The Belles (The Belles #1)(109)

Claudine jerks forward.

“Amber, stop,” I yell.

“No, you won’t win.” Amber continues to work. “I’m not done yet. I’m not done.”

Claudine’s body morphs so quickly I can’t identify all the changes. Her skin shifts into a mosaic of colors. Mahogany brown. Sandy brown. Midnight black. Creamy white. Her hair alternates its texture and length. Her breasts balloon and shrink and balloon again.

“Amber!” I grab her arm.

“Get off me, Camille. You’re not going to cheat. I’m going to beat you.” She clamps her eyes shut and pushes forward. Makeup races over Claudine’s face.

I close my eyes and see Claudine there again. Amber’s beauty work zips over Claudine’s body like a télétrope reel. I try to counter it, to block her from making any more alterations. I feel Claudine’s heartbeat and it’s not normal. It’s so very far from anything I’ve ever heard before. I can’t let this happen. Not now.

A loud cry pulls me out of my focus. I open my eyes to see Claudine topple to the ground like a branch that has fallen from a tree. Blood pools in her mouth, then drips down her chin. Her eyes bulge open, then dim. Her heartbeat, so frantic a moment ago, is gone.





47


Claudine’s attendant screams. The courtiers sit, eyes glassy, hands shaking. Auguste stares into his lap. His mother holds a handkerchief to her mouth.

I sway with exhaustion, guilt, and regret. I drop to my knees and press my ear to Claudine’s chest. I search for a pulse, even the faint beat of her heart. I close my eyes; the arcana wake again. I try to find something inside her that is alive, but there is only emptiness.

A palanquin is brought in, and her body is removed. Servants wheel in dessert carts spilling over with trays of luna pastries and snowmelon tarts and petit-cakes.

“We will have dessert. It will rejuvenate us after such a competitive game,” Sophia announces, taking a sip of champagne.

I’m frozen in the place where Claudine’s body was. Amber trembles beside me. Tears stream down her cheeks. She mutters the word sorry over and over again.

“Have a seat,” Sophia orders. “Now!”

“Don’t you care about what just happened?” I say to Sophia.

“Dessert is here.” She sweeps away my concern.

“She’s dead,” I say.

“Come.” Sophia motions for me to return to my seat. “And I will tell you a story.”

I hobble back to my chair; my legs are iron.

The guests try to bite into their sugary treats. No one looks up.

“There was this girl at court. She was one of the best liars. It was a practiced skill. She made me believe that she would help me. That she enjoyed our time together. That she would make me into the best queen I could be. All the while, she actually hated me. She even called me a monster.” She takes a sip of her champagne.

Her eyes settle on me. My heart trips over the word.

“Anyone here think I’m a monster? That’s such a strong word. Usually reserved for creatures in fairy tales. Not princesses. Not future queens.”

I take deep breaths. I look forward, remaining expressionless.

“Is that what you really think of me, Camellia?”

“Excuse me, Your Highness?”

“I’ve been told you think I’m a monster. That you called me that, in fact.”

My eyes volley between Rémy and Auguste. Neither of them look at me.

“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.