The Belles (The Belles #1)(39)

Ivy turns around. “No, I wasn’t consulted.”

“I want to be part of it all.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” I say. “I want to make the people of Orléans love themselves.”

Ivy continues down the hall. “You are here to make things beautiful,” she says.

“I know,” I reply. “But—”

“The princess’s chambers are ahead,” Ivy says.

Servants move in and out of a set of doors carrying trays and baskets. The princess’s emblem shines on the rich wood—a chrysanthemum blooming inside a jeweled petit-crown. Several other ladies hover outside.

The hall goes silent. Courtiers crowd on both sides of me. Ivy and I pass through the heavy silence like it’s thick mud. Their faces are curious, and behind their smiles is a reminder: they all want something from me.

“I’m supposed to prepare you to serve Princess Sophia.”

“I studied a lot about her, reading papers and beauty pamphlets, even the tattlers. I stole them from Du Barry’s mail chest—”

Ivy presses a finger to my mouth.

“Not a single word you’ve read could prepare you for the real thing.”

The doors open.

A trumpet flourish sounds. The princess saunters into the hall. Her day dress is buttercup yellow and perfectly complements her new skin color—a dusky light brown, like warmed milk with cinnamon and nutmeg stirred into it. A swirl of red hair sits atop her head like a tiered dessert stand.

“Do you still do her beauty work?” I ask.

“Yes,” Ivy whispers while bowing.

“I heard the new favorite was outside of my boudoir,” the princess calls out.

I join Ivy in a deep bow all the way to the floor. I lift back up. The princess takes my hands and kisses both my cheeks.

“Your Highness,” I say.

“Call me Sophia.” She smells like honey and anise.

A train of women cluster behind her. Newsies send navy story-balloons over our heads to try to capture any tiny bit of our conversation. Sophia’s eyes scan my face, staring intently, like she means to memorize each part.

“I like the way you look,” she says, reaching out to touch my cheek. “We will spend time together soon. I have so many questions.”

An attendant approaches and bows before us. “Your Highness.”

She turns to address him. “What is it?”

“The infirmary staff is ready,” he says.

“Take her,” Sophia orders before turning back to me. “Camellia, my mother’s summoned me. And when the queen calls”—she sighs—“I can’t ignore her, as much as I might want to.” She touches my cheek again. “More soon. I’m very excited about you.” Her eyes flash with eagerness. Her procession of women and attendants and newsies trails her down the hall like an army of ants.

The doors to her chambers reopen. Male attendants carry out a young woman on a stretcher. Her limbs flop like dying fish. Moans echo through the halls and scatter nosy women in a dozen directions.

“What do you think happened to her?” I ask Ivy.

She stiffens, and her gulp is so loud it almost echoes. “Princess Sophia,” she says.





19


An afternoon fireworks display explodes over the Royal Harbor to celebrate the princess’s birthday. The popping and crackling sounds boom through the apartment. I watch from the balcony. Colorful lightning spiderwebs across the sky; silver, white, and emerald green weave the most beautiful and terrifying exhibition to mark the hour of the princess’s birth. The garden arcades and grounds are abuzz with movement as the palace prepares for the royal birthday party. A hopeful thought wells in my chest—my sisters will most likely be here for the party. It’s an official kingdom-wide holiday.

I prepare two urgent post-balloons—one to Edel and one to Amber.


Edel,

Is anything better? Will you be at the palace tonight?

Please come. I need to see you. We need to talk.

Love,

Camille


Amber,

What happened to you at the palace? There are rumors, but I don’t believe them.

I’m sorry. Please write me. I hope to see you at the palace tonight.

Love,

Camille


I wait for a pause in the fireworks to send the two palace-official post-balloons off the balcony. An air-postman will check their compasses and sweep them to their destinations this afternoon. I just hope Amber will read the note and write me back, and maybe even come to the party tonight. I need to see her. I watch until their lilac forms disappear among the clouds.

A violet dress and a matching mask of sunbird feathers arrive in the main salon. The princess’s masked garden party starts in two hourglasses’ worth of time. I ring the bell near the Orléans tapestry.

“Yes, my lady?” Bree asks.

“Where’s Ivy?”

“I’ll—”

A heavy knock rattles the apartment doors. She scurries to answer it. Rémy’s thick boots clomp against the wooden floors.

“Lady Camellia.” His voice has a single, unaffected tone. The pitch of it booms in my chest like he’s speaking into a voice-trumpet.

“You can call me Camille,” I say.