“And now you’re ready to play,” Auguste adds, which makes her giggle.
“I am.” She feeds her teacup elephant, Zo, a carrot and pets her head. “Come sit. We’re having a debate.” If it weren’t for the royal Orléans emblem hanging around her neck, she’d be unrecognizable. Her hair is like Hana’s—bone straight, black with golden streaks, and soaring down her back.
I stare for a second too long.
“Don’t be jealous, Camellia,” she coos. “I had to get one final look out of Ivy before she was sent home.”
“And she knew I preferred brunettes,” Auguste adds. “Curlyhaired, but—”
“No one cares what you prefer, Auguste Fabry,” she says with a laugh. “A newsie challenged me to do something different—to not have blond hair for once. I rise to every challenge given to me.” She fixates on me, waiting for me to meet her gaze. “But don’t be jealous, you’re still my favorite.” She blows me a kiss. “For now.” She pats a nearby cushion. “Come, sit beside me.”
I ease down beside her like I’m getting used to hot water in a bathtub.
She gives me a playful shove, and I topple over.
Gabrielle and Sophia laugh. My cheeks flush, and I worry my anger will explode out of me any minute.
“Be careful. You almost sat on Zo.” Her teacup elephant peeks above the cushion.
“My apologies,” I say.
She eyes me. Zo rubs her tiny trunk along my dress ribbons. I catch the warm little trunk like a worm, and it wraps around my finger. Her gray color is beautiful, unlike the Gris. Rich and deep, like ocean stones. The teacup elephant scratches her blue-painted nails on my dress, and flashes me the chrysanthemum flower on her belly. I rub it, and she makes a happy sound.
“Zo,” Sophia calls, and the little pet turns away from me, stretching her trunk in the opposite direction. “Leave Camellia alone. She has to join the glorious conversation.”
The little creature flops down on a nearby cushion, her legs splaying in all directions.
A strong wind whooshes against the canopy. The heatlanterns hiss and crackle and send the scent of woody charcoal through the pavilion. Gabrielle steals Claudine’s pastry, poking at her waist. Henrietta-Marie sits in the far corner with her nose in a book. Singe bats the heatlantern ribbons.
“We were just arguing about whether I should have you change Auguste’s dreadful manner if I decide to choose him,” Sophia says.
He laughs, then looks at me, trying to make eye contact. I stare into my lap.
“You could do that, right?” she asks.
“Yes, Your Highness,” I say, keeping my answers clipped.
“Could you make him into a bumbling fool?”
“I gather you already think I am that,” he teases.
“Maybe.” Sophia turns back to me. “Could you make him obey my every command?”
“Our aim is to enhance, Your Highness. The first arcana is meant to refine one’s natural disposition, or help one develop his or her talents, so that he or she may meet their goals.” I sound exactly how Du Barry wants me to. A parrot. A tool, ready to be used. “Sometimes one’s demeanor can become an obstacle for them.”
Our eyes meet. Hers grow wide with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. Maybe if I had been successful in changing her manner, her mother would trust her to be queen.
“What type of disposition should I choose for him? Definitely get rid of the ego. The arrogance—though cute at times—must be lessened.” She ticks off each thing on her fingers. “Girls, what do you think?”
“Camellia could make him humbler,” Gabrielle says.
“Sweeter,” Henrietta-Marie offers, barely glancing up from her book.
He wiggles his cravat as if it’s too tight around his neck, then smiles at each girl.
“Claudine?” Sophia says.
She glances up from a tray of tarts. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. “No opinion.”
Sophia scoffs.
“She’s in a bad mood,” Gabrielle says, rolling her eyes.
“Shut up, Gabrielle,” Claudine snaps.
Gabrielle continues: “The second suitor you set her up with has refused to go on a date with her. She’s been eating her feelings all morning.”
“I will outlaw bad moods—especially for my official ladies-ofhonor—when I am queen.” Sophia picks over the trays of cherry puffs, honey tarts, macarons, and petit-cakes.
I glare at her. You’ll never be queen.
“Regent queen,” Claudine corrects.
Sophia’s hand freezes before her mouth. A peach macaron falls into her lap.
“Completely unnecessary,” Gabrielle says. “And rude.”
“Well, won’t you just be a regent queen? Will you get to change laws?” Claudine softens her voice. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was just saying . . . Ignore me. I’m having a bad day. . . . I misspoke.”
The tent goes silent, the kind of quiet that’s laced with lightning and heat and thunder.
“Thank you for reminding me that I will never be queen on account of my sister,” Sophia snaps, her voice booming.
“I’m—I’m—” Claudine stammers out, a deep blush climbing through her entire body.
“Why don’t you leave, Claudine?” Gabrielle says.
“Fine.” Claudine stumbles to her feet. “Sophia, I didn’t mean to be . . .”
Gabrielle puts a hand in the air. “You’re making it worse.”
Claudine storms out. I wish I could leave with her. Gabrielle reaches over to Sophia and strokes her hair. “Now that she’s gone, maybe we can all actually have some fun.”
Sophia’s frown softens. Singe kisses her cheek and feeds her a grape. Zo lets out a little trumpet noise.
“Could you make someone ugly?” Gabrielle asks me, which brings a sick smile to Sophia’s face.
“That was my next question,” Sophia says.
“You made me give Astrid Pompadour a pig nose. I think that was rather ugly.”
The table bursts with laughter. Except for Auguste. He tenses.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Sophia says. “And I hear that she’s had it corrected.”
“Oh, has she?” I ask.
“Yes, even though I gave instructions to all the teahouses to refuse treatment to her. Someone has disobeyed me.”
“Maybe she went to La Maison Rouge,” Henrietta-Marie suggests tentatively. Servants rush in to clear plates and refresh drinks and set down more savory bites and sweet treats. Sophia grabs the arm of the nearest servant. The woman is startled and drops a glass. It shatters on the ground.
“Leave it,” Sophia says. “It’s fine.” She turns back to me. “What if I wanted to test it? See if you can land this woman in the tattler Ugly Papers at the end of the year.”
The servant squawks with fear.
“Wouldn’t that be wrong, Your Highness?” I say.
Sophia lets the servant’s hand go, and the woman races from the tent. “You must be very tired, Camellia. Maybe that’s why you’re not in a pleasant mood either.” She glares at me. “We should all retire to our rooms.”
I stand, more than happy to make my escape.
“Not you, Camellia, not yet. Linger behind a moment.”
I freeze mid-step.
Auguste hovers in the tent’s doorway. His eyes find mine, finally. They hold questions and concerns. I glance away.