She tries to make me laugh.
I can’t. My thoughts storm and the pain throbs.
“Her Royal Highness sent word that you were trying to lift your beauty caisse. Du Barry warned that you were stubborn and a bit unruly. But doing the servants’ work, young lady?” She pats my arm. “You shouldn’t have. Rest now, and the doctor will have these bones reset in no time. Your arcana will help them heal quickly.”
“The arcana don’t heal,” I grumble.
“Aye, but their proteins can refresh, and that speeds the healing.”
The arcana refresh.
The arcana rejuvenate.
The blood proteins.
Princess Charlotte.
“Where is my personal servant, Bree?” I ask.
“I will send for her.”
I sink back into the chair. I’m leeched, stuffed with food and two pots of Belle-rose tea, and my fingers are set and wrapped in a splint. Rémy takes his place outside the doors, and I close my eyes to drift in and out of a fitful sleep.
“Camellia.”
“Camellia.”
I wake to whispers, then Bree’s concerned face.
“What happened?”
“Sophia.”
She runs gentle fingers over my hand.
“I need you to find the queen’s Belle, Arabella. Tell her to come to me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“As quickly as you can.”
Bree nods, then scurries off. I watch an hourglass on a shelf. It expires before Arabella arrives.
She rushes to the bed. Her veil blends into the darkness of the room.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“As well as I can be.”
She examines my hand, then scrunches back the ruffled sleeves on her dress to expose a series of scars that look like quill scratches and bite marks. “Sophia’s anger can bite.”
“Tell the queen I’m ready to help Charlotte. I’ll do whatever I can.” I lift my cast. “Broken hand and all.”
“Thank the goddess,” she whispers.
44
I pace my bedroom, waiting for Arabella or the queen’s post or her guards. I cradle my splinted hand. The day dims into evening, and evening fades into night, and an open window carries the symphony of laughter and cheerful voices into my room. I step onto the balcony and look out on the imperial carriages clustered down below. The moon burns dull white and winks light over their gilded frames. Sophia must be having another party.
Bree opens the door.
“Is she here?”
“Who, my lady?”
“Arabella?”
“No, my lady, just the dinner cart.” A flurry of post-balloons trail her.
“What are all of those?” I ask.
“The newsies found out about your hand,” she says. “And thus, the entire kingdom.”
The main salon is filled wall to wall with post-balloons. Currant red. Emerald. Dark plum. Onyx. Cerulean. Saffron. Primrose. Jade. Quicksilver. Elisabeth complains and grumbles, smacking them left and right. They dodge her angry swings and drift higher toward the ceiling.
One catches my eye. It’s shaped like a black ship in the Royal Harbor. I reach for it. My heart is starting to beat faster. I remove the note from the back.
Camille,
Lifting heavy objects doesn’t seem like it suits you. Please stop.
Feel better. Write me. But most likely, you won’t, because you’re very important and will receive a dozen of these or more. Nonetheless, I challenge you to write me back.
Yours,
Auguste
A smile warms my entire body. The only bright moment of today.
The Belle-apartment doors snap open. I fill with sudden relief.
Arabella.
I rush forward.
“Her Royal Highness, Princess Sophia, House of Orléans,” an attendant announces. “Followed by her ladies-of-honor and the Royal Fashion Minister, Gustave du Polignac.”
I freeze, then slip the note down the front of my dress.
Does Sophia know about my message to the queen? Has something happened to Arabella?
Sophia runs over to me. “How are you, my little love?” She bats her long eyelashes and purses her lips. Her mouth is like a miniature pink sweetheart pastry from one of the patisserie windows in Trianon. There isn’t a single trace of our earlier fight.
I step back, shielding my hand. “I’m fine.”
She smiles. “I’ve brought you dinner. It’s the least I can do. I was angry earlier. Claudine provoked me. Forgive me, will you?” She turns to Claudine. “Apologize for provoking me, Claudine,” she hollers.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Claudine curtsies. “I take full responsibility. I’m sorry, Camellia. It’s all my fault.”
Servants flood through the doors, pushing steaming carts and carrying heavy trays. An entire feast is laid out before me in seconds. Beautiful flowers adorn the platters—roses, edelweiss, bloodroot, violets, laurels, and tulips. Her ladies-of-honor find seats, eyeing the army of post-balloons overhead.
“Does it hurt?” Gabrielle asks.
“Yes,” I say.
Claudine plucks a strawberry from one of the dessert carts.
“Don’t eat that food,” Sophia barks at Claudine. “It’s for Camellia only.”
Claudine flushes the color of the strawberry in her hand, and drops it. Henrietta-Marie skips around the room, inspecting each corner. The Fashion Minister picks at invisible lint on his pants. He’s unusually quiet. I wait for him to say something lighthearted, make a joke, even look at me, but he stares into his lap.
“You didn’t have to interrupt your busy schedule to bring me dinner and come talk to me. I’m fine,” I say, hoping Sophia and her ladies will leave. I watch the door, anticipating Arabella’s arrival.
“Oh, but it’s not just a social call. Right, Gustave?” She turns to the Fashion Minister.
“Her Highness has had me attempt to make several vivant dresses based on the one you created as her wedding look.” His voice is flat, eyes glassy. “We’d like your opinion on them.”
He snaps his fingers.
The Belle-apartment doors reopen, and his dandies push in massive bell jars that hold three dress stands. Three different gowns glitter beneath the glass. The first one blooms bright with the color of fresh blood, then turns snow white and back again. The second has the texture of a honeycomb; the fabric is cut in sharp angles, hugging the mannequin like it’s the queen of the hive, as the color oscillates like the sunrise from rich oranges to bright yellows to soft tangerines. The third is feathered and covered in seed pearls that shift into various gleaming shades of white—cream and milk and lily and ivory and bone.
I do a lap around each one. They change as I pass. “They’re beautiful,” I tell the Fashion Minister.
“But still not quite right.” Sophia joins me, slipping her hand into my good one. She strokes it like I’m one of her teacup pets. I flinch at her touch, but she tightens her grip. “I need your wisdom. I need you to help Gustave make these even better.”
I pull away. “Of course, Your Highness.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” She returns to her seat, a triumphant look on her face. “Tell me your ideas.”
“Perhaps the fabrics can transform the length and style of the dress throughout the ceremony,” I say.