The Belles (The Belles #1)(102)

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.

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.