The Belles (The Belles #1)(34)
“Grab a broom,” another says.
“Close the doors,” a third hollers.
I rush into the hallway. The foyer is filled with midnight-black gossip post-balloons. One after another, they swarm through the door like bees in a hive, zipping left and right, knocking into freshly lit chandelier-lanterns, staining the marble with their dark sparks.
I press myself against the nearest wall. My breath catches. “What’s happening?” I say.
No one answers me.
“Seal off the courtyard,” Madam Claire screams. She presses the front doors closed, smacking away pairs of hands holding pens and parchment pads marked with the newsie house emblem.
Bodies thud against the doors. A chaos of men and women press against the glass, drumming and beating each window. I hold my hands to my stomach. My heartbeat overwhelms my entire body. Fists knock. Screams and shouts assault my ears. In one of the windows, a crack in the glass spreads out like lightning as the determined people try to get in.
Servants draw the curtains. Bree rushes to my side, her face pink and sweaty.
“What’s happening? I ask her.
“Everyone’s saying something’s amiss at the palace,” she whispers.
Madam Claire clicks a series of locks, and then topples over with exhaustion. Makeup runs down her face. A servant helps her to the nearest chaise.
“Madam Claire.” I race forward, batting at black post-balloons. “What is all this?”
“I don’t know,” she pants, then motions to a nearby servant. “Use the circuit-phone to call for the guard.”
“Madam, the queen’s post arrived through the back entrance,” a servant announces as she tugs the glistening ribbons of a gold-and-white post-balloon. It floats over Madam Claire’s head like a small, glittering sun. She pulls it into her lap, removes a parchment scroll, and breaks the queen’s seal. Her eyes flicker with excitement as she gazes from the page to me. “You’ve been summoned by the queen.”
16
The dress Madam Claire picks out for me wraps my body in rich layers of cerise and coral. The six tiers of fabric are like different frostings of tulle and lace and silk. A sweetheart neckline scoops low above my bodice, and she decorates my neck with layers of diamonds. The waist-sash pinches around my center; its bow holds tiny embroidered Belle-roses.
I run my fingers over the dress to assure myself it’s real. A tiny tremble quivers through me. Why would the queen want to see me? Why would the newsies attack the teahouse? My heart won’t slow down. Should I be afraid or excited or hopeful or confused? The emotions crash inside me like a carriage accident happening over and over again.
I’m back in the queen’s Receiving Hall. Its glass ceiling winks light over the queen’s throne, making her glow. Du Barry and Madam Claire stand to my right. The Beauty Minister is at my left. The queen’s court and ministers look on from plush high-backed chairs. I search for Amber. She should be standing to the left of the Beauty Minister, but she’s nowhere. I’m afraid to take my eyes off the queen, as if this whole moment might disappear. My stomach rises and falls like I’m on the tree swing at home.
“Your Majesties and Your Highness, allow me to present to you Camellia Beauregard once more,” the Beauty Minister announces.
I curtsy and bow all the way to the floor. The queen’s hot stare makes me sweat.
“Your Majesties. Your Highness.”
“Up, my child. Let me have a look at you,” the queen says.
I stand, head still bowed, but steal glances at her. The scandal sheets and tattlers call her icy and passionless. I swallow down the peculiar mix of dread and excitement bobbing in my stomach. She looks at me with cold eyes and an unsmiling expression, a gaze that sends a chill through me. Her dark skin glistens with powder, like she’s covered in stardust. She clutches a small scepter.
As many times as I whispered to myself that this was a happy visit to the palace, one with the promise of good news, it doesn’t feel like that. One question repeats over and over in my head: What does the queen want with me?
The king smiles at her and rubs his red beard. The princess sits on the very edge of her throne with bright red cheeks. She looks at me with eager eyes, like I’m a caramel crème-cone ready to be devoured on a warm day. Her teacup pets surround her—a monkey on her shoulder, an elephant in her lap, and a thimble-size rabbit perched on the tip of her scepter.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling you back to court. Though the king says I’m behaving like a finicky cat, and I should be embarrassed.”
The court laughs; the king chuckles, taking her jeweled hand and kissing it. I watch the way he looks at her, his eyes big, his mouth soft. I wonder if they’re in love and the tattlers and scandal sheets are wrong about his countless mistresses and affairs.
“I’m happy to return, Your Majesty,” I say. And I want to stay forever.
“Camellia, this is an important time in our kingdom. The marriage of my daughter is on the horizon.”
The court calls out a wedding blessing. Everyone applauds.
“I want to ensure that Princess Sophia’s marriage starts off properly, and that her eventual reign falls seamlessly into our legacy. House Orléans, as you know, founded our magnificent kingdom and created the great city of Trianon. My daughter must be outfitted with a look appropriate for the Orléans Dynasty. To fit seamlessly with the great queens and with her ancestors.”