The Belles (The Belles #1)(98)

“Don’t even try it. ”She waves her hand at me. “But Ivy will be punished for it. As she should be. Meddling in our business and making things more difficult.”

“She didn’t meddle. She warned me.”

“That was not her purpose. That’s not what big sisters are supposed to do. She was supposed to prepare you.”

“She did,” I yell.

“Soiled you, is more like it. And you better get back to work, before Mother sends you home, too.”


Rémy and I walk to the queen’s chambers. His strides are heavy blows against the floor.

“Are you still angry with me?” I ask.

He steps ahead of me. His jaw clenches. “This way.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He turns a sharp left.

“I needed to see my sister. Surely you understand that.”

“I don’t understand many things about you. Or your choices,” he says.

Two guards and an attendant step into our path.

“Lady Camellia.” The attendant bows and presents a rose-petal-pink post-balloon.

Sophia.

“You’ve been requested by Her Highness, the princess.”

“I am headed to see the queen.”

She thrusts the post-balloon’s tails into my hands. I open the back of the balloon and remove the letter from its compartment. I open the privacy casing.

Your presence is requested by Her Royal Highness Princess Sophia in her tea pavilion immediately. My mother says you can come see her afterward.

I glance at Rémy. He glares straight ahead.

Does she know the reason I’m meeting with the queen?

“You are to come now.”


In the gardens, a tea pavilion shimmers: a thick white-fur canopy draped over a beautiful low table, set with flowers, pastel teacups, and flickering candles. A cold wind loosens the curls from my Belle-bun as Rémy and I follow the attendant, weaving through the maze of winter shrubbery. A shiver races across my skin, and I’m not sure if it’s a reminder that more snow is to come, or if it’s because anger rattles every part of me.

Sophia’s ladies-of-honor sit on plush cushions and feast on petit-foods. Heatlanterns float overhead, casting a copper glow and warming the inside of the tent.

The attendant announces me. “May I present Lady Camellia, the favorite,” she says with a curtsy.

I bow my head, then look up and spot Auguste sitting to the left of the princess, feeding her grapes one by one.

The sight of him makes my breath catch. He winks.

“How are you feeling, Your Highness?” I pretend to show concern.

“Much better. The rash is gone. The poison is out of me. I’m back to feeling like myself.”

“And now you’re ready to play,” Auguste adds, which makes her giggle.

“I am.” She feeds her teacup elephant, Zo, a carrot and pets her head. “Come sit. We’re having a debate.” If it weren’t for the royal Orléans emblem hanging around her neck, she’d be unrecognizable. Her hair is like Hana’s—bone straight, black with golden streaks, and soaring down her back.

I stare for a second too long.

“Don’t be jealous, Camellia,” she coos. “I had to get one final look out of Ivy before she was sent home.”

“And she knew I preferred brunettes,” Auguste adds. “Curlyhaired, but—”

“No one cares what you prefer, Auguste Fabry,” she says with a laugh. “A newsie challenged me to do something different—to not have blond hair for once. I rise to every challenge given to me.” She fixates on me, waiting for me to meet her gaze. “But don’t be jealous, you’re still my favorite.” She blows me a kiss. “For now.” She pats a nearby cushion. “Come, sit beside me.”

I ease down beside her like I’m getting used to hot water in a bathtub.

She gives me a playful shove, and I topple over.

Gabrielle and Sophia laugh. My cheeks flush, and I worry my anger will explode out of me any minute.

“Be careful. You almost sat on Zo.” Her teacup elephant peeks above the cushion.

“My apologies,” I say.

She eyes me. Zo rubs her tiny trunk along my dress ribbons. I catch the warm little trunk like a worm, and it wraps around my finger. Her gray color is beautiful, unlike the Gris. Rich and deep, like ocean stones. The teacup elephant scratches her blue-painted nails on my dress, and flashes me the chrysanthemum flower on her belly. I rub it, and she makes a happy sound.

“Zo,” Sophia calls, and the little pet turns away from me, stretching her trunk in the opposite direction. “Leave Camellia alone. She has to join the glorious conversation.”

The little creature flops down on a nearby cushion, her legs splaying in all directions.

A strong wind whooshes against the canopy. The heatlanterns hiss and crackle and send the scent of woody charcoal through the pavilion. Gabrielle steals Claudine’s pastry, poking at her waist. Henrietta-Marie sits in the far corner with her nose in a book. Singe bats the heatlantern ribbons.

“We were just arguing about whether I should have you change Auguste’s dreadful manner if I decide to choose him,” Sophia says.

He laughs, then looks at me, trying to make eye contact. I stare into my lap.