,” she hollers at the driver.
“I can get in myself.” I gather up my long skirts, step up on the footstep, and slide between the two women.
The squeeze is tight. The man races forward.
“What were you doing, Lady Camellia?” one asks.
“Yes, where is your carriage, my lady?” the other adds.
“I got lost inside the Garden Quartier,” I lie.
“Well, that’s easy to do. It’s quite a mess. All those stores scattered here and there and on top of one another like a messy closet of hat boxes.”
“Yes, it was my first time,” I say.
“Not to worry,” one says. “We’ve rescued you, the loveliest of favorites.”
The women tell me all about the card game they’re about to attend in the city of Verre. They kiss my cheeks and hold my hand and tell me how they won money in the kingdom’s lotteries by betting on me to be named the favorite.
The rickshaw pulls up to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. I press two beauty tokens into their hands and thank them as they whiz away, full of laughter.
My heart thuds.
I pull my jacket closed to block the wind. I avoid the entrance and walk around the side of the teahouse to the gardens near the veranda. I take off my coat and throw it up over the small railing, then lift my skirts to climb up. A buzz hums under my skin like the arcana.
I duck as servants set the veranda for afternoon tea. I wait until they disappear into the kitchen before darting into the hall. Day-lanterns putter overhead.
I climb the stairs. Madam Claire’s high-pitched voice rings out, so I hide in the nearest room and press my back to the wall.
“Is Ambrosia still resting?” she complains.
“Yes, my lady,” an attendant answers. “She always rests for an hour before tea.”
“I lose three possible appointments in that time. Who said she could continue to do so?”
“She’s slow to rebalance these days.”
Their voices taper off as they move farther into the house.
I inch forward and check the hall, then race up the last set of staircases to my old bedroom on the third floor.
I turn the knob and sneak inside. The room is outfitted in deep reds and oranges like a phoenix’s feathers. Ambrosia flowers wink and bloom from animated wallpaper. The bedcurtains are drawn.
I rush forward. “Amber?” I whisper.
No answer.
I say her name again and open the bedcurtains.
The bed is empty.
Disappointment floods every part of me. I’m near tears. On Amber’s nightstand sit little mortuary tablets for Maman Iris.
“What should I do, Maman?”
I wait for an answer. I run my finger over the mortuary tablets.
Search.
The word drums through me.
I go back to the bedroom door. The noise of the servants in the hallway sends me to the wall. I run my fingers over it, waiting to feel air. Then I push. Bree’s old servants’ quarters are empty. I slip out and up the servants’ staircase. I search every room on this floor, then go to the next and the next until I’m at the very top of the teahouse, the tenth floor.
Madam Claire’s apartments are on the right. Each door is locked but one.
As soon as I open the door, the sound of soft crying greets me. The room is pitch black, aside from one single day-lantern tied to a nearby door hook.
“Who’s there?” a sniffly voice calls out.
I untie the lantern and walk forward.
“Amber? Is that you?” I say.
Something metallic drops with a clatter.
“There’s no Amber here,” a second voice cries.