The Belles (The Belles #1)(86)

Claudine takes a deep breath. We stand there until her body stiffens and she pulls away.

She steels herself. Wipes away falling tears, shakes out her arms. “I will marry the next person she proposes.”

Her words feel empty and practiced.

“Why not just tell her, and marry who you want?”

“As you are well aware, Camille, you don’t say no to Sophia.” The servant girl reappears. Claudine gives my hand one last squeeze, then gathers up the voluminous layers of her dress and leaves.

I’m numb as Rémy and I walk back to the market entrance, where a rickshaw awaits.

Once the curtain drops, Rémy whispers, “Be careful about carrying other people’s secrets at court.”





37


That night, light filters in through a slit in my bedcurtains.

“My lady . . .” Bree’s voice slips in. “Are you still awake?”

I set Maman’s book to the side.

“Yes.”

“A post-balloon just came for you.” She releases the canary-yellow balloon. It glows like a sun inside my dimly lit bed canopy, and knocks around the night-lantern.

“Thank you,” I reply, and close the bedcurtains again.

I tug the tail ribbons and open the back to retrieve the note.


C,

I’m safe.

More soon.





E



I turn the page over, and the words SPICE and PRUZAN are spelled out in pastels. I’m not sure what these coded words mean, but at least she’s safe. I press the tiny paper close to my heart, and a rush of relief surges through me. I blow out the night-lantern and drift off to sleep.


A rough shove awakens me. “Lady Camellia. Get up quickly.”

Shouts and yells ring through the apartment. Feet tromp along the floor.

I sit up and rub my eyes. The scent of burning feathers, parchment, and wood stings my nose. A pair of strong arms pulls me out. Flames rush up the left side of the bed. The curtains flap and hiss.

Smoke fills the room.

“Wait! My Belle-book.” I try to turn back.

“The bed is burning,” Rémy yells.

I snatch at the curtains. He grabs my arm, but I struggle away. “Don’t touch me.” I lunge at the bed again.

He throws me over his shoulder like a satchel. I kick and punch at him. It makes no difference. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

“I don’t need your help. Put me down.” He totes me into the main salon and puts me on a couch.

Elisabeth paces in front of her office, her cheeks flushed, a hand in front of her mouth.

“I have to get back in there. I have to get my Belle-book,” I cry out.

She looks at me like I’ve just said I have wings and can fly. “I can have Mother send you another one.”

“But—” I race forward and try to go back inside my bedroom. Servants block the doors. Rémy sighs.

“It’s not safe, miss,” one says.

“The fire will be out soon,” another assures me.

I start to cough. More servants wheel in breakfast carts with carafes of snowmelon juice and water.

Rémy hands me a glass. I reluctantly take it and gulp down the cool liquid.

The bedroom doors snap open. A servant wipes soot streaks from her cheeks. “The fire’s out. The bed will be replaced.”

“What caused it?” I ask.

“The bed warmer, my lady. There was a book inside it.”

Every muscle in my body clenches, and I rush forward into the room. No one stops me this time.

Servants break down the burnt bed, carrying off bedposts scarred by the fire. The sheets are charred black and eaten away. The metal bed warmer lies open like a pie without a crust. The remains of Maman’s Belle-book are inside it. How did it get in there? The scent of fire brings back Maman’s funeral and the flames that engulfed her body, smoldering the bed of Belle-roses, tearing first through her silk dresses, and then her skin and body. When I think too hard and my eyes get all blurry, I still see those tiny sparks flickering off the pyre like fireflies as Maman’s body disappeared, and my old life evaporated.

The loss of her Belle-book feels like the last piece of her is gone. I sit at the edge of the burnt bed with my head in my hands until men come to tear down what’s left.

I don’t move from the spot for hours. Not even when Elisabeth tells me I have beauty appointments. Not even when Bree brings me a cart of food. Not even when the men return to construct a new bed.

I rest my head on my knees and listen to the thud of my heart.

“Will you just stay there all day?” a voice says.

I look up. Arabella stands over me. Her long veil dusts the floor and her crown glitters.

“Get up,” she orders, grabbing my arm and pulling me to my feet.

“What are you doing?” I yank away from her.

“Checking for burns. Do you have any?”

“No.”

“In any pain?” She lifts my arms and inspects my hands, her touch rough.

“No.”

“Then you need to focus on helping Princess Charlotte before the queen’s Declaration. It’s in three days’ time. The palace grows more dangerous every day, and Sophia will only get worse. You weren’t hurt this time, but—”