Enchantée(28)

“That’s better. And now,” she said, taking hold of the clothes brush, “I believe I’m to use this to turn the dress.” But when she ran the brush across her dress, nothing happened. She tried again, sweeping the bristles over the fabric more slowly this time, and still—nothing.

What was it?

With a stab of unease, she realized that it had to do with pain. Or the lack of it. She’d been so pleased with her transformation, she’d forgotten. Taking a deep breath, Camille began to search her memories, traveling underground through dark, cold tunnels. The familiar ache of sadness coursed through her as she saw again Alain’s grimy hand wrenching Sophie’s hair, heard her own head snap against the floor.

Lace, she urged, as she ran the brush along the dress’s neckline. Lace, delicate as moths’ wings.

Nothing.

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Her voice was small. In the mirror, her bone-white face stared at her like a stranger’s.

Maybe she hadn’t imagined it hard enough. Or maybe she had to focus on the fabric itself.

Camille thought of silk the color of the sky when she first saw the balloon. Oyster-shell storm clouds, Lazare in the chariot. As soon as she thought of him—the ultimate impossibility of him—the feeling dissolved into an ache of sadness. Riding the wave of sorrow, she swept the brush from shoulder to neckline: lace frothed along it. She ran the brush down the bodice of her dress, the dress changing as if she were painting the worn fabric with ink made of sky. The hem rose and the skirts swagged up behind like a modern gown. Something like a sigh set the silken skirt rustling, and as the magic crept like searching fingers between the dress and her skin, she sensed its dark might was hers for the taking. She had only to be strong enough to let it in.

Sophie jumped up and down. “You did it! You did it! Now, who will you be? What’s your name?”

Camille’s eye landed on the miniature portrait with its knowing eyes. She remembered the faint scrawl on the back. “Cécile Descharlots—the Baroness de la Fontaine?”

It felt right—a name her ancestors had used.

“Why not?” Sophie bubbled with enthusiasm as she looked Camille up and down. “I can’t believe it! No more freckles, no more hollows in your cheeks, no bruise. And the dress. I couldn’t have designed one better. C’est parfait!”

It was perfect. But as the words were leaving Sophie’s mouth, Camille’s reflection dimmed.

“No!” The lace neckline vanished as if an invisible seamstress were ripping it out, the bronzy gold of the old dress seeping into the blue, the red of her hair flaming beneath the powder. “It’s fading, Sophie! Help me! I don’t know how to make it stay!”

Sophie flung herself at the box and rummaged inside. “Have you used everything?”

In the mirror, shadows rose to gnaw at Camille’s cheeks. She pressed her hands to her face as if she could stop them. “What else is there? What can I do?”

Sophie held up the brooch. “What about this?”

Camille thrust out her hand. It was shaking again.

Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of her eyes. Not now. Not yet. All magic faded, but this was too soon. She didn’t want to go back to the way she was before: starved, worn-out, exhausted Camille. She couldn’t. There was too much at stake. Sophie handed Camille the tear-shaped brooch. Studded with the tiniest shards of diamonds, it glimmered like a real tear.

“Quick, Camille, pin it on!”

Fingers trembling, Camille unclasped the brooch. As she steadied the needle against the fabric of her dress, it wobbled and pierced her finger. Three drops of crimson blood welled up and slipped onto the fabric of her dress.

“Merde!” she swore as she clasped the brooch into place. “I’ve ruined it!”

But the drops of blood disappeared into the dress, as if it had licked them up.

“Look, Camille.” Sophie’s voice quavered. She pointed at the mirror.

Where the blood had spilled, the dress had begun to change again, its stormy blue spreading like a wave, until the fabric and Camille were once more transformed. And when she took a step back from the mirror, the magic held. She ran her hands along the dress’s silky folds, touched her powdered hair. The hollows were gone from her face, the shaking in her hands stilled.

“It was the blood.” Sophie shrank away, her face waxen. “That’s horrible, Camille! The glamoire needs blood.”

The dress was ravenous. Camille could feel its hunger, its desperation to be freed from the box. Did it sense what she was willing to give it in exchange for its help?

Camille pressed her shoulders down and stood straight. The dress responded, the bodice tightening around her like an embrace. It was somehow—pleased. All this time, it was the dress that had been whispering to her, calling her. It had known what she needed. Her new face, the clothes, her steadiness, all of it was armor fashioned especially for her. A new and perfect self.

And, if she was lucky, a new life.

She tossed her head so that the plume in her hair danced. The mirror was clear as if it’d been newly made, all its underwater blurriness gone. The girl she saw reflected in it was as sleek and hard as the diamond brooch she wore. Like her ancestors before her, she would use this dark and creeping magic to go to court, to glitter, to win.

“Dis-moi, Sophie,” she said, admiring the glow of candlelight on silk. “What are a few drops of blood?”