The Belles (The Belles #1)(114)

“For days, I’ve been testing this path out of the palace. It’ll lead us to the eastern gate—the quietest pier—so we’ll easily be able to take a boat. I’ll navigate it out to the harbor instead of going into Trianon.”

His plan fills my weak muscles with strength they don’t have.

“The Golden Palace River empties into the harbor. We can escape that way.”

I stop. “Wait! We can’t leave.”

Amber crashes into me.

“We have to go,” Rémy urges.

“We can’t. I need to help Charlotte,” I say.

“This is our chance to get out,” Amber says.

“I made a promise. I have a duty.”

Rémy’s eyes widen and he smiles. “You can’t even follow my directions after I save you,” he says.

“No. And we can’t let Sophia remain in power.” I look Amber in the eye. “Not if there’s something we can do.”

Rémy considers this, then nods. “We can take the queen’s passage.”


The queen’s private passageways snake from the piers back into her chambers, which are connected to Charlotte’s room. Medicinal pastilles burn on chafing dishes surrounding Charlotte’s bed. Healing-lanterns drift over her like sun-filled clouds. The fireplace roars and hisses. Nurses move in and out of the room with trays of vials and powders. Arabella stands at Charlotte’s side, veiled, shoulders slumped, holding and stroking her frail hand.

The princess lies there, hands crossed over her chest. There is no sign of my earlier attempt to smother her.

“Arabella,” I whisper.

She swivels around. “Oh, Camellia.” She rushes to me.

Rémy and Amber step out of the passageway behind me.

“I heard what Sophia did. I couldn’t get to you. I’m sorry.” Arabella hugs me.

“It’s all right. We’re all right,” I say.

“Where’s the queen?” Amber asks.

“She’s very ill,” Arabella reports.

“You have to tell her what’s going on. You have to wake her,” I say.

Arabella nods, motions to a servant, then says to me, “Hurry. Sophia probably knows you’ve left the dungeons.”

I look at Amber, my eyes saying: Can you do this? Are you strong enough? Are we strong enough?

She nods.

“We need leeches, and a needle,” I say.

Servants disappear and return quickly with a cart of supplies.

“What’s wrong with her?” Amber asks.

“I’m not sure, but I have a theory.”

A side door opens, and in hobbles the queen with Lady Zurie at her side. She uses a cane, and her back curves into a question mark. Gray hair falls down it in a large wave. Her once-brown skin is now almost completely gray. “Camellia, you came.” She barely makes it into a nearby chair. “Help my sweet girl.”

“We will,” I say.

Arabella hands me a needle herself. I pull the mirror from beneath my dress.

“What’s that?” Amber asks.

“A miroir métaphysique,” Arabella says. “It only shows the truth.”

“My mother left it to me.” I prick my finger and let the blood race up the little handle. The roses and stems uncoil, and the message appears: BLOOD FOR TRUTH. I gaze at the glass, waiting for the fog to clear, and to see Charlotte’s reflection. Her eyes fight to open. I feel her will to live and her anger. A red glow circles her image.

“See?” I show Amber.

Amber leans in to look, and gasps. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“She’s trying to wake up.”

I study Charlotte’s reflection. What are you trying to tell us?

I glance up at the queen. She’s rocking in her chair, hands pressed together, prayer beads looped around her palms.

“Take Charlotte out of these garments,” I say.

The servants remove her dress, the corset and crinoline, and stockings and gloves. She’s stripped down to her dressing gown, which makes her seem even more frail.

“The jewelry, too.”

Rings are pulled from her fingers, bracelets unclasped from her wrists. Her royal emblem is taken from her neck, exposing her identification ink.

She looks ordinary. Like a woman from Trianon’s market, or the Achillean Alps.

“And the hair ornaments.”

A servant reaches to remove the comb from the crown of Charlotte’s head.

“Wait,” the queen says. “She’s never without her favorite comb. Her grandmother gave it to her a year before she grew ill. She wore it everywhere. Even in the bathing tubs.” Her tired mouth lifts in a half smile. “I never let them take it off. I feel like it gives her strength. And Sophia adds flowers to it weekly.”

“We must, Your Majesty. I want her as bare as possible.”

“I just”—she starts to cry—“hate to see her like this.” She totters over to the bed, touches the comb, then pulls it from Charlotte’s hair and squeezes it. She waves to a nearby servant, who steps forward to remove large sections of Charlotte’s hair. The pieces of wig are set on the nightstand. The princess is almost bald, with only a few tendrils growing limply from her scalp. Lady Zurie starts to sob.