The Belles (The Belles #1)(49)

An unexpected knot forms in my throat as Auguste stands. He smiles and basks in the cheers and attention lavished upon him. My hand quivers as I grip the stem of my glass for the toast. Auguste is one of Sophia’s formal suitors. The reality of that feels strange. He was just an insufferable, overtalkative boy before. And now he’s someone important. Someone I have no business wondering about. I gulp down the fizzy champagne.

Sophia’s ladies-of-honor whistle and clap.

Everyone drinks to the health of the suitors and the princess. The royal orchestra marches in with stringed misens and violins and cellos, and the first waltz of the evening begins.

The Fashion Minister presents his hand. “A dance with the favorite?”

“Is it allowed?” I tease.

“I am very important and have immunity from being jailed by the queen’s court. I can risk it.” When he smiles, the many freckles on his cheeks blend into one.

“I’ve never danced with a man before.”

“I bet there’s a long list of things you haven’t done.” He puts a hand around my waist and turns me. “I’m honored to be the first.” Other couples steal glances at us. I watch them turn like colorful spinning tops. The Fashion Minister spins me as if we’re on the Imperial Carousel. The room becomes a swirl of laughter and light and color. The rich dinner churns in my stomach.

“I have to slow down,” I say.

“So soon?” He stops.

My legs wobble and shake. A sticky sweat climbs over my skin. People stare as they dance by. I press my hands to my mouth and vomit into them.


The Beauty Minister apologizes to the guests. She mentions the fragile constitution of the Belles. Du Barry gives servants instructions about me. Elisabeth laughs. Many people whisper about my soiled gown. Their faces blur, and their voices become one ambient hum like the noise of the bayou.

Bree rushes to help me clean off, but my gown is a wet mess. Remnants of the lavish birthday dinner stain its violet folds. I am disgusting.

The queen approaches, and I’m dizzy all over again.

“Camellia,” she says.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I reply with a bow.

“I’m going to walk you out.”

My chest flutters with panic. Her eyes burn into me. Giggles and whispers follow us.

She waves away her imperial attendant, and walks me into the long hall. Rémy and a member of the First Guard follow closely behind. Newsies maintain their distance but sketch pictures and send black gossip post-balloons in our direction. Both Rémy and her guard crush them like paper animals.

I worry that I look and smell terrible. I hate that she’s standing so close to me. I hate that this entire thing happened. My stomach knots again, threatening to empty anything that didn’t already escape.

The queen looks me over from head to toe. “Are you well, child?” She touches my cheek as if she’s checking my temperature.

“I had too much to eat and drink. I’ve never really had champagne before.”

“Can you do this?” she asks.

“Do what, Your Majesty?”

“Be who I need you to be.”

“I will do whatever you want me—”

She puts a finger to my lips. “We will see. I am not yet convinced.” She walks back to the Grand Banquet Hall.

I’m trapped by her words, each one a pin tacking me in place, until a pack of black gossip post-balloons swarms me like a kettle of vultures.

I sprint ahead.

“Slow down,” Rémy calls out from behind, chasing me down the corridor. “You’ll twist your ankle, and then I’ll have to carry you.”

I think he’s attempting a joke.

I kick off my shoes and carry them so I can move even faster. The cold marble is a comfort to my swollen feet.

Rémy’s boots pound the floors, and he catches me before I reach the staircase. “You’re headed the wrong way,” he says. “And you’re too sick to run.” It feels like he’s poking at a bruise. “Your rooms are up the staircase to the north wing; this is the southern staircase.” His forehead glistens over with sweat, the curve of it like a hazelnut.

“Show me, then,” I snap, bunching the folds of my wet dress. I want to get as far away from the Grand Banquet Hall and the newsies and the embarrassing memory as possible.

He walks alongside me. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Why are you being nice to me?” I ask. “Up until now it’s been nothing but instructions and protocols.”

“My commander says I have to shift my attitude,” he says, clearly repeating the instructions. “He believes my gruff demeanor is the reason you disobeyed orders in the garden.”

“Oh, so it’s not because you want to.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He shrugs. “I’m not good with words. And I’m doing a terrible job at this. I’ve never done it before. My commander said the best way to protect a person is to start by getting acquainted with them.”

“I don’t feel like talking,” I say.

“Well, I do,” he says. “The third course was my favorite. Though the duck was a bit overcooked, in my opinion. And eating in the kitchen area isn’t ideal.”

I ignore his rambles. The embarrassment of the night hits me over and over again. I wonder if it’ll land me in a tattler or scandal sheet or the late-night newsreel. I wonder if that is why the queen asked what she did; if she thinks I can’t handle being the favorite.