Enchantée(104)

“Shut your mouth, Séguin.” Lazare’s voice was low, dangerous.

For a split second, Séguin’s eyes went to where Camille stood by the curtains. “You can’t have everything you want, Sablebois.”

Then she knew.

It had gone so wrong. Always watching, Séguin had discovered she cared for Lazare. It couldn’t have been difficult. He had seen them first together so long ago—at the Place des Vosges. With a deepening sense of dread, she remembered he’d seen them kiss at the opera. He had watched her at the masquerade. Always watching, always tallying the score.

Waiting.

She had to stop this, do what Chandon had said, and get Lazare away before something worse happened.

“Please, stop your argument,” she begged. “Surely there’s another way—”

“No one can have everything he wants,” Lazare said. “I know that full well. But you’ve cheated me out of my money—twice in one night—and I refuse to sign a contract with a cheat, even if he pretends at being a nobleman.”

“Pretends?” hissed Séguin. “How would you know what a nobleman is? Sauvage.”

In an instant, Lazare’s hand was on the pommel of his sword.

“Lazare!” Camille threw herself at him, grabbing hold of his sword-arm. An argument like this, a challenge to a duel, went against all the rules. The king had forbidden it. It was one thing to draw swords in the gardens as Chandon and Séguin had, when there was no one to see. But now the whole court was watching—Lazare would be banished.

Or worse.

“Step out of the way, madame,” Séguin snarled. “This is an affair d’honneur, and I will not be prevented from getting satisfaction.”

Camille turned to the crowded room, the white staring faces. “Cannot someone stop this? Won’t you people do anything?” Was it because of who Lazare was, that no one did anything? Because he was somehow not a true aristocrat?

“Come away, madame,” the Comte d’Astignac called. “This is between them.”

“Heathen,” Séguin spat into the expectant room.

In one fluid motion, Lazare drew his sword free.

The room broke into chaos. Men shouted for the queen’s guards. Women were screaming; someone fainted. A tray was overturned; glasses splintered across the floor.

“Once more, I’m telling you to step away, madame,” said Séguin, his voice pointed as daggers. “This is not your quarrel.”

But it was. If she had not come tonight, what would have happened? Had Séguin been intending to cheat Lazare all along, or did he decide on that path when she’d gone to see Lazare? A sickening feeling came over her.

She had wandered into a trap.

“Don’t do this!” She pulled at Lazare’s arm. “Please!”

“No.” Lazare tried to shake Camille off. “You’ve insulted me, Séguin, and I will be satisfied—”

The room hushed.

Baffled, Camille watched as all the guests crowded close. Their faces were blanks. Stunned. Aurélie was there at the front, her arm outstretched, her finger pointing at Camille’s skirt.

It was changing.





55


Lazare’s arm around her was a wing, or a sword.

With his open coat, he shielded her from the nobles’ shocked stares and muffled their cries of alarm. As her disguise and her defenses fell away, there was only this: the shelter of his arm, the solid comfort of his chest against her cheek. She wished desperately she might close her eyes and lose herself in this moment. This safety.

He knew.

He knew, and he had not abandoned her.

Diving forward, shoulder first, he seemed not to care whose slippers he stepped on as the astonished crowd parted ahead of him. He half-carried her across a cool marble entryway and then out through glass doors banging closed behind them, over a gravel parterre, and down into the twilight shadows of the gardens.

In the darkness of the orangerie, they stopped. He still held her pressed to him, his hand cradling her head. Her ear against his chest, his heart drumming.

He took a ragged breath. “Are you well enough to stand?”

Camille struggled to make sense of what was happening. Without warning, the glamoire had faded. Everyone at the party had seen the dress change. Even Séguin. But they hadn’t seen her face change—she was sure of it. A dress could be explained away, but not her face. That was happening now, her skin crawling as the magic left it.

Lazare had saved her.

Tears burned behind her eyes. All this time, she’d been so afraid to tell him. And now he’d guessed what was happening and hadn’t cared about her magic. He had kept her safe.

Séguin must have arranged for fireworks, for suddenly, a flower of light burst high over the palace. Up above them, past Lazare’s head, the windows of Versailles flamed with candlelight and, Camille knew, watchers hiding at the edges of the curtains. But here in the gloom, they were alone.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For rescuing me.”

Gently, he let go of her. Her dress was dissolving to tatters, her red hair flaming through the powder, the hollows and the fatigue once more excavating her cheeks, her neck, her eyes. She knew how ugly it was, the falling away of the magic. She blinked back tears.