The Belles (The Belles #1)(101)

“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.”

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.