The Belles (The Belles #1)(91)

I kick him and escape to the opposite side of the treatment table. He jumps at me again and presses me against the wall. He kisses my neck and smells my hair. I reach for the tools in my belt, grab a metal smoothing rod, and stab him with it. The rod pierces his belly. He grunts, but still pushes forward, trying to sandwich me between his body and the treatment table. I shove the rod in harder and finally make the space to slip away.

“Get back here!” he bellows. “Just one kiss.” He yanks the rod out of his flesh and tosses it aside, like it’s nothing more than a splinter.

He chases me around the table and catches me by the waist. I use my arcana to call the Belle-roses in the teapot back to their younger forms. They surge; the teapot explodes. The porcelain shatters. Liquid splatters all over, and he flinches as the hot droplets sting his back. I uncoil the flowers, stretching out their petals and stems. They bloom into thorny chains that I use to press Prince Alfred’s arms and legs against the wall. He fights against the restraints.

“I like you. You’re feisty,” he says. Blood trickles down his arms and legs. I push the thorns deeper into his skin, then let a vine hook around his neck. He makes a kissing noise at me.

Anger pushes my arcana further. The sound of his heart pounds in my ears. Its fleshy red shape sears through my mind. Its erratic beat is a drum.

I slow it down, beat by beat.

The color drains from his face.

I tighten the rose thorns around his throat. They dig deeper, drawing more blood. His eyes bulge. He chokes and coughs and sputters.

The door bursts open.

Rémy bounds in. “Camellia!” He grabs me. My concentration breaks. I release the roses. Prince Alfred collapses forward, crashing into two carts. Belle-products shatter everywhere. The female attendants flood inside and cry out with concern.

I almost hit the floor, too. Rémy catches me, sweeping me up in his arms. I curl into him, arms tucked under his, legs pulled up, my head against his chest.





40


I’m immediately taken to see the queen—still covered in Prince Alfred’s blood and Belle-rose tea, still angry from his disgusting advances, still shaky from almost stopping his heart. A veil covers me, an attempt at protection against the ever-present newsies and courtiers in the palace halls.

“What will Sophia’s forever look be?” many shout out as I pass, ready to cast another wager in the newest palace-wide game. They flash animated cameos at me.

“What about this one?”

“No, this one.”

“Will she be a blonde?”

“Freckles?”

“Will she take the coloring of her mother or father?”

Rémy blocks them from getting too close. I don’t look up from the ground. The buzz in my head and heart and body make it impossible to think of anything else. We take a palace lift to avoid more courtiers.

Rémy posts himself outside the queen’s door.

Chafing dishes melt medicinal pastilles, and steam vases release vapor into the room. The fireplace burns brightly.

“Your Majesty. Lady Camellia, the favorite, here to see you,” her attendant says.

She sits beside an arched window. The Beauty Minister and the Minister of Law flank her sides.

“Sit with us here, Camellia.” Her voice is soft and reminds me of my mother’s.

I take the seat across from her.

“Let me see you.” She motions for me to lift my veil. A nearby servant helps me remove it. She tsks at the bruise on my cheek left by Prince Alfred.

A teacup and saucer find their way into my nervous hands; I take small sips.

She rubs my cheek. “I heard about the unfortunate incident with Prince Alfred. We’ve called you here to let you know what we’re going to do about it,” she says. “First off, let me apologize for his terrible and ungentlemanly behavior.”

“I don’t want an apology. I want him to be punished. I want it to never happen again. To anyone.” The rage inside me flares and leaks out. I think about how he mentioned going to see Edel. Did he do this to her, too? Is that why she ran?

The Minister of Law twirls a black mustache between thick fingers. “Camellia, we’re issuing his estate a fine of several thousand leas.”

“And he will never be able to book an appointment with you again,” the Beauty Minister adds.

“What about my sisters? Can he see them?”

“He is a prince, Camellia,” the Beauty Minister reminds me. “He will need to maintain himself.”

It feels like she’s slapped me. “He shouldn’t be able to.”

“We’ll make sure to have imperial guards in any treatment room with him in it from now on,” the Beauty Minister adds.

“We’d rather not turn this into a scandal,” the queen says. “If the newsies got wind of it . . .” She shakes her head and sighs. “We’ve paid the attending servants in your apartments for their discretion.”

“So you want me to lie about it?” I grit my teeth.

“No, that isn’t the case,” the Beauty Minister says.

“Just be discreet,” the queen adds.

I want to see Prince Alfred embarrassed. I want to see Prince Alfred lose his adoring flock of females. I want to see the kingdom ostracize him.

“He will be sent away. Banished to the Gold Isles,” the Minister of Law declares.