The Belles (The Belles #1)(79)
“What do you think?” he asks.
“You’ve outdone yourself.”
His eyes light up. “I know.”
We laugh.
“You must wear one tonight.” He pulls an invitation from his pocket. A mix of gold and black calligraphy announces: SOPHIA’S CARD PARTY. Glittery stars gleam on the parchment, holding the promise of excitement. He takes my hand and twirls me once more. “You won’t get sick again, will you?”
“No. I’ve learned my lesson,” I say, blushing.
We dance, swaying back and forth to the noise of people moving in and out of the apartments. He leans close to my ear, whispering, “I’ve been hearing good things about you, favorite. You are loved by our princess. She believes you can do anything and everything. That you could possibly bring the Goddess of Beauty herself down from the heavens.”
“I—”
“Don’t give me any flowery excuses.” He smiles. “You’ve been giving the princess just what she wants. Wise plan, for now. But don’t let your flame burn out, little beauty. You’ll be in trouble.” He turns me once more, taps his cane on the ground, and then kisses me good-bye. “Time to go.”
Rémy walks Elisabeth and me down the six flights of stairs and through the Grand Entry Hall to the south wing. I’m wearing one of the Fashion Minister’s latest creations—a honey-and-marigold bustle dress with a waffle texture and a waist-sash of striped fur. My Belle-bun is adorned with snow-white pearls to complement it.
The halls hold decorations for the upcoming Declaration of Heirs Ceremony. Cameos of Sophia’s face mark night-lanterns. Her favorite flowers have been made into garlands. Vendors sell dolls in her likeness, fitted with a tiny version of the queen’s crown. Five days until the kingdom-wide celebration. Five days left to decide how to answer the queen.
Newsies are swarming the halls, sending out black post-balloons full of gossip. Sparklers are bursting overhead. Night-lanterns oscillate with bright colors. Courtiers are wearing cold-themed headdresses and hats, adorned with snow-flecked branches and holly berries, owl feathers and foxtails. Everyone is eagerly anticipating the first snow. Bubbly, jewel-toned liquid fills their glass flutes and tumblers. Some lift up ear-trumpets to listen to the conversations happening in the halls. Men chase women down corridors, and laughter and spirited chaos ensue.
Rémy grumbles and then guides us through the pockets of people. “This way.” He pushes aside an eager newsie wanting to sketch my picture. “Not now. You know the rules.”
The newsie ignores his request. He moves one pen on his small pad, and three others sketch alongside it. The picture is complete before I can take two steps forward.
The doors of the Royal Game Salon open for us. The ceiling arches in jutting curves and slopes. Night-lanterns rub along its surface, bathing the enameled décor in light. The room spills over with sounds of clinking glasses and tumbling dice and whooshing table-lanterns and hissing candles and laughter. So much laughter.
Plush tabletops display porcelain boxes studded with gold and diamonds and precious gems. Game chips line a wall behind a kiosk labeled BANKER. Chaises and high-backed chairs and clawfooted sofas circle the game tables, which spill over with candles, desserts, and pastel-colored gambling chips. People stuff their mouths with treats, and blow onto game pieces for luck.
“Keep up,” Rémy says over the din.
Women smile and coo and wave their fans in my direction. “I guessed it would be you,” one calls out. “So happy to win, even if late.”
“I made back my forty leas in the lottery now that you’re here. I picked you from the beginning,” another calls out.
I smile and wave. Elisabeth giggles beside me. “We’re going to make a ton of spintria, Camille, and Mother will be proud of me.” She grabs for my hand, and I jerk away.
“ I will make a ton of spintria,” I say.
A cold wind follows courtiers through the doors leading from the Royal Game Salon dock. The moon winks light across the golden pier. Canal boats float like jewels on the dark water. Men and women from merchant houses enter, displaying their families’ wares on their clothes, in their hair, or even embedded in their skin. Women wearing House of Spice dresses leave tiny trails of cinnamon and anise and saffron, and those from the House of Inventors are outfitted in gowns covered with silkscreen pictures of their newest products. Men are donning House of Bijoux top hats, indented with chambers to display pearls and rubies and sapphires.
Princess Sophia’s game table sits dead center in the room. Hand-painted plates boast a kaleidoscope of patisserie and petit-cakes pierced with flaming sparklers. Champagne bubbles over a tower of stacked glasses into a small golden well. Courtiers dip their flutes into it. Sophia bounces up and down in a high-backed chair, sipping from two goblets while a woman fans her. Her teacup elephant, Zo, sits in her lap, stealing sips from her glass and nibbling the strawberry on her petit-cake. Sophia laughs and directs her teacup monkey, Singe, to roll the die for her on the circular board that hooks around the champagne-flute tower. Hand-drawn boxes circle the center of the board and hold brilliantly colored numbers, one through seventy.
“Your Highness,” Elisabeth says, bowing. “I have the favorite, Camellia Beauregard, here as requested.” Elisabeth pulls me forward. I lower my head.
“You look well,” Sophia says.