The Belles (The Belles #1)(92)

“He should be put into a starvation box,” I say.

The Minister of Law clears his throat and loosens his cravat.

“If that is what you wish,” the queen says.

Her answer takes me by surprise. “It is.”

“Very well, then.” The queen motions to the Minister of Law. “William, see to it that the first few days of Alfred’s banishment to the Gold Isles are spent in a starvation box. Make it a little too snug for him. I’m tired of his antics.” She gives me a grim look.

“But, Your Majesty, don’t you think it’s a bit harsh?” the Minister of Law says.

“Not at all. Belles are not toys to be played with or abused,” she says.

The Minister of Law opens his mouth to protest further.

“I’d like time with Camellia alone.” She turns to the Beauty Minister and the Minister of Law. “If you would excuse us for a few moments.”

The Beauty Minister squeezes my shoulder before leaving the room.

“Have you made a decision about my request, Camellia?” the queen asks as soon as the door closes.

I fuss with the rim of the teacup. The bruise on my cheek still throbs.

“I believe you’ve had an opportunity to witness just how wild Sophia can be. I saw her handiwork with one of the Pompadour twins. And I take it she’s shown you her portraits? Her obsessions.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I take full responsibility for her actions.” The queen reaches to her side and lifts an album. She shows me sketches of Sophia as a child with Charlotte. “She misses her sister. The illness has taken a toll on all of us.” The queen circles their faces with her fingers. “I apologize for anything she might have done to hurt you. She’s just broken.” She takes my hand and looks me in the eye. Her fingers feel frail and bony, like Maman’s did. The wrinkles around her eyes have deepened.

“She cannot be queen. What is your answer? Will you help Charlotte now? The Declaration Ceremony is coming swiftly in three days’ time.” She coughs. Attendants rush to bring her chafing dish closer. They hold it near her until her coughing subsides.

I don’t want to disappoint the queen. I don’t want to tell her no. I don’t want to admit that I may not be able to help Princess Charlotte. I haven’t found the answer yet.

“I still have three days to decide, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct. I figured since you saw for yourself why Sophia is unfit, you’d be ready to help.”

“I did, but . . . I need more time.”

“That is fair,” she replies. “Camellia, would you do me a favor before you go?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Freshen my face up a bit so I don’t look so sick. The world will soon find out, but I’d like a little more time. Just as you do.”

“Should we go to your treatment salon?”

“No, no. Do it here.” She pats my arm. “I don’t have the strength.”

I wonder if I can add youth to the queen’s organs, so she can live forever and Sophia will never have to become regent queen. “I could help you reverse some of this. Maybe you could rule for years more—then Sophia won’t have to be queen at all. Or at least we could give her time to grow into it.”

The queen’s mouth pulls upward. “Yes, you could, but I don’t want it. Plus, one could have young organs, but still be sick. Illness cares nothing of age. One of my newest beauty laws will forbid the practice entirely. When my sunset comes, I’ll be at peace with it. We all should be.”

“But—”

“And I don’t think Sophia will ever grow into it. Some people can change, while others can’t. They’re just insects stuck in amber.” She touches my cheek. “Just take a few of the wrinkles away. Make my skin a little darker and richer. Like molasses. The sicker I get, the more the gray seeps to the surface and spoils the color, it seems.” An attendant serves her a cup of Belle-rose tea in the most beautiful garnet-red porcelain cup.

“Is there bei powder available?” I ask one of the servants.

A lovely caisse is placed on the table between us.

“Leave us,” the queen tells the attendants. She finishes the cup of tea and sinks back along her chaise. Her eyes close, and her breath is soft. We are alone again.

I close my eyes and picture her face. My pulse accelerates to the beat of her unsteady heart rhythm and the slow chugging of her blood moving through her veins. I use the Age arcana to smooth the deep crevices around her eyes, like rubbing a wet finger across dried-out dough. I deepen the brown of her skin. The queen’s light snores and wheezes fill the room.

While she rests, I slip my mirror from inside my dress. I take a pin from the caisse and stick my finger. The seed of blood climbs through the mirror’s ridges. The roses twist and reveal their message: BLOOD FOR TRUTH.

A fog appears in the glass, and then clears. I study her true reflection. The deeply wrinkled face of a sleeping woman looks back at me, alongside her grace, fragility, and her sadness. Tears streak her cheeks, following the deep creases in her skin. The queen’s image holds all the weight of her title and the worries she carries. I feel them all like heavy bags.

I slip the necklace back down the front of my dress.

Her eyes snap open. “Please help Charlotte,” she says. “You have three days until I need an answer. Until it’s too late.” She squeezes my hand. “I felt like the answer you were about to give me wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”