The Belles (The Belles #1)(61)

“You thought I was waiting for you,” he says.

“I didn’t say—”

“I’m not tracking you, if that’s your concern.” He shifts position, moving closer.

Rémy steps forward, his jaw clenched. His hand goes to the dagger at his side.

“Not to worry,” Auguste says. “I don’t plan on harming her.”

I scoff.

Auguste smiles. He points at Rémy. “Serious, this one is.”

I stifle a laugh.

“Maybe she’s following me,” he tells Rémy.

Rémy doesn’t laugh. His grimace deepens.

“I just came from a session with the princess,” I say.

“Well, aren’t you lucky.”

“Tired is more like it.” I move closer to Auguste, away from Rémy. It feels like I’ve stepped into a bubble with him. The hall’s grand staircase and white marble columns vanish. Nearby courtiers melt away. Rémy turns into a statue. The rules Du Barry made me swallow down about fraternizing with men and boys outside of beauty work vanish. It’s just the two of us talking, and it feels both deliciously terrifying and fascinating. I am a tangle of giggles and distractions and delirium. I should be back in the Belle apartments. I should be checking my arcana levels. I should be resting after hours of beauty work.

“Did you get the post-balloon I sent?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.” That memory is still warm.

“Well, aren’t you going to say thank you? Or send me one in return?”

I snort and immediately feel my cheeks redden. “You sent it yesterday morning, so you haven’t given me much time.”

“Take a walk with me.”

I fight back a smile and try to frown. “Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“You’re a stranger. And—”

“You know my name. I’m Auguste Fabry, dreadful son of the Minister of the Seas. We’ve met before. We’re best friends, even though I suspect you don’t like me much. Plus, I sent you a post-balloon.”

“I’ve received many post-balloons. Am I supposed to walk with every single sender?”

“Aren’t you popular?”

“I am. Didn’t you hear?”

“Hear what?”

I lean in and whisper, “I’m the favorite.”

“Is that so?” His mouth breaks into a dimpled smile. “I hadn’t heard. I must be living at the very edge of the world.”

“You must be,” I say, “at the kingdom’s rock barrier, for sure.”

He laughs. I laugh. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and then I look away. Excitement bubbles up in my chest like I’m an overflowing champagne flute. My mouth, once tired, now can’t stop moving.

Rémy clears his throat. The bubble pops. Well-dressed courtiers step out of the glittering chariots that lift people from one palace floor to another. Imperial servants carry trays in and out of rooms. Newsies send their black gossip post-balloons and navy story post-balloons through the halls, hoping to catch a snippet of something for the newsreels and tattlers and scandal sheets. People lift spyglasses to their eyes and slide ear-trumpets from their pockets.

“Take a walk with me,” Auguste asks again.

And even with the world come to life around us once more, I nod. I can’t seem to help myself.

“You’re easy to convince.”

“I can just as easily return to my apartments.”

“No, come.” He offers his arm, but I shake my head. “Right. Those rules again. I thought you said you didn’t follow them.”

“I don’t, but just because I don’t want to take your arm doesn’t mean I’m following protocol. Maybe I’m worried you’re carrying sickness. Or maybe you don’t smell very nice.”

He sniffs himself. “I’ll be sure to wear cologne next time so I won’t smell like sea and the pier market.”

“You don’t smell like—”

“I didn’t want to take your arm anyway.” He smirks.

I roll my eyes, and we walk out of a smaller palace exit. Rémy trails us. The burn of his gaze on my back is like the warmth of a candle too close to your skin.

One of the topiary arcades that leads to the palace gardens holds peek-a-boo flowers that wink light. Night-lanterns shine bright as the watching moon; the glow clings to the curved hedges arched over us, and skims the surface of the palace river ahead. Gem-bright birds perch in dangling cages and lend their sweet songs to silent garden nooks.

“How does it feel to be back at court?” His questions always feel like challenges.

“It’s great,” I say, but Amber’s face flashes in my head.

“I’ve never liked court much. I was lucky to be at sea with my father most of the time. He’s grooming me for a boring life on a boat.”

“Is that not what you want?”

“It’s what my father wants,” he says. “Did you always want to be a Belle?”

“Yes. I don’t know what it would mean to be anything else.”

“Didn’t you ever wonder?”

“No.”

He frowns, as if that’s an incorrect answer to his question.