Enchantée(35)

Foudriard coughed into his cravat. Camille shook her head. She didn’t trust her voice.

“Your face is so very familiar,” the vicomte said in a low, rich voice as his eyes flicked lazily over her face and down to her hands. “But I can’t place where we might have met. You’d think I’d remember such a lovely girl.” At her chair, he stooped into a bow. “At your service, madame.”

“Monsieur.” The less she said, the better. She tried to tell herself that even this close, so close she could see the fine film of powder dusting the planes of his face, the glamoire would protect her, like a shield. Its power was in its perfection, the subtle erasure of her freckles and the hungry tightness around her eyes, the illusion that darkened her lashes and her cloud-gray eyes, added curves to her cheeks. Still, the way he scrutinized her, as if she were a counterfeit coin, made her wish she were somewhere else. He sensed something, she was certain of it. She forced herself to smile when what she wished to do was to shrink back into the stiff shell of her stays.

Séguin straightened abruptly, and just like that, the line of tension between them snapped.

His thin mouth curved when he saw the pile of coins and jewels. “You play high, mes amis.” Opening a purse, he pulled out a handful of gold louis, which he dropped carelessly in front of him. Camille had never seen so many, all at once.

Chandon put his mouth to Camille’s ear. “Careful,” he said. “Séguin cheats.”

Now that Séguin had arrived, she saw what a terrible mistake she’d made to stay. He made it hard to concentrate, but the snuffbox—on top of the glittering pile—she could not leave without it. She had no choice but to trust the glamoire, work her best magic with the cards, and then leave as soon as she had even a hundred livres.

Over Chandon’s shoulder, through the tall window, the sky above the gardens of Versailles was darkening to purple. It was growing late. Too late. With a start, she remembered she’d told the coachman eight o’clock. Quickly, she rose from her chair.

“Madame,” Aurélie said, frowning. “You’ve spilled something on your dress. I’ll ring for a maid?”

There was no maid at Versailles who could help her. For there, on the bodice of her dress, was a scattering of drops—just like spilled wine. But it wasn’t wine. The dress was changing.

“It’s nothing,” Camille said, fear snaking along her skin. She had to go. The snuffbox—she could still feel how reassuringly it had lain in her pocket—she would have to leave behind. Taking a step backward, Camille pulled her skirts free of the table. There was more damage: along the hem of her skirts ran an irregular seam of dark gold, creeping up like mold.

“My apologies,” she said quickly. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. It’s much later than I thought.”

“Later?” asked Chandon. “It’s not even late.”

“Was it something I said?” The Vicomte de Séguin mock-frowned as he rose. Chandon and Foudriard stood up, too, their swords clattering against the furniture.

“Bah, it’s too bad!” Aurélie pouted. “It was so fun to have you with us, madame! And now the evening is popped, like a bubble!”

Camille’s throat burned with shame. Not only had she lost the snuffbox, but if the dress’s enchantment continued to fade this might be the last time she came to Versailles. She wished desperately they would all leave so she could sneak away unseen.

“Ah, it’s not that bad,” Chandon said, putting his arm around Aurélie. “Your special friend, the Baron de Guilleux, is sure to be playing paille maille by torchlight in the gardens. Let’s join him, non?” Everyone agreed it was a fantastic idea; Foudriard blew out the candles.

At the door, Camille tried to hide her fading dress, willing the magic to hold. The boys bowed to her; Aurélie kissed her on the cheek. “Next time we won’t let the boys win. It’ll be you and I, invincible.” Aurélie was kind, but her words did nothing to make Camille feel any better or to stop the refrain jangling in her mind: you lost it all.

Last to leave, Chandon paused beside her. All the amusement had vanished from his face; without it, his hazel eyes were surprisingly somber.

“Séguin takes a toll, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“No?” Chandon raised an eyebrow as he polished the snuffbox on his coat. “You’ll forgive me that I didn’t give you a chance to win this back.”

Her fingers longed to wrest it from him and run. But as the others drifted down the hall and on to their next game, Camille was beginning to see another path. Another way to win. This palace might be the home of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI and the French court, but it was also a gambling hall of immense proportions. These aristos would play any game and bet on anything.

She could see it unfold ahead of her.

If she could master the magic of turning cards, she might make much, much more than a few months’ rent. She could make her and Sophie’s fortune and step into a new future. She had only to be assured of another chance to play.

“Perhaps another time?” she murmured.

Again, the dimpled smile. “Of course! Still, you mustn’t leave empty handed—here, take what I have left.” He slipped the little box into his vest pocket and, from another pocket, pressed eight heavy gold louis into her palm.