Enchantée(115)

A cold hand crept up her spine. It was such a strange thing to say. “I don’t feel the same way.”

“In time, you might.” He shrugged. “Regardless, if you wish to see your sister, you will do as I say.”

“What is that?”

“Marry me, of course.”

No.

“You would secure the well-being of your sister. And your own status at court. You do not perhaps understand how very rich and well connected I am.”

“Haven’t you heard what happened at the Bastille?” Camille flashed. “It’s the end for people like—you.” She’d nearly said people like us. The old Camille would never have made that mistake.

“You think a mob will pass through the gates of Versailles and tear the palace down?”

“Why not, when they’ve got nothing to lose?” Something hard and angry in her rejoiced as she imagined the rotting palace collapsing on itself, crushing Séguin and the rest of the court beneath it.

“That’s how a gambler thinks,” Séguin said, disparagingly.

Camille seethed. This conversation was pointless. She didn’t need to be here, listening to his proposals. Now that she knew where Sophie was, she had to return to Paris. Madame de Théron would help her find Séguin’s house. She would bring the police. They would free Sophie.

“I’m going to see my sister.”

He sighed, as if exasperated at the behavior of a child. “Your sister wishes to be with me.”

“She’s fifteen years old, monsieur. She knows nothing of the world!”

“She knows more than you think. She came willingly; it was easy to arrange through my man in Paris. Whatever friends you have will not be able to take her from me, not when she is my wife. She is my ace, mademoiselle—wouldn’t you play a card like that if you wanted very, very much to win?”

“I would not,” she said, shakily.

“Then we’ll trade cards. Marry me and your sister goes free.”

A clock chimed the hour. There had to be another way.

“Say yes, mon trésor.” He held out his ringed hand to her. “For that is what you will be: my treasure.”

Over his shoulder, the tapestry unicorn dipped its horn in the water. A maiden held the unicorn’s golden leash in her small, white hands. Her face was sad, downcast, as if to say, We are all in chains.

A sob caught in her throat. She and Lazare had parted angry, maybe never to be reconciled. Chandon was dying because of the Vicomte de Séguin; her own brother was a hopeless drunk whose body would turn up on the banks of the Seine one day, the pockets of his coat flipped inside out. And Sophie had followed a path the vicomte had laid out for her, stone by stone. Camille had believed she’d changed their path, but now she was standing on one built by someone else—one that led to a trap.

Her life was fraying. What had once felt like a rich, damask fabric was now threadbare, just the net of warp and weft sagging in her hands.

Séguin waited, still as one of the statues in the gardens outside. It didn’t matter if he wanted her—whatever that meant to someone like him. Beneath that golden fa?ade he was a monster. The thought of spending all the days of her life with him—sharing his bed, his marble-white hands on her, his poison words dripping in her ear—made her insides heave with revulsion.

But she could not stop there. As when she gambled, she thought of what might happen if she played a certain card, how its effect would ripple through the coming rounds.

She imagined saying no.

Séguin would marry Sophie. Or not, if he could force her to do as he wanted without marrying her. If Sophie ever defied him, he would not shy away from hurting her. He could punish Camille by never letting her see her sister. And then Camille would end up doing whatever he wanted. He could keep her and Sophie apart, as long as he liked.

Forever.

The realization hit her like a blow. If Camille turned on her heel and left this room, she might never see Sophie again. And if Sophie became unhappy with Séguin, Camille would not be able to help her.

She’d had a chance to prevent this from happening. She should have told Sophie after the masquerade that Séguin was a magician. But she had been selfish, hurt. Foolish.

The room was so quiet she could hear him breathing.

He seemed capable of anything.

There had never been a choice, not really. She had to save Sophie. She did not know how, yet. Not exactly. But she had something Sophie did not. The thing both of them had so often wished to be free of. The thing Camille could not give up, even as it threatened to destroy her.

Magic.

In her mind, she fanned out all her cards. None were lucky, but this one seemed better than the rest.

She played it. She said yes.





61


Séguin took Camille’s hands, both of them, and pressed them to his lips. “Mademoiselle. You have made me happy beyond imagining.” There was a sudden openness to his face, like a mask had dropped away.

Perhaps he did care for her. All those glances, the palm-reading, what he’d said in the king’s garden—she’d thrown them all away like cards she didn’t want. But perhaps she could use them now. What was it Chandon had told her? You must be the Baroness of Pretend.

She smiled a courtier’s unbreakable smile.