The Belles (The Belles #1)(67)
“That’s why I like her,” the tallest one says. “She does what she wants. Or that’s what it seems like.”
“I bet you just love that, Rémy,” the third one replies. “She’s probably not listening to you at all.”
They all laugh together, their voices at a similar pitch. A set of warm-toned pavilion bells. A family. It makes me miss my sisters.
“Have you rescued her? Protected her from evil?” the little one asks, like this is all some fairy-tale adventure.
“More like escorted her places and followed her around,” he says, picking the girl up. “Mirabelle, you are missing nothing. I promise you.” He presses his forehead to hers and they rub their noses together.
“I’m missing everything.” Her bottom lip quivers, and tears well up in her eyes.
“Shall we sing our song?” he says.
“Yes,” she whimpers.
He hums, the deep baritone of his voice rippling through the hallway, resonating inside me. She sings a little tune about a yellow frog and its lily pad and pond. He kisses her cheeks and she bursts into laughter. It makes me wonder about his life before the palace. It makes me wonder about how he might be, if he wasn’t my guard.
“Can we meet her?” the tall one asks.
“No,” he says with a frown, and now I recognize him again.
“But please,” little Mirabelle begs.
“Soldiers of the Minister of War aren’t supposed to use their positions to seek special treatment or favor. It’s against the code.”
“Everything is about rules with you,” the middle one says.
“Always has been,” the tallest one adds.
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he says. “You three shouldn’t even be up here, and I’ve indulged you already too long.”
“We were just passing through,” the tallest one says.
“No one just passes through the residential parts of the palace.”
“We were invited to court to see the princess’s wedding dress,” Mirabelle says. “I saw the invitation.”
He pinches her cheeks. “I don’t doubt you. But I suppose your sisters invited themselves up here?”
“Why would you—” the middle one starts to say.
“I admit, we did,” the tallest one says. “We just missed you.”
“That’s a lie,” he says.
“Fine. We just wanted to know more about her. The papers say she’s stronger than the other favorite. And the Trianon Tribune said she might have a fourth arcana.”
I glance at Bree and mouth, Really? She nods with a smile on her lips.
“You know how I feel about tattlers, scandal sheets, and newspapers. And you can’t just use my name to come up here. It’s not—”
“Appropriate,” the three of them say in unison.
Bree and I exchange a mischievous grin. I smooth the front of my dress and make sure all the curls in my Belle-bun are neatly in place. I yank open the door.
The girls gasp.
“Rémy?” I call out, as if annoyed.
He steps forward at attention.
“Oh, there you are. I was looking for you.”
Mirabelle has her hand cupped over her gaping mouth. The other two are statues, frozen in place.
“Hello,” I say. “Did I interrupt?”
“No, Lady Camellia, they were just leaving,” Rémy says.
“Not without a proper introduction. Rémy, where are your manners?” I say, loving the twist of horror present on his face. “Who are these beautiful girls?”
“My sister, Adaliz.”
The tall one curtsies.
“Odette.”
The middle girl bows.
“And Mirabelle.”
The little one barrels into me, wrapping her pudgy arms around my waist.
“Mira—” Rémy reaches for her.
I sweep her out of his reach and kiss her. “It’s fine.”
I talk to them about court, and their home in the Spice Isles, and how insufferable Rémy can be. Their eyes grow wide, and smiles spread across their faces. His mouth finally softens again. They wave good-bye and disappear down the long staircase. I watch Rémy watching them, and think, Maybe he isn’t so terrible.
29
In the Receiving Hall, the queen’s court is called together for a presentation of Sophia’s possible wedding looks. Chrysanthemums and Belle-roses adorn the welcoming foyer, creating garlands around marble pillars. The din of gossiping voices fills the room. I sit with the Beauty and Fashion Ministers in chairs near the throne platform. Rémy stands behind me.
The queen raises her scepter. Imperial guards labor to bring out massive gold-framed portraits of the princess the size of wall tapestries. The frames are numbered and labeled PRINCESS SOPHIA’S WEDDING LOOKS. In each one, Sophia is painted with a different look. Hair textures range from loose curls to needle-straight to corkscrew curls to waves to zigzag coils, and the styles showcase each new hair-tower trend. A smiling version of her face is presented in an array of skin tones. Her dresses vary—from gold brocade with cream lace ruffles, to a pink bustle gown with silk rosebuds and beige lace, to a dark peacock blue–colored silk embroidered with a sequined trim, to an all-white A-line covered in seed pearls.