The Belles (The Belles #1)(84)

“Get in,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”

He looks pained. “This isn’t protocol.”

“You can either come with me or stay.”

“Or I can take you back to the palace.”

“Please. I need your help.” I pat the place beside me. He stalks forward and climbs inside.

I peek through a small window that gives me a view of the front of the rickshaw. Two imperial runners take their places. Their graying hands stand out in contrast to the black lacquered finish of the rickshaw handles.

“Where are we going?” Rémy asks.

“To fix the mess I created last night.”

He doesn’t respond. The rickshaw bumbles forward. The runners’ braids slap their backs as we race across several Golden Palace River bridges. The wheels thunder over the cobblestones. I clench my teeth until the palace gates open, and we zip through the Royal Square and past the giant Orléans hourglass, waiting for the Beauty Minister or Elisabeth or Du Barry to appear and stop me. My heart races to the rhythm of the rickshaw’s movement.

Rémy drums his hands against his thighs. I steal glances at him. The silver streak in his closely shaven head glows in the subtle darkness, and the crescent-shaped scar under his right eye looks deeper. He even has a freckle on his left eyelid. The Belle who created his look paid attention to small details, made him unique. I want to ask him if he chose his look. I want to know if he cares about his physical appearance, or only about his duty. I can hear him saying, I have no need for beauty.

I laugh to myself.

“What’s so amusing?” he asks.

“You seem nervous,” I say.

“I don’t like breaking protocol.”

“I know.”

“But you do,” he replies.

“Guilty.” The pink brick of the Royal Square gives way to white limestone mansions and townhouses adorned with quartz roses and blush-pink lanterns above their entryways.

“Number thirteen is on the right,” the rickshaw driver hollers back. He brings the foot-carriage to a stop. I hand him a few coins.

“Thank you,” I say.

We climb out. The House of Perfumers’ Le Nez emblem shines brightly on the door—a bouquet of flowers tickling the underside of a nose.

I lift the heavy brass knocker. Its echo booms. A stout woman answers. “Can I help you?”

“Is Astrid Pompadour available?” I ask.

“Is she expecting you?”

“No, but—”

“She’s not seeing anyone today.” She starts to close the door. I put my hand on it and wedge myself into the doorway.

“Tell her it’s Camellia Beauregard. Please. And if she still doesn’t want any company, I will leave.”

“This is highly inappropriate and irregular. Just who are you?”

I lift my veil. She gasps when she sees my face. “My lady. I’m so sorry, le favori. I did not recognize you,” she says, giving a little bow. “Come into the foyer and out of the cold.”

I wave away her formal apology. She disappears farther into the house. The foyer spreads out like the base of an hourglass—open and round—and a gilded balcony juts out overhead. Countless vases sit on every surface, holding snow-season flowers—tangerine calendulas and creamy candytufts and crimson cyclamens.

“Camellia!” My name is screamed from the balcony. Astrid races down a plush spiral staircase. She wears a jeweled veil over her face. Two sad brown eyes stare out of it. She swallows me in a thick hug. I almost topple over. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I’m a mess. I’m suffocating you.”

“It’s all right.” I remove my veil. Her house servant takes my coat from my shoulders. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I spot tears brimming in her eyes through her veil. “Sophia forced you.”

“I’m here to fix it.” I take her hand and squeeze it. Rémy smiles at me, but it’s so quick it could’ve been imaginary.

“Really?” Astrid squeals. “But what about—”

“It will be fine,” I tell her, sounding much surer than I feel. “Where can we be alone?”

Astrid squeezes my hand in return. “We’ll go to my bedroom.” She turns to her house servant. “Carina, bring me Belle-rose tea. We have a few leaves in the tea closet. Top row. Left-hand corner.”

“I’ll wait here.” Rémy stations himself beside the front door.

Astrid’s bedroom feels like a gigantic flower. Heather walls wrap around us. A domed ceiling holds golden lanterns that drip with light like raindrops made from the sun.

Astrid sits at her vanity. “I went to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse early this morning, but Madam Claire turned me away. Princess Sophia alerted all the teahouses to refuse service to me.”

“It’s going to be fine.” Sophia will be furious with me if she finds out.

Her house servant knocks, then enters the room with a tea tray. She pours a hot cup for Astrid. “Thank you. Thank you, Carina.”

“You must still wear this veil, and you can’t let the princess know you’ve changed your nose. Nor can you tell her it was me who did it.”