“Will you walk with me, Your Highness? Another snowstorm is coming in a few hours. I’d love to catch the first flakes,” Auguste says.
“No,” she snaps.
He looks crestfallen.
“Leave. Camellia and I have business to attend to.”
“As you wish.” He bows, looks at me one last time, then ducks out of the tent.
The table clears, and her ladies-of-honor kiss her and exit. Sophia rises from her seat and plucks one of the cream tarts from a tiered dessert platter. She takes small nibbles. Just like her teacup monkey, Singe. The cherries stain her lips red.
Sweat slicks my skin. I gnaw at my bottom lip. Anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to boil over.
“I am a princess,” she says. “I will be a regent queen.” She fixes her gaze on me. “Did they teach that to you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t look at her. I stare straight ahead.
She walks over and stands so close to me that with each breath I take, I inhale a mix of her flowery perfume and the tart she just consumed. “You are to answer my questions,” she spits.
“Yes, Your Highness. I know you will be queen.”
“Did they teach you what queens do?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“What did they say?”
“The kingdom of Orléans is ruled by queens; the crown is passed down through the women of your family. Queens ensure the proper governance of the kingdom and maintenance of its well-being.”
She leans in so close she could kiss me if she wanted to. “Wrong!” The word pelts my face. I refuse to move a muscle. “Queens do whatever they please.”
Singe dances along the ground, then climbs up her skirts and perches on her shoulder. He pets her now-flushed cheeks and kisses her several times. She blows him a kiss in return.
A servant enters the tent toting a clearing-tray. “Leave at once,” Sophia barks. “And do not come in again until you’re sent for.”
The servant cowers away.
I maintain a blank expression.
I’m not afraid of you.
Singe covers his face with his hands.
“Did you see how quickly she followed orders? How she didn’t question me? They were supposed to teach you that. Du Barry was supposed to teach you to have reverence and respect for your queen.”
“But you aren’t the queen,” I say. “Not yet.”
And you won’t be if I have anything to do with it.
Sophia rushes close again. “What did you say?”
I crane my face away from hers. She takes hold of my chin, forcing me to look her in the eyes. Her pupils flash with rage. Singe peeks out at me from behind her towering hair. She runs her fingers over my face.
I clench my teeth and scowl.
“Don’t move.” She continues over my lips, down my neck, my chest and arms. She lifts my right hand in the air. “You really should have a moon manicure. I’ll have my nail attendant do one for you. When I am regent queen, I will mandate it. Even for Belles. Everything about a person should be beautiful.” Her grip tightens around my hand, and her jewel-tipped nails dig into the skin.
I cry out and try to pull away.
“I told you not to move.” She grits her teeth. “Don’t move, Belle, or I’ll break your hand. A Belle with a broken hand won’t be a very good Belle. Certainly not the favorite Belle. Perhaps I’ll tell my mother that we need to name a new favorite again. Just like I did with Ambrosia. I bet one of your other sisters would gladly take your place. Hana, perhaps? Or Valeria? She cried after the Belle assignments were announced. Maybe I’ll choose Ambrosia again. Bring her back for another round.” She tightens her grip on my hand.
I double over in pain. The pressure. Heat. Swelling. A popping sensation. My other fist balls up. I try to shove at her. She’s a solid block in front of me and just squeezes harder.
Sophia turns her head but doesn’t loosen her grip. “Zo, dear.”
The little teacup elephant peeks out from beneath the thick tablecloth. Only her trunk shows.
“Zo, my sweet dear, come out.”
She inches forward, eyes down and little feet twitching. Even she’s afraid.
“Please leave. I don’t want you to see this. Wait for me near the tent.”
The elephant turns and trots off.
“Singe.” Sophia looks up at him. “You too. Stay with Zo.” Singe leaps down from Sophia’s shoulder and scampers off. Sophia smiles at me with soft lips, the corner of her mouth lifting. It’s the smile from every single portrait, painting, newspaper, tattler, and scandal sheet. “See, even they know how to obey.”
I seethe.
“Don’t ever disobey me.”
I clench my teeth.
“Did you hear me?”
I press my lips together. She clamps down harder until I cry out again.
“Yes, I heard you.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She twists my wrist even tighter. “You owe me an apology. Princesses aren’t treated in this way.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I swear, Your Highness. I’m sorry.”
Finally, she releases me. I stumble back, cradling my hand. Sophia leans in and kisses my nose, then calls for servants.
“Summon her personal guard. Tell him there’s been a small accident. That poor Camille must be taken to the Palace Infirmary at once. Alert the royal doctor.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the woman says and disappears.
Another servant drapes Sophia’s shoulders with a white floor-length coat, and she’s led from the tent. I cradle my hand. The pain is unbearable. Rémy appears, and I’ve never been so glad to see him. Behind him, a servant wheels in a rolling chair.
“I can walk,” I say.
“You shouldn’t,” Rémy replies, surveying my hand. “We’ll get there faster.”
He lifts me up and deposits me gently in the chair.
“What happened?” he asks.
A hood lifts above my head: a privacy canopy, shielding me from view. Unruly tears fall down my cheeks. I’m too upset to answer. I don’t want him to know I’m crying. Rémy walks beside the chair as it tramples over lightly frosted ground.
“They said you lifted your caisse by yourself and hurt your hand, but you didn’t have it with you. I brought you there empty-handed.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.
“I can’t protect you if you don’t start telling me the truth.”
You can’t protect me from her. I have to protect myself.
We reenter the palace. Whispers follow us. Rémy shoos away trailing newsies trying to figure out how the favorite landed herself in a rolling chair. We take one of the golden lifts to a higher floor.
The journey to the Palace Infirmary feels long. I’m pushed along winding corridors and balconies. The doors of the Palace Infirmary glow bright with lanterns, the royal apothecary emblem burned into their sides. Their light pushes through the privacy curtain.
Rémy shoves the doors open. I’m wheeled inside. The attending nurse lifts the hooded veil and helps me up.
“My goodness, what happened?” She shepherds me into a private area. “We must also check your levels. The doctor will be in soon.” She fills a tray with needles and takes out the arcana meter from her pocket. “It looks like you’ve broken those fingers. The last two. Treacherous work, being a Belle at court, isn’t it? Fixing up spoiled little girls and boys.”