The Belles (The Belles #1)(82)

Some in the crowd laugh. Others grimace, no doubt thankful that this isn’t happening to them. A few look away. I thicken Astrid’s nose hair, and lengthen it so it pokes from each nostril like the stubble on a man’s chin.

Astrid screeches and drops to the ground, slipping from the guard’s grasp like a piece of silk. She’s a pile of sobs and moans. The guards hustle her back up onto her feet. She presses her hands to her face. A favored lady courtier yanks them away to reveal her new nose. The snout glistens with snot.

“Well done, Camellia. Beautiful. May you always find beauty, Astrid.” Sophia waves the guards forward. “Let’s go see what the newsies think. Give them something for their late-night papers.” She leads Astrid, her ladies-of-honor, and a train of eager courtiers out of the room and into the Grand Entry Hall. She announces that everyone should follow and head for the Receiving Hall for a night-parade.

“You must go with them,” Rémy says, unsticking my feet.

“I didn’t want to do it,” I say.

He is silent, but disappointment is reflected in his eyes.

“What was I supposed to do?”

“None of it is my business,” he says, escorting me at the tail end of the group.

In the Receiving Hall, Sophia marches Astrid up and down the long entryway from the door to the throne platform and back. She commands the musicians to play and that Geneviève Gareau, the most beloved opera singer in the kingdom, be brought in to sing. Geneviève is taken from bed, and shows up in her nightgown. Misen players pluck their instruments, and Astrid is forced to perform peasant dances. Sophia drags in Astrid’s two sisters to watch. After three hourglasses pass, Sophia’s ladies-of-honor are splayed out on plush kneeling-pillows at the base of the throne, and their snores add to the misen players’ song. My stomach is twisted into a knot that might never uncoil.

Can this be real? Is this how Sophia treats people? Is this how she will lead? Will she force me to torture her people for the rest of my life?

The queen’s words echo in my head again—Sophia cannot be queen.

I have to stop her.





35


Rémy deposits me in my apartments and takes his nightly seat outside the door. He doesn’t say good night. He doesn’t offer to have tea with me, which I was hoping would become a habit. He won’t even look at me. I pace the perimeter, circling all six apartments at least twelve times with my hands on my head, squashing the top of my Belle-bun. Flower petals and jewels tumble out. I yank the ornamental combs from the top and unpin the curls. The nest of hair grows around me like a frizzy cloud.

I step out on the windy terrace. The cold nips at my shoulders. The scent of snow is in the air.

Bree pokes her head out. “It is time for bed, my lady.”

“In a few minutes.” I slip past her, down the hall to the very last apartment. I knock on Ivy’s door. I wiggle the door handle. It’s locked. I knock again.

“Ivy,” I whisper hard, hoping it will somehow travel all the way inside. There is no reply.

I go back to my room to a waiting Bree. “Can you wake Ivy?”

Bree looks startled. “But it’s time—”

“Please,” I say softly.

“Wait in your room, and at least dress for bed. Also, there’s a post-balloon hooked to your vanity.”

“Thank you.” I undress and put on my sleeping gown. An orange post-balloon floats above my caisse like a flame. It’s from the Fire Teahouse.

Edel.

I rip the back open and grab the note.


Dear favorite, Lady Camellia Beauregard,

Your sister Edel Beauregard is not presently at the Fire Teahouse. If you have any knowledge of where she might be, please send me a personal correspondence. I have been able to keep the ledgers full and the customers happy, but if Edel doesn’t return soon, I’m afraid everything will unravel.

If you hear from her, tell her she should return to the teahouse immediately; otherwise, she will be treated as a fugitive, subject to punishment in accordance with the laws of our great queen and country, and held in contempt by the Minister of Law.

I do not want this to happen. I just want her back.

A Goddess-of-Beauty blessing to you. May you always find beauty.

Sincerely,

Madam Alieas Saint Georges, House Maille, Mistress of the Fire Teahouse My heartbeat quickens.

How is Madam Alieas keeping the newsies from finding out? How is she keeping business going?

Where are you, Edel?

I write Amber a letter. My handwriting is a frantic scribble across the page: Amber,

I need to talk to you. It’s about Edel and something Sophia made me do. Can you come to the palace? Or I’ll try to come to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse.

Edel’s in trouble. I think I might be in trouble, too.

Camille


I send the post-balloon off my balcony edge.

“Camille.” Ivy stands in the doorway. Her voice is thick with sleep.

I rush to her. “Sophia made me do the most awful thing, and I . . .” My voice trails off.

Ivy closes the bedroom doors and sends the servants away, suddenly alert.

“What happened?”

“She made me give a courtier a pig nose! In front of everyone in the game room.” I can’t stop pacing.