Enchantée(49)

Why had Maman never told her this terrible history? As the skirts of her gown rustled uneasily, Camille shuddered to think what her ancestors had gone through. “But those magicians did nothing wrong! They only did what the king and the other nobles compelled them to do.”

“That’s one way to think about it,” he said carefully. “But you can see why the magicians who escaped never renewed the glamoires or the protections at Versailles—and now the whole place is crumbling like old cake. After the love potion inquisition, magic fell out of favor at court. Though the nobles wanted our magic as desperately as ever, they were frightened of us. Not simply because of the magic we worked, the magic that seemed to make all their desires possible—the magic that made the hair stand up on their necks. But also because they saw what we did to achieve it. What we were prepared to do to ourselves.” A shadow fell across Chandon’s face. “I’m certain you understand.”

She did. She had seen the blank revulsion in Sophie’s face when she realized the glamoire needed both blood and sorrow, and that Camille was willing to give it. She was no longer simply working la magie ordinaire, using her sorrow to turn coins or even cards. By working the glamoire and using the sinister, magic-threaded dress, Camille had stepped over some kind of dark and desperate threshold.

Now she stood on the other side. It was a lonely place.

There had been a time, before the smallpox crept into their house, when Camille had seen Maman standing at the mirror over the fireplace, her hands gripping the mantel’s fluted edge to stop herself from shaking. Not that she could. The fine trembling showed itself in the lace on her sleeves and the ends of her hair. In the mirror her face was wan and etched with fatigue, too old for her thirty-six years. Liver spots Camille had never seen clustered on the backs of her hands and tarnished her cheekbones. And Camille had been oblivious to anything but her own anger with Maman for favoring Sophie and forcing Camille to work la magie.

Suddenly, Camille saw what she hadn’t seen then. Before, she’d thought the glamoire a frivolous thing, something for dressing up and being pretty. But Maman had been working a glamoire so she could use turned coins closer to home without being recognized. The fatigue and the wear of it finally made her so weak that she succumbed when the pox came.

If you don’t like working la magie ordinaire, she had said, you will not like the glamoire at all.

Maman had never intended to be cruel. She had only ever asked for Camille’s help, not demanded it. Perhaps she too had felt there was no other way.

Camille’s voice was thread-thin when she said, “More and more, I think I do understand.”

“And therefore I’d say, if I were to be blunt—which I hardly ever am—stay clear of anyone who asks about magic. Favors and other such things. As for the other magicians—”

Her throat tightened. “There are others? Here?”

With a creak, a door opened and Foudriard’s tall silhouette appeared at the end of the hall.

“It’s time for me to go,” Chandon said, straightening his cravat.

It was too soon. There was so much more she needed to know. “I’m frightened, Chandon. I’m not really an aristocrat, and I’m certainly not a courtier. I only came here to gamble at cards. I can’t be found out. I need to stay at least a little longer. Please help me—what should I do?”

Chandon bent his head to hers, his words tumbling over themselves. “You must be the Baroness of Pretend. Give absolutely nothing away. Watch carefully how much you win. Remember to lose every once in a while. Stay clear of traps! Next we meet I’ll tell you more, I promise.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Fear not. We’ll stick together, we nice magicians.”

When he reached them, Foudriard bowed and handed Camille her fan, which she’d left behind. His kind brown eyes were full of concern. “That Willsingham is fun to have around but sometimes he really is a fool,” Foudriard said. “You found someone to dry your dress, madame?”

Camille nodded. “Merci.”

Foudriard put a hand on Chandon’s shoulder. “Shall we go? I have to be up at dawn with the new recruits. They still haven’t understood that the horses are smarter than they are.”

“Silly cavalry officers.” Chandon suddenly looked tired, shadowy, just as he had the last time she’d seen him, as if it cost him to play the games court life required. “Au revoir, ma petite,” he said to Camille, blowing her a kiss. “I hope to see you soon. If not here, then at the big palace. I am there most nights, like a ghost that can’t stay away.”

“Like a gambler,” Foudriard said tenderly.

Camille curtsied, her hand on her heart. “Thank you for everything, both of you. I’m in your debt.”

“Hardly,” Chandon replied. “I’m not that kind of magician. I’d much rather be your friend.” Before he left, he said, a warning in his voice: “Remember—magic is a cheater’s game, and everyone who sees it wants to play.”





25


Camille pushed her needle through the silk and pulled so hard the thread broke. “Merde,” she swore, frowning at the court dress.

“Manners, Camille.” Sophie was sitting with her by the window’s bright light. She had half the dress’s skirts in her lap, working to repair a tear that had proved too tricky for Camille.