Sophia leaps with joy. “That’s right. That’s right. It would be so unexpected.” She turns to the Fashion Minister. “Can it be done?”
His eyes are wide with panic, but he says, “I will do my very best.”
“You never disappoint. I will keep you in my cabinet forever.” She kisses him. “Now, come eat, Camellia. I’ve brought this just for you.”
Bree makes me a plate, collecting different meats and vegetables from all the carts. Sophia sprinkles the plate with flowers. “Don’t forget these. They’re popular now. The Minister of Health says we all should ingest colorful vegetables and even flowers. It’s beneficial, supposedly.”
I eat as the others watch. The food has a peculiar smell. Pungent. Flowery. Strange.
Sophia smiles. They discuss the coming Declaration and what Sophia will wear. The Fashion Minister suggests several looks.
I fade in and out of the conversation. Their voices turn muffled, their words drifting off like they’ve been set afloat. A shiver floods through me, both hot and cold at once. The room spins around like a télétrope reel. My stomach turns.
“Are you all right?” Sophia asks.
“I don’t feel . . .” I mumble as the food starts to come up and out and all over my dress.
Bree rushes to my side. “What is it, miss?”
“Don’t touch her,” Sophia commands.
Bree jumps back.
“Didn’t you serve her?” Sophia accuses.
“Yes, Your Highness, but—” Bree stammers.
“Did you put something in the food?” Gabrielle adds.
The room rocks left and right like a boat. Sweat races down my cheeks. I can’t speak. I can’t defend Bree. I can’t stop vomiting.
“Call the guards,” Sophia says. “Take her. She’s tried to kill the favorite.”
Sophia’s guards drag Bree kicking and screaming and crying from the room. I want to stop them, but I can’t form the words. She becomes a tiny pinprick before everything goes dark.
The hours tangle together, a mess of night sweats and medicine and not being able to keep anything in my stomach. The poison chokes my veins like a vise. It dulls and mutes the arcana. I can’t feel my gifts anymore; the gentle hum of power just beneath my skin is gone. My connection to my sisters and the Goddess of Beauty is lost. The drowsiness is too heavy to resist. My eyelids fight to stay open.
Someone touches my wrists. There’s a pinch as needles push into my skin.
“Low blood pressure.”
“Extreme drowsiness.”
“Dilated pupils.”
“Very low arcana.”
“Deep sleep. Almost coma-like.”
“Poison for sure.”
“But her blood is clean.”
“How is this possible?”
“We may never know.”
45
Three days pass, like sand falling from one side of an hourglass to the other. A new imperial servant—Marcella—helps me dress. It’s my first day out of bed. The queen’s postballoon floats from my vanity hook. Her note—telling me to come immediately to her chambers when I am strong enough—is tucked into my dress. The Declaration of Heirs Ceremony has been postponed until both the queen and the princess can be prepared by the favorite.
The main salon is a flurry of chaos. Battalions of gossip postballoons swarm the solarium as the morning-lanterns are lit. Their black noses click and clack against the glass, begging to be let in. I know they’re full of parchment that hold questions and tattlers replete with speculation about what happened to me.
Knocks rattle the Belle-apartment door.
“Lady Camellia isn’t seeing anyone yet. Please make an appointment,” Elisabeth shouts from her office. The circuit-phones blare.
Rémy’s powerful voice blasts through the doors. “You can leave get-well flowers, but you must clear the hall.”
Newspapers sit on tea tables flashing their headlines: FAVORITE ALMOST KILLED BY THE JILTED EX-FAVORITE
POISON HAS BECOME MORE DEADLY AT
COURT THAN AN ASSASSIN’S DAGGER
PRINCESS SOPHIA OUTRAGED AT THE TREATMENT OF THE
FAVORITE AND JAILS AN ENTIRE STAFF OF SERVANTS
IMPERIAL SERVANT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE
FAVORITE’S POISONING PUT IN STARVATION BOX
“My jacket, Marcella,” I say, my words clipped. I want Bree back.
She drapes it over my shoulders. I open the Belle-apartment doors. Claudine stands there with her attendant.
“I didn’t even get a chance to knock,” she says.
“I’m leaving. I have an appointment.” I step out. Rémy gathers flowers and cards and postballoons left along the hall.
“Wait. I need to talk to you. I have to tell you something.”
“If it’s about what I saw in the Market Quartier, don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone. I promised you I wouldn’t.”
“I know you haven’t,” Claudine whispers. “And I’m so, so grateful.” She takes a deep breath. “Are you feeling better?”
“The poison has left my system, thanks to the leeches.” I don’t mention how it took a full day for my arcana to return.
“And I’m sorry about your imperial servant. What was her name? I saw the headlines about the starvation.”
“Bree.” I bite back tears.
“Can we go inside for a moment?” She looks all around as if we’re being watched. “It’ll only take a moment.”
I sigh, then return to the main salon.
Claudine licks her bottom lip. “Actually, can we use one of the treatment rooms?”
“Claudine, I must go.”
“Please.” Her eyes are desperate.
I lead her to a treatment salon and close the door behind us. “What is it?”
She leans in and whispers, “Don’t react to what I’m saying. We’re always being watched. The servants. The attendants. Make sure to laugh as if I’m telling you something ridiculous, so they don’t pay attention.” She waits for me to nod. “I’m almost certain Sophia was the one that poisoned your food that night. She told us not to eat from the carts. She made it seem like it was a special treat just for you. But I knew. I suspected.”
I cover up my anger with a laugh. “I knew it was her. Bree would never harm me.”
“When we were younger, Sophia would hurt us. If we didn’t do what she wanted—even if it was to play a different game in the gardens or playroom—she’d get angry. And if we spent time with people other than her, she’d punish us.”
“How?”
She pauses as we hear someone pass outside the door.
“She would slip draughts into our tea, or lace our rose creams with something to make us sick so we wouldn’t spend time with other people or go places she didn’t want us to. She always gets what she wants.” She pauses and fakes a giggle, so I mimic her. “And I’ve always obeyed.”
“She can’t get away with this anymore,” I say.
“She can, and she will. She’s just started manipulating you, Camille, and the more you fight back or resist what she wants, the worse it will get.” Claudine drops her head. “I’m not strong enough to fight her.”
“I won’t let her get away with it.”
“She’s talking about how she’d like to be able to change her look with the snap of a finger if she steps into a room and sees someone more beautiful than she is. She’s trying to figure out how to make this possible. She’s experimenting—”