Enchantée(90)

The raven smiled. “Myself.”

The mood of the dance swept her up; emboldened, she asked, “Are you planning to kiss me again?”

“Is that what you wish?” His voice was honey rich in her ear.

They pressed their palms together.

“What kind of kiss would it be? Raven and magpie?”

“Marquis and baroness?” He turned his head and met her gaze. His dark eyes in the darker mask gleamed. “Or—something else?”

What did he mean?

They were walking backward now, hands clasped; they would face each other only once more before they changed partners. Her time with Lazare was slipping away.

As they stepped backward with pointed, measured steps, heads up, side by side, a moving part of the great wheel of dancers spinning under the blazing chandeliers, all Camille wanted was for it to be finished. She wanted the confusion and guessing to be gone, the masks and disguises to be stripped away—even her own. Once, she’d been safe, hiding in her glamoire, but the girl who’d come to court to gamble and flirt and fill her pockets with louis was gone. She didn’t want to be a magpie any longer, nor the Baroness de la Fontaine. She wanted to be herself, to hear Lazare to say: I know you.

At the last moment, he spoke, low and earnest. “Tell me,” he began. “At the opera—”

But before he could finish, the dance propelled him away.

Why all these riddles? Why could no one say what they meant? Frustrated, Camille took the hand of her next partner. He wore a fox mask of glossy fur, his lips red over white teeth. When he spoke, she answered by rote, watching Lazare move on without her in the dancers’ circle.

Dutifully, she gave her new partner a small smile. “How many foxes there are in the king’s forests this evening!”

“I’m pleased to see you, Madame la Baroness. Did you enjoy the opera?”

That melodious voice, the burn of incense and smoke. Séguin.

She was grateful that in this movement, the dance let her turn her face away so he could not see her apprehension. “Did you?”

“From where I sat,” he said, his voice slippery as silk, “I got quite an eyeful.”

“The opera was beautiful.”

“I meant the kiss.”

Camille bit her lip.

“Though somehow I don’t think you’re the kind of baroness he wants,” he added. “He’s searching for one a bit more—how shall I say?—authentic. Madame—careful you don’t stumble!” he said as he caught her up, holding her tightly by the hand.

Camille tried to pull free. “Let me go.”

“I didn’t mean to tease you. Besides, our dance is nearly finished.” He held her hand high for the promenade.

She wrenched her hand from his. “It’s finished now.” As she stumbled away from him, the toe of her shoe caught on the hem of her dress and she nearly fell.

“In case you are dealt cards you don’t like,” Séguin called after her, “you know you can change them.”

“Mademoiselle?” she heard a man saying. “Do you wish to sit down?”

When he’d found her a seat by a potted birch, she asked him for lemonade—just go, leave me, she wished at him—and he vanished into the crowd. She could no longer doubt that Séguin knew she was a magician. And that he wanted her to know that he knew. But why? Her head ached.

Near where she sat, groups of courtiers bent their heads together, gossiping.

“Dieu,” exclaimed an older woman. “Have you seen young Sablebois tonight?”

Camille froze.

“Who could miss him?” said her companion in a high, nasal voice. “He’s a glorious dark angel.”

“Do you see how he dances with the white-blond daughter of the Comte de Ch?mes? Money and a title.”

“They’re dancing together now! Even his parents watch with approval.”

As in a nightmare, she felt her head swivel like a puppet’s on a string toward the movement of Lazare’s black cloak in the mesh of dancers. She had to look.

The blond one wore a moth costume, her hair coiled down her back to where her white wings flared out. Blonder than the queen had ever been, a kind of northern beauty, she moved with fairy grace. As she danced with Lazare, her white hand intertwined with his brown one, her face was radiant, as it had been at the opera.

And Lazare?

His back was to Camille, so she could not see his face. But when ever he said something into the curve of the girl’s ear, the pretty play of emotions on her face made Camille sick. And there, at the edge of the crowd, stood Lazare’s parents, with alabaster faces and crimson-painted smiles of approval.

The dance spun, its wheel turning, and Lazare and the daughter of the Comte de Ch?mes were lost from view. She told herself it meant nothing. The court loved to spread rumors—she knew that. She tried to let the worry go but it persisted, a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Why could she no longer tell what was real and what was not?

Her hands trembled in her lap, as if her glamoire were fading, and, sure enough, the black-and-white-striped gown had taken on a grayish cast. Unpinning her brooch, she thrust the needle into her arm. Blood welled up, red and alive as always, and dropped onto her skirt. Almost instantly, fresh black bands raced up from the hem as if an invisible hand were stitching it anew. Revived, the dress drew in protectively around her, giving her strength to stand up. The glass doors to the gardens beckoned and she shouldered her way through the revelers to reach the parterres.