The Belles (The Belles #1)(72)

The large doors open for us. The red damask walls of the queen’s tea salon display her royal emblem—a six-pointed crown with a glittering ruby and chrysanthemum in the center. Chafing dishes melt medicinal pastilles, and steam vases release vapor into the room. A fireplace hisses and crackles.

Rémy posts himself near the door with the other guards.

“Your Majesty—Lady Camellia, the favorite, here to see you as requested,” her attendant says.

The queen stares out an arched window. Wrinkles mar her rich brown forehead. “Sit with me, Camellia.” Her voice is soft and reminds me of my mother’s.

I ease into the chair beside her. A teacup and saucer find their way into my nervous hands. I take small sips, wondering why she wants to see me.

“I’m very impressed with the strength of your arcana.” She finally looks up.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I say.

“You do things with them that I’ve never seen before,” she says. “I wasn’t sure about you. I think you know that.” She pats my hand. “I thought you’d be as reckless as my daughter.”

I gulp.

“But . . . I think you will be the one to help me. After all this time. You might just be strong enough.” She rises. “Come with me. You, too, Ivy.”

I stand, then stare back at Ivy. She shoos me forward and follows behind. We navigate a series of hallways in silence. We pass an indoor garden, a marble bathing onsen, and a series of offices, until we stop before a white door marked with a white rose snaking through a four-pointed crown.

The servants stand aside, and the queen herself pushes this door open. I have no idea what to expect.

Cerulean light escapes the healing-lanterns drifting through the chamber. The walls are papered with thick lines of black and cream. A fire roars in the hearth, warm and bright and comforting, splashing coppery beams across a large, gauze-draped bed. The wood crackles as it burns, providing the only sound in the room. A beautiful, dark-haired woman stands beside the bed, her light brown hands knitting a scarf.

The queen smiles at her. “How is she?”

“The same,” the woman replies, walking over to kiss the queen on the mouth.

“Camellia, this is Lady Zurie Pelletier.”

I bow. Her lover.

Servants and nurses curtsy to the queen as they scurry around as quietly as mice.

“May I introduce you to my firstborn, Princess Charlotte,” the queen says, “heir to the kingdom of Orléans.” She goes to the bedside and lifts the whisper-thin curtain.

I step lightly forward, peering in. A sleeping young woman is propped up on silk pillows stuffed with feathers; a quilted blanket laced with thick gold ribbons lies over her. She looks like a perfect blend of the king and the queen. Her ponytail is a long rope at her side, with tiny frizzy curls that blend the color of the king’s currant-red and the queen’s midnight-black coils. A jewel-encrusted hair comb winks in the light. Her skin is a warm bronze dotted with freckles.

The queen rubs her daughter’s hand and hums a song.

Newsies have speculated about Princess Charlotte’s condition. Some reports say she was born frail and unable to fend off disease. Others say she suffered from a broken heart after her childhood sweetheart and betrothed died in a freak accident.

I have never known what to believe, but one thing is clear—the queen loves Charlotte with all her being.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” The queen sweeps a loose curl from Charlotte’s forehead. Weary creases ring the queen’s eyes, and sadness slopes her shoulders forward over the sleeping princess. She looks up, and our eyes meet. I’m seeing Her Majesty for the first time. I glance away, feeling like I’ve discovered something hidden, something not meant for me to see.

“Yes, she is,” I say.

“She’s been asleep for four years.” She kisses her daughter’s cheek. “And I make sure she never fades to gray.” She waves me forward. “Come closer.”

I ease into my question. “May I ask what happened to her?”

“You may, but I have no answer for you.” She strokes Princess Charlotte’s cheek. “And that’s why I’ve brought you here. I need you to make her well. The royal physicians haven’t been able to awaken her. Even my Belle, Arabella, has been unsuccessful.”

“I don’t have the power to heal.” I bite the inside of my cheek.

“But you must be able to do something. I need her awake. Even if she’s no longer beautiful. It’s too early for her sunset. You must find a way to help me. To help your people.”

“Your Majesty, I don’t understand. How does healing Charlotte help my people?”

The queen grasps my hands. Her own are cold and clammy. “The Declaration of Heirs Ceremony is coming in eight days’ time. I will have to tell the kingdom that I’m sick, and designate who the crown will pass to. Sophia cannot become queen. She must never have the throne.”

Her words send a tremor through the room. I remember Sophia in her workshop, her eyes wild and frantic.

“Sophia isn’t fit. She’s the way she is because I didn’t give her enough of myself. I didn’t have enough to give her after Charlotte became ill. And if I’m honest, she’s too much like me. Full of the temper I had in my youth. The one that had to be leeched out of me by Belles every month.” She coughs. Attendants rush forward, bringing her medicinal chafing dish closer. Her coughing subsides. “I tried to do the same with Sophia, but it didn’t work.” She sips hot tea. “I pray to the God of Life every day that Charlotte wakes up before I die so she can take her rightful place as queen. To be at my side when I announce my illness.”