Enchantée(15)

Camille frowned. She loved the fresh morning air as much as anyone, but she hated the way she looked. Broken. In the glass, shadows hung around her eyes, her cheekbones stood out, and her mouth felt too wide in her face. More than anything she resembled a hungry fox. Not exactly the right appearance for a stroll at the Place des Vosges. “Too bad I couldn’t work one of Maman’s glamoires, remember?”

“Maman did it once. She said it was too dangerous for you to do—remember?”

Camille did. She also remembered how radiant her mother had looked, more beautiful than ever, as she swept into the apartment in a silk gown Camille had never seen, diamonds at her throat and a glittering brooch on her shoulder, smiling as Papa spun her in a circle. Her face was her face, but not. It had been a dream face: Maman, perfected.

Which was exactly what she needed now, Camille thought, arranging her hat so it hid her eye.

Once at the Place des Vosges, Sophie forgot completely about Camille’s bruise and their errand to the apothecary. In the park, the sun shone on the frilled, silk parasols of women who strolled the paths. It blinded as it reflected off the gilded ornaments of the carriages that spun, in a dance of sleek horses’ legs, around the park’s edges. The soft thump of hooves mingled with the jingle of harnesses and the lazy swat of the coachmen’s whips. Ladies waved from gold-painted carriages or rode on glossy horses, the men next to them in tight suits and polished boots, all of them bowing and smiling, exclaiming and flirting and flicking their painted fans. Birds chirped in the clipped hedges. There was not a cloud in the sky, as if the nobles could buy even the sun and the rain and order the weather to their liking.

As a group of women in rose-sprigged gowns passed them, Camille tipped her head away, hiding her bruise the best she could.

“What pretty dresses—like darling shepherdesses.” Sophie sighed. “Madame Bénard was right. Cotton’s all the rage.”

“Which means that the silk weavers of Lyon will starve, because of the queen’s fancy to be a milkmaid.”

“And see? Such wide sashes,” Sophie went on, ignoring Camille’s scowl. “C’est la mode. I wish we had dresses like that.”

“This way,” Camille said, guiding her sister into the sheltered arcade that ran around the park. In its cool shade, gilt letters announcing Apothecaire Arnaud arched across one of the shop windows. Beneath the name gleamed row after row of glass bottles, some packed with powders and others full of syrupy tinctures. The bell jingled and a plump, tightly corseted woman stepped onto the street, clutching her package. She frowned when she saw Camille’s bruise.

“You go,” Sophie said. “I’ll wait here.”

“On the street?”

“Who are you with this sudden compulsion for etiquette? In any case, it’s hardly a street. It’s a park. Please—it’s too dull to wait in there. And it always reminds me of Maman’s illness.”

Hopeless. Camille sighed and went in. The shop smelled of dried herbs, alcohol, and camphor. She inhaled and felt her head clear a little. The line ahead of her was long, as Sophie had suspected. Everyone relished the chance to tell the apothecary their symptoms before surrendering their money. Outside, Sophie stood alone on the grass, gazing at the carriages. A breeze played in the long ribbons in her hat. She swayed slightly, as if to music, as she watched the wheels spin. She looked very small, not much bigger than a child.

Sophie deserved better. They both did.

Camille was determined to change things. As long as Alain knew where they lived, a new lock for the door wasn’t going to be enough. He would always be there, taking, taking, taking. She only wished there were another way besides magic.

When Papa lost the shop, all the children had to learn to work la magie. Alain had been first to volunteer, but he hadn’t been able to turn even the simplest things, like a torn piece of paper into a whole one. He’d been resentful when Camille had done it, quickly—as if it had been easy. But it wasn’t. Maman was exacting when it came to la magie, forcing Camille to practice again and again before she would accept the result. She didn’t see how Camille hated it. But when the magic caught, when Camille changed something useless into something useful, Maman had praised her. She’d called Camille her magical daughter, and in that moment, she felt she was.

She should have worked harder at it, she saw that now.

“Oui, mademoiselle?” the apothecary said, wiping his hands on his apron. “What is your complaint?”

My complaints are many, monsieur. Carefully, Camille tilted her hat back to reveal the bruise.

The man pursed his lips. “You have hit yourself on a doorjamb.”

Camille said nothing. The apothecary’s eyes dropped to his ocher-stained fingers. “Une minute. I’ll get what you need.”

With the ointment jar and a laudanum bottle for Sophie wrapped in paper and tucked under her arm, Camille stepped out of the dusk of the shop and stood for a moment under the arcade, blinking at the bright sunlight, searching for the yellow of Sophie’s dress.

There she was, at the far end, past the fountain. Camille was about to cross the street when someone called out to her: “Mademoiselle? Is it you?”

Her breath caught. Halfway down the arcade, coming toward her at a run, was the boy from the balloon. Lazare Mellais. He wore a plain brown suit, wrapped packages stuffed into its pockets. His cravat, as before, was carelessly tied and his hair was coming loose. As he reached her, Lazare swept off his hat and bowed.