The Belles (The Belles #1)(50)
The potential headlines scroll through my mind:
THE FAVORITE VOMITS ALL OVER HERSELF
CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD, NOT SO BEAUTIFUL TONIGHT
BRING BACK THE OTHER FAVORITE;
SHE DIDN’T SOIL HER GOWN
QUEEN OVERHEARD WONDERING ABOUT
THE FITNESS OF THE FAVORITE
I quicken my pace, knowing I’ll need at least seven leeches tonight. Rémy makes three more turns, and my feet get colder and colder. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
His back stiffens, and he turns to glare at me. “I won’t dignify that question with a response.”
We enter a small, well-lit foyer, and my surroundings start to look more familiar. Plush carpeted stairs lead up to the Belle apartments. Night-lanterns cluster above the doors, glowing with the Belle-emblem.
“Thank you,” I spit out, ready to be rid of his company. I tromp up the stairs two steps at a time.
“I must check that your rooms are secure before you retire. New protocol after those dead roses were found in your bathing chamber.”
“Spying in my onsen?”
“It’s my job to know everything.”
“I think the roses were from my sister Amber. She was upset,” I say. “No need to check. I want to go inside, get out of this dress, and get back to the party.”
“They said you are not to return.”
This news hits me hard. “What?”
“Now, wait here. You can’t be sure, and I don’t take any risks.”
I sigh, but stay near the doors. He doesn’t light a single candle or release one of the lanterns strung up in a line beside the entrance. He skulks around in the darkness.
Servants rush down the hall.
“What happened, Lady Camellia?” one asks.
“The soup,” I lie. She inspects the stains on my dress. They lift the fabric and frown. “Don’t worry,” I tell them. “No need to come in. I can undress myself.” I don’t want to be fussed over.
They look alarmed, but nod and curtsy.
I walk inside the apartments, impatient with standing outside. I want to get out of this dress. I want to forget this night. I hear the click of the locks on the solarium doors, then the ones in my bedroom.
Rémy returns with a satisfied look on his face. When he spots me, his expression morphs into a frown. “Why can’t you follow directions?”
“People are always telling me what to do,” I say.
“Do you feel safe here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Wrong answer. You shouldn’t.” His brown eyes narrow. “As soon as you feel too comfortable, that’s when you know things are bound to go wrong.”
“Thank you for the advice.” I sling my shoes in a corner. They thud against the wall, harder than I want them to.
He starts to smile, and it’s a nice one. I wonder how many girls are running after him, a decorated military officer.
“You’re not as delicate as you look. As all the Belles seem to be,” he says.
“I’m not a flower.”
“Well, they dress you up as one.”
I clench my teeth.
“You look like you want to slap someone,” he says.
“Yes, you,” I say, and realize that it is untrue.
“I’m sorry I make you so angry. My sisters say the same thing, and also complain about the smell of my feet.” His face droops a bit, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugs. “To distract you from what happened.”
I want to thank him, but the words won’t form. “I’d wager nothing like this has ever happened to you.”
“I’ve never thrown up all over my dress before, no.”
I smile. “You know what I mean.”
“The first time I met the Minister of War, I fainted,” he says. “I was thirteen, and that morning I couldn’t eat. The nerves made my stomach a mess. So when I marched into his office, I took one look at him and passed out.”
I chuckle.
“I thought the minister would kick me out of the academy. That I’d be sent back home. Dishonored. But he gave me hot chocolate and asked me to train under him—only if I promised to eat.”
The more he shares, the more questions I have about his life before coming to the palace. Where did he grow up? How many sisters does he have? Does he have someone he loves? Someone he might marry? Did he always want to be a soldier?
I don’t ask any of them.
“Now I have a piece of chocolate every day. To remember. He could’ve sent me home—called me too weak—but he didn’t.”
For a moment, the sword at his hip and the armor across his broad chest and the deep scar carved into his brown skin dissolve, and he’s just a young man, trying to do his job.
A sunset-orange post-balloon putters into the main salon, glowing bright with the Fire Teahouse emblem. Its tails whip and snap. I rush to it, open the back, and remove the note. Edel’s rushed handwriting races across the page.
Camille,
Everything is terrible. I work from sunup to sundown. There’s crying and screaming in the night. I can’t sleep.
There are too many women. Too many men. Too many children. Too many appointments. I am exhausted all the time.