“I said—”
“Do not lie to me.” Sophia pounds her fist on the table. The whole thing shakes. “You’ve been talking about me. And calling someone a monster isn’t very nice. It’s dangerous, actually. I cannot have anyone in the kingdom saying those types of things about me.” She drums her fingers on her plate.
No one breathes.
“I also can’t have you sneaking around with one of my suitors.”
“I haven’t—”
“Another lie.”
Auguste’s face turns scarlet.
“You insult me even further the longer you keep up this deception. You make it seem as if I’m unintelligent. As if I can’t see your affection for Auguste.” She leaves her chair and walks behind mine. Her perfume gets caught in my throat. “You thought, Oh, poor Sophia, she doesn’t know anything. She’s pitiful. Regent queen. Second best to her older sister. But I’ve gotten smarter. I’ve learned to pay attention to the little things—to who looks at whom when they enter a room, how one’s voice changes when they talk about a person, and more.” She cranes down, getting close to my ear. “You’ve been a naughty girl.”
My hands curl into heavy fists, nails digging into the flesh of my palms. A rage simmers from my heels to my head, tinged with sour fear.
“But I have something to tell you.” She cups her hand to my ear and lowers her voice. “Your lovely Auguste—well, my Auguste—was responsible for every bad thing that has happened to you. The dead roses in your bathing chamber when you first arrived, the fire in your bed, the poisoning of your food.”
Her words are whisper-soft, but they hit me in my chest and in my heart like heavy punches.
I gaze up at Auguste.
“Did you tell her?” Lady Georgiana asks.
“I did. I did.” Sophia jumps up and down and claps wildly.
Lady Georgiana sighs. “It’s all my fault, really, Camellia. And I’m so sorry to tell you all of this the first time we’re meeting. I will be replacing the Beauty Minister when Sophia is queen. And I sent my very handsome and charming son to ascertain the secrets of the Belles. The Du Barrys have had a monopoly on the trade for too long. Change is coming.”
The betrayal feels thick and hot in my chest. Like my heart is on fire. My stomach roils with shame and embarrassment.
Sophia snaps her fingers. An adjoining room opens. Servants wheel in a contraption. Clear vats shaped like cradles hold floating babies. Golden tubes connect them to arcana meters and large vessels filled with blood.
Amber gasps.
Sophia stands beside it proudly. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She kisses one of the glass cradles, then wipes away the smudge left behind by her rouge-stick. “You really are the roses of our kingdom. And you can be grown like them. Planted like flower bulbs to germinate in the blood of dead Belles. Then you just spring up.”
The meager food I’ve eaten rises in my throat.
“Your blood truly is divine,” Sophia continues. “And now, I’ll be able to grow as many of you as I wish. I could even sell you. Build a golden auction block in Trianon—or better yet, in the Royal Square in front of the Orléans hourglass.”
“You can’t do this,” I say, shaking.
Sophia laughs.
“The things you told Auguste made it possible. He got more out of you than we’ve ever been able to get out of the Du Barry family. They’re quite loyal to your kind. Taking the whole divine-appointment thing very seriously.”
Amber dissolves into tears.
“I will stop you.” I rise to my feet.
“I’m not sure how that will be possible, since you will be rotting in jail for the rest of your days.” Sophia’s eyes are like pinpricks of ice as she addresses the guards.
“Arrest both of them for the death of Lady Claudine, Duchesse de Bissay, beloved lady-of-honor to the princess.”
48
Rémy and three other guards cart Amber and me through halls thick with courtiers. Whispers explode. Many pull monocles and eyescopes from their pockets. Others lift ear-trumpets. Newsies sketch pictures. Gossip post-balloons swarm over me like dark storm clouds.
I fight against Rémy’s grip. I thought I could trust him. Angry tears rush down my cheeks. I trip over my dress skirts as he drags me forward. He shoves me down a long and narrow staircase. I push back, jerking against his hold, wishing I could claw his face. My shoulder shifts in and out of place, dislocating each time I jerk and try to free myself. The pain rushes through me.
“Where are you taking me?” I shout.
He doesn’t answer.
“Let me go.” Amber tussles with the guard restraining her.
I try to run. Rémy grabs my waist and tightens cuffs around my wrists. A dark bag is put over my head, stamping out the light. Then he flings me over his shoulder like a potato sack. I’m carried for a long distance. Every time I squirm or fight, his grip tightens.
He walks down another set of stairs. My injured shoulder hits a cold wall. The click and clack of metal sliding on metal echoes. Cries and moans pierce through the space.
The bag is snatched off of my head. I’m tossed on the ground. The hard surface knocks the air out of my lungs. The floor is gritty and wet under my hands. My eyes adjust, and bars sharpen into view in the dim light. The ceiling hangs heavy and low, and drips with foul water. Amber curls into a ball at my side.
Rémy closes and locks the gate.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I do what I’m told,” he finally says before stomping off.
I run to the bars and shake them. They rattle but don’t give. I trace my fingers over their cool surface. I push my finger in the lock over and over again, thinking I can somehow get it to open.
Amber bursts into a thousand sobs. “What are we going to do?”
“Maybe we can use the arcana?” I pound the bars again, even though I know that force won’t help. All of the air shoots out of me, and I’m dizzy. I sink to the floor, weary with defeat.
Sophia tricked us.
She forced us to murder Claudine in front of everyone. She could leave us locked down here forever.
My head spins like a top. I close my eyes. The cold in the stone floor seeps through my gown. I rest my head on my knees and concentrate on the arcana.
I picture the bars like a body or a canvas or a candle. My fingers tingle as the arcana wake up inside me again. They’re dull and weak from overuse on Claudine. Sweat skates down my back, and a headache floods my temples. I shake and tremble.
“It’s solid metal, Camille. We can’t manipulate it.” Amber’s cries turn to hiccups.
I sigh and crumple forward. If the bars were made of wood, the planks would soften and become malleable; when I opened my eyes, the wood would be nothing but chips in a pile, to be used for kindling. Your gifts are useless when it comes to metals and gemstones, Du Barry had told us. Punishment because the Goddess of Beauty chose the God of the Sky to love over the God of the Ground.
“Take a pin from your hair,” Amber says, ruining her Belle-bun as she extracts her own. I fish one out of my curls, my hand trembling. “Help me.”
“It’s no use,” I say.