The Belles (The Belles #1)(31)

I cover it with my thumb. I want to scratch it out and write favorite. When I turn the card left and right, my tiny portrait winks. I comb through them again, staring at my sisters’ faces, missing the sound of their laughter and the noise of their company. I linger on Amber’s, and her eyes hold a glimmer like she has a secret. Her Belle-bun looks like flames wrapped up in a bow. When you rotate her card, she smiles. I trace my finger along her mouth, wondering if she’ll ever smile at me again.

I tuck the stack under my pillow. Servants blow out all the night-lanterns in my room except for one. They close the bedcurtains. I stare up at the canopy and wait for my dreams to sweep me away. Maman always said, Dreams remind us of who we are and how we feel about the things around us. But my mind is a frantic mess of worries that pull me awake each time I drift off. Will Amber forgive me? Will I be able to help the people of Orléans discover their beauty and make my mother proud? Will I be able to accept that I’m meant to be here, instead of at the palace?

The shuffle of heeled feet and the hum of tiny cries drift through the house. I listen for a few moments, thinking it might be a servant. The cries continue.

I pull a robe from the closet, then walk to my bedroom door.

It’s locked. I wiggle the doorknob. It opens, but not from my side. A sleepy-eyed servant stares back at me. “Lady Camellia, how can I help you?”

“There’s crying. What is it?”

“I didn’t hear anything, miss.”

I brush past her into the hall. I listen again. The whoosh of night-lanterns and the sounds of one of Madam Claire’s parties drift through the foyer. The clink of glasses, the giggling of excited women, the laughter of men. “I heard it.”

“Maybe it was a night-lantern. They screech a little when the candles are about to go out,” she says. “That must be it.” She tries to guide me back into my room.

I plant my feet. She avoids my gaze. A sheen of sweat appears across her forehead.

“Why is my door locked? And where is Bree?”

“Just a precaution, miss,” she says. “Your safety is important to Lady Claire. Bree is having her nightly meal. Would you like me to get her?”

“No, it’s all right.” I walk back inside the room.

“Good night, miss,” she says before closing the door. The tiny click of the lock echoes.

“Good night,” I whisper back. I bite my bottom lip and go right past the bed to the wall. I rub my fingers along the beautiful cream of the damask-printed paper. Tiny air streams push through the panels.

“Bree?” I whisper.

No answer.

I nudge at the hidden door Bree uses to enter my room. The panel swivels forward and reveals Bree’s quarters.

Two oil lamps cast their yellow glow through the space like a pair of great eyes watching for movement in the dark. The walls hold cupboards lined with cutlery and plates, piles of silk, linen, candles, and bottles of every kind. Sets of wing-backed chairs spill over with laundry. A lap-size washbasin sits at their feet. On a footstool sits a half-eaten meal of soup and a hunk of bread and cheese. Steam still rises from the bowl.

I listen harder for the crying. The sharp sobs ring out beneath the party noises. I exit through the room’s back door and land in a salon room made rich with russet sofas and ivory tea tables. I slip out, and up the back staircase that the servants use. Night-lanterns nip at me as if they know I shouldn’t be out of bed or using these stairs. I follow the whimpering noises and the laughter.

Dark sets of doors lead to sprawling chambers and bold apartments. The cries grow louder and louder alongside a crescendo of laughter. I enter an adjacent tea parlor to peek into the party room. The floor is a stretch of marble with gilded piping; cushioned chaise lounges in shades of indigo and crimson sit in a circle; tiered trays spill over with tarts and petit-cakes and sugar-dusted fruit; beauty-lanterns whiz above well-dressed guests, providing them with the perfect amount of light to look their best.

“You’ll be fine, Sylvie,” one woman says.

“It really isn’t that bad,” another adds.

“But it’s terrible,” the woman cries out. “You’re all lying.” She paces the center of the room, and her dress blooms around her, the color of fresh blood. A deep gash cuts across her face in the shape of a sickle. She dabs it with a handkerchief.

“Men will still find you attractive,” says a third person.

“Don’t speak for all men,” a male voice says, sending raucous laughter through the room.

“Well, they’ll still be attracted to your purse, if nothing else,” someone says.

“I don’t care if men want me. To be found beautiful by other women is worth more leas than affection from any man,” the injured woman snaps back.

“Anything can be fixed,” the man calls out, “with the right amount of spintria. And we all know you have a bounty of it.”

“I can’t believe your teacup bear did this. Did you get her at Fardoux’s? I hope you return the little beast,” a woman says.

“Where is she, by the way? Lurking about this room, ready to maul someone else?” another man says.

The women scream, and glance over and under their chairs and chaise lounges.

“She’s off hiding,” the injured woman says. “And where is Claire with the Belle? I’m terrified my skin might fall right off.” She snaps at a nearby servant, “Go and fetch Madam Claire. Tell her that her hospitality is lacking, and I don’t like to be kept waiting.”