Enchantée(3)

When Camille reached the seventh floor, she paused, listening. Was that—music? She opened the door to their apartment. In the middle of the bare room, her little sister, Sophie, was dancing a sarabande while Alain piped on his army piccolo. In the candlelight, her hair shone pale gold, her wide-set blue eyes bright with amusement. She looked so much like their mother with her delicate features and slightly upturned nose, a princess in one of Perrault’s fairy tales. Sophie had always been small: feet and hands dainty as cats’ paws, an enviable waist that seemed even tinier as her skirts spun around her.

When Sophie saw Camille, she paused midstep. Her face was happy but flushed, the pulse racing in her neck.

“Join the revels, Camille!” Alain lounged in the best chair, boots on the table. The fire’s light caught on the scruff of his unshaven cheek, while the cocked hat he wore slid the rest of his face into shadow. His hair, once golden like Sophie’s, had darkened to amber and was tied with a black ribbon that threatened to come undone.

“I know you love to dance, darling,” Camille said carefully as she watched Alain out of the corner of her eye, “but you’ve been so ill—”

“Alain asked me to.” Sophie’s narrow chest heaved. “He wanted to see if I was still a good dancer.”

“And she is!” Alain’s smile gleamed. “I’ll find her a husband yet. See if I don’t.”

“Don’t tease, Alain. No one will marry me now.” Sophie bent her head so her hair hid the few smallpox scars on her forehead. “Isn’t that so, Camille?”

Camille hesitated. There was no good answer to this question.

“Whatever Camille says, don’t listen! At court the grand ladies wear beauty patches to cover their pocks.” Alain raised his wineglass. “To Sophie! Keep up your dancing and your needlework, and we’ll find you a husband, handsome as a prince.”

“She’s fifteen, Alain.” Camille shot him a dark look. “Come sit by the fire, Sophie. Catch your breath while I put out the food. Boots down, Alain.” She gave his feet a shove; it was a relief to set the heavy basket down. Brushing off the table, she placed the cheese and bread, along with a knife, on a scarred wooden board. The sweet pastry she handed to Sophie.

“Oh, it’s too much,” she said, but her face shone.

“Bien! Fatten her up, Camille. You’ve let her go to skin and bones.”

Camille nearly snapped: I let her? It was my fault? but she pressed the words down.

“Something in the basket for me?” Alain demanded.

Camille set the flask of wine on the table.

“Nicely done,” he said. “Pour yourself a little glass, too. We’ve plenty now.”

“What do you mean, ‘plenty’?” She saw a bottle by the fireplace and her heart sank. “Alain, where’s the chicken?”

“What chicken?”

Camille sensed Sophie stiffen. The room suddenly felt very, very small.

“You know how Monsieur Dimnier always admired Maman?” Camille kept her voice even. “I asked you to pick up the chicken he’d set aside for us. One that hadn’t gained weight, one he’d had to kill early.”

Alain frowned. “You didn’t tell me anything about a skinny chicken.”

She had, but it didn’t matter now. “I’ll go fetch it; it’s not far.” Camille held out her hand. “I’ll need the money back.”

Alain laughed. “You’d better make some more, then, because I don’t have it.”

“What?”

“Just what I said.” Alain took a swig of wine and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s gone.”

“You can’t just squander our real money!” She reached into her pocket. Just as she’d thought, apart from a few real sous, the rest had lost their magic and were now what they’d been this morning: bent, useless nails she’d pried out of a broken door. “I can’t pay Dimnier with this!” she stormed. “We have to give him real money, remember? If he stops selling to us, what then?” She threw the nails onto the table so hard they caromed to the floor.

Alain shrugged. “Just go farther away.”

Camille stamped her foot. “There is nowhere else! You’ve no idea how far I had to go just for the bread. Dimnier’s the last one in our quarter who trusts us. And you threw away our chicken for a bottle of wine.”

“How was I to know you’d remember to buy some?”

Blood thrummed in Camille’s head. It wasn’t easy to make ends meet using la magie ordinaire—everyday magic—to transform bits of metal into coins. These days, her hands never stopped shaking, and she’d become nearly as thin as Sophie. Little by little, magic was erasing her. Sometimes she felt it might kill her.

She grabbed the bottle of wine.

“Don’t.” Alain swayed to his feet. “Give that to me.”

“You don’t deserve it!” Hoisting the bottle over her head, Camille hurled it into the washing tub. A grinding shatter—and the acrid scent of wine filled the room.

Alain grabbed the knife on the table and pointed it at her. “That was my wine.”

“It was mine, idiot. I worked for it. I bought it.”

“Hush, Camille!” Sophie said, desperate. “Please don’t argue! Alain stands in our father’s place now. You must listen to him.”