The Belles (The Belles #1)(99)

“You could do that, right?” she asks.

“Yes, Your Highness,” I say, keeping my answers clipped.

“Could you make him into a bumbling fool?”

“I gather you already think I am that,” he teases.

“Maybe.” Sophia turns back to me. “Could you make him obey my every command?”

“Our aim is to enhance, Your Highness. The first arcana is meant to refine one’s natural disposition, or help one develop his or her talents, so that he or she may meet their goals.” I sound exactly how Du Barry wants me to. A parrot. A tool, ready to be used. “Sometimes one’s demeanor can become an obstacle for them.”

Our eyes meet. Hers grow wide with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. Maybe if I had been successful in changing her manner, her mother would trust her to be queen.

“What type of disposition should I choose for him? Definitely get rid of the ego. The arrogance—though cute at times—must be lessened.” She ticks off each thing on her fingers. “Girls, what do you think?”

“Camellia could make him humbler,” Gabrielle says.

“Sweeter,” Henrietta-Marie offers, barely glancing up from her book.

He wiggles his cravat as if it’s too tight around his neck, then smiles at each girl.

“Claudine?” Sophia says.

She glances up from a tray of tarts. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. “No opinion.”

Sophia scoffs.

“She’s in a bad mood,” Gabrielle says, rolling her eyes.

“Shut up, Gabrielle,” Claudine snaps.

Gabrielle continues: “The second suitor you set her up with has refused to go on a date with her. She’s been eating her feelings all morning.”

“I will outlaw bad moods—especially for my official ladies-ofhonor—when I am queen.” Sophia picks over the trays of cherry puffs, honey tarts, macarons, and petit-cakes.

I glare at her. You’ll never be queen.

“Regent queen,” Claudine corrects.

Sophia’s hand freezes before her mouth. A peach macaron falls into her lap.

“Completely unnecessary,” Gabrielle says. “And rude.”

“Well, won’t you just be a regent queen? Will you get to change laws?” Claudine softens her voice. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was just saying . . . Ignore me. I’m having a bad day. . . . I misspoke.”

The tent goes silent, the kind of quiet that’s laced with lightning and heat and thunder.

“Thank you for reminding me that I will never be queen on account of my sister,” Sophia snaps, her voice booming.

“I’m—I’m—” Claudine stammers out, a deep blush climbing through her entire body.

“Why don’t you leave, Claudine?” Gabrielle says.

“Fine.” Claudine stumbles to her feet. “Sophia, I didn’t mean to be . . .”

Gabrielle puts a hand in the air. “You’re making it worse.”

Claudine storms out. I wish I could leave with her. Gabrielle reaches over to Sophia and strokes her hair. “Now that she’s gone, maybe we can all actually have some fun.”

Sophia’s frown softens. Singe kisses her cheek and feeds her a grape. Zo lets out a little trumpet noise.

“Could you make someone ugly?” Gabrielle asks me, which brings a sick smile to Sophia’s face.

“That was my next question,” Sophia says.

“You made me give Astrid Pompadour a pig nose. I think that was rather ugly.”

The table bursts with laughter. Except for Auguste. He tenses.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Sophia says. “And I hear that she’s had it corrected.”

“Oh, has she?” I ask.

“Yes, even though I gave instructions to all the teahouses to refuse treatment to her. Someone has disobeyed me.”

“Maybe she went to La Maison Rouge,” Henrietta-Marie suggests tentatively. Servants rush in to clear plates and refresh drinks and set down more savory bites and sweet treats. Sophia grabs the arm of the nearest servant. The woman is startled and drops a glass. It shatters on the ground.

“Leave it,” Sophia says. “It’s fine.” She turns back to me. “What if I wanted to test it? See if you can land this woman in the tattler Ugly Papers at the end of the year.”

The servant squawks with fear.

“Wouldn’t that be wrong, Your Highness?” I say.

Sophia lets the servant’s hand go, and the woman races from the tent. “You must be very tired, Camellia. Maybe that’s why you’re not in a pleasant mood either.” She glares at me. “We should all retire to our rooms.”

I stand, more than happy to make my escape.

“Not you, Camellia, not yet. Linger behind a moment.”

I freeze mid-step.

Auguste hovers in the tent’s doorway. His eyes find mine, finally. They hold questions and concerns. I glance away.

“Will you walk with me, Your Highness? Another snowstorm is coming in a few hours. I’d love to catch the first flakes,” Auguste says.

“No,” she snaps.

He looks crestfallen.

“Leave. Camellia and I have business to attend to.”

“As you wish.” He bows, looks at me one last time, then ducks out of the tent.