The Belles (The Belles #1)(94)

“What do you think of this fabric?”

“I can’t decide, Gustave.”

“Beadwork or not?”

“Sleeves or no?”

“I haven’t liked anything you’ve showed me, Gustave. You’re the Fashion Minister. Find me something the world hasn’t seen yet.”

I slow my pace between the sets of guards and glance into a nearby shop called Shurette and Soie before we’re rushed along. It’s lined with shelves of twinkling apothecary bottles, and smaller tables hold even more. They contain animated dyes for vivant fabrics. The jewel tones shift from ocean blues to cobalts and magentas, from crimson reds to sunflower yellows. Others change from pastel pinks to sky blues to lemony creams.

It would take several days to examine each one, to watch for each color. There are thousands of them.

“Finest silkworms in the whole bazaar,” the owner says, motioning at the opposite wall. Live silkworms stretch across gently turning rods. Silk eases from their bodies onto a spoke-wheel. “Perfect for any dress. Can be dyed with animated ink.”

I nod my appreciation as I glance around for an exit.

“Camellia.” Rémy rushes me along to rejoin the tail end of the royal group, and I lose my chance. In the next shop, I stand alongside Sophia and her ladies while vendors parade around her with fabrics and dress samples. Again, I search for exits. There are two: the entrance we came through, and a door in the back.

“I don’t know about this dress.” Sophia examines a gown Gabrielle holds out for her. “But it could be the start of something. It would have to be altered, of course.”

“Try it on,” Gabrielle urges. “Let’s just see the cut to find a starting place.”

“Yes,” Claudine adds. “You won’t know until you see how it fits.”

“Wait, wait, I want Camellia’s opinion on all of this. She’s been awfully quiet,” Sophia says. Her ladies chuckle and hide whispers behind fans.

“What would you choose if you were getting married?” she asks me.

“I can’t even conceive of the thought, Your Highness,” I reply.

“Of course you can. Weren’t you with one of my suitors the other day?” The left side of her mouth curls up.

A cold stone drops into my stomach.

“He interrupted me. I did not welcome his company,” I lie. “I find him to be insufferable and cocky.”

“Is that so?” she says.

“Yes—I’m grateful I never have to marry.”

My answer seems sufficient.

“Well, if you did, what kind of dress would you wear?” She stares straight into my eyes, as if she’s searching for the answer somewhere deep down inside me.

I don’t think of my preferences, but of Sophia’s. How she changes her look almost daily—how she detests the idea of choosing one royal appearance for life.

“I would consider a dress that would change throughout the ceremony and reception. Not just in color, but in shape. Something that will morph into all your favorite dress cuts. A ball gown for the ceremony, a slim silhouette for the receiving line, a flounced skirt for dancing—but without you ever having to leave the party.”

Sophia’s eyes widen. “Do you think it’s possible?”

“It could be. We could work with animated ink, and experiment with silkworms,” I say.

Sophia winks at me. “You know how much I love to test things. I knew I wanted you around for a reason.” She steps behind a screen.

Her attendant prepares to dress Sophia by removing her coat and gloves. Gabrielle lifts the hanger and carries the dress back to her. For a moment there is nothing but bustling and murmured compliments—and then Sophia screams. The sound pierces through me.

Guards rush forward. Rémy moves me aside as he helps to remove the screen. Sophia is crouched on the floor. Attendants flock to her. They rip the gown from her body. Ugly hives and burns mark her arms and chest. Tears course down her face, taking her makeup with them. Her body is racked with sobs. She suddenly seems so small and vulnerable.

“It’s poisoned,” someone says.

“I didn’t do it,” the shopkeeper says. “I swear.”

The guards turn to arrest her. She runs off. A few chase her out of the store. Bodies swarm inside—newsies with post-balloons, nosy courtiers, passersby. Rémy and the remaining guards work to establish order and clear out inquisitive onlookers. Voices ping like sparklers around me. Flurries of hands reach for the princess, trying to comfort her.

More guards flood the space. In the chaos, I let my heat-lantern get too close to one of the hanging dresses and it ignites. Adding fire to the chaos only draws a greater crowd. Rémy whisks me out of the shop.

“Stay here,” he says.

“I will,” I lie.

The moment he turns to put out the fire, I flee down the winding corridor. I fight through the crowd to get to a set of staircases. I jump down three at a time and almost fall.

“Is this the way out?” I ask someone.

“Yes, three flights down. Or the lift is faster, miss. Oh, wait, aren’t you . . .”

I don’t wait for her to finish. I’m spurred on by fear, trying to apologize as I knock into shoulders and purses and small children. I make my way out of the maze and onto the street. I step out into the path of an approaching rickshaw and wave my hands.