The Belles (The Belles #1)(75)

Maybe if I can’t heal Charlotte, I can help Sophia be a better version of herself. Maybe that’s the answer. Make her a better future queen.

“I can’t give up!” I call out, hoping Ivy is still somewhere near.

“What are you doing out here?”

I whip around and find Rémy in the solarium.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I lie. “And what’s your excuse?”

“My nightly security round.” He holds the door open as I step through toting the heat-lantern.

We stand in the hallway. I’m buzzing with questions and indecision. I’m not ready to go back to bed. “Have tea with me?” I ask, then immediately want to take it back. “If you’re busy, then never mind. I can just . . .”

He pauses. I wait for him to say no. He opens and closes his mouth two times before saying, “Yes, all right.”

“Meet me in the tea salon.”

He nods.

I take the heat-lantern and go to a smaller room beside the main salon. I pull three night-lanterns inside; their light illuminates two low tea tables and mauve-papered walls and cream floor cushions. I tug a string on the wall, and a woman appears from behind a panel. “Yes, miss.”

“Could I have tea? Enough for two. And would you mind lighting the fireplace?”

“Yes, of course.” She bows and disappears.

Rémy returns. His boots clomp against the floor as if he’s stomping bugs.

“You’re quite noisy for this time of night,” I say.

He grumbles and sits on the floor pillow across from me.

The woman returns with a tea cart and pours us both a cup.

“Thank you,” Rémy and I say in unison.

I laugh. He fights away a smile. She lights a fire, and the bright flames cast shadows across his deep-brown skin.

We sip tea in long stretches of silence. Whenever one of us can’t bear it any longer, we ask the other a question: What is your favorite season? Do you miss home? Do you have a favorite sister? If I was sitting with Auguste, the conversation might never stop.

But when the quiet expands and the tea grows cold, my thoughts return to the queen and Princess Charlotte, and Ivy’s fears. This is the time of night when I miss my sisters the most. Whenever one of us had a problem, we’d wait until our mothers were sound asleep and Du Barry’s snores roared through the belly of the house; then we’d slip out of bed, sneak onto the veranda, and climb up on the roof. We’d lie there lined up like snow owls, staring into the heavens and talking out whatever trouble Edel had gotten herself into, or Valerie’s newest upset about being left out, or Amber’s anxious nerves over her lessons. We’d entertain Hana’s latest fantasy of kissing someone, or Padma’s worries about the babies in the nursery, or my daydreams of seeing the world, or what might be in the dark forest behind our house. They’d argue back and forth about what I should do.

But I was never alone.

I steal glances at Rémy. The silver streak down the crown of his head almost glows as the night-lanterns sail over us. I remove the small mirror from beneath my gown and finger it. I wish I could find a way to use it—to see what his reflection holds, to see if I can trust him.

“What’s that?” He points to the mirror.

“Nothing.” I take a chance. “Actually, can I ask you a different kind of question?”

“It depends on what kind.”

I force a laugh at Rémy’s attempt at humor. “How would you respond if someone asked you to do something dangerous?”

He sets down his teacup. His eyes narrow, and somehow his perfect posture becomes even straighter. “Dangerous how?”

I search for the right word. “Something that could make you sick.”

“Why would anyone ask you to harm yourself?”

“What if it could save a life?”

“Is the person being asked you?”

“No,” I lie. “Of course not. I need to . . . I need to advise one of my sisters on whether she should complete a specific beauty request for one of her clients.”

He nods, but I can’t tell if he believes me.

“Clients ask Belles to do many things,” I add.

“I suppose.”

“What would you do?”

“People have duties. She’s been tasked—like you—with a massive responsibility, and has vowed to fulfill a specific obligation. But none of those obligations require risking one’s life. That is the role of a soldier. Is your sister changing professions?”

“Of course not.”

“Then she can set boundaries,” he says.

“That’s another way of saying no. Can you say no to the House of War?”

“Soldiers take a vow to protect Orléans to the death. I can’t, but your sister can.”

I want to tell him that refusing Du Barry, the Beauty Minister, clients, and most of all the queen or Sophia, feels impossible.

“No one is a prisoner.” He takes a sip of tea. “Even you have the power to make your own choices.”

His words burn and crackle like the logs on the hearth.





33


Today is Maman’s birthday. All the mothers’ birthdays. Forty days after the last warm day, deep into the windy season. I set her mortuary tablets on my vanity. I place her Belle-book beside them and trace my finger over her portrait on the cover.