“What would be…” she stammers, her voice drifting uncertainly into nothing.

  “A fire or something. A badger tearing the room apart. He’ll think that’s hilarious. He’ll come running for that.”

  “You want me to lie? To the Dauphin?”

  “Imply. Not lie.”

  “H-how do I imply a badger?”

  The girl’s voice has risen a full octave.

  “Aurelia,” Bette says softly. “You’re scaring her.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” I cast her a warm grin. “It’s fine. Tell him Duchess Villette has fallen in the dining hall and you think she’s badly hurt. He’ll think that’s about as funny as a badger on the loose.”

  The girl nods rapidly before disappearing through the oversized doorway.

  Bette and I are alone for the first time in months.

  I’ve been dreading this moment.

  “So,” she says slowly, tucking her brown curls behind her ear.

  I know what’s coming. I’ve been praying she won’t do it. That she won’t ask me—

  “How’s Clare?”

  I smile thinly. “She’s good. Clare is always good.”

  “She doesn’t answer my letters.”

  “She’s not much of a conversationalist. She’s bad in person, worse on paper. You know that.”

  “I do.” She chuckles. It sounds forced. “You answer my letters though.”

  “I’m a better person than Clare is.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  I hesitate, not sure what to say. To give her too much information would be betraying Clare. To give her nothing would be cruel. There’s a line here, a very fine one, and I can walk it if I’m careful.

  “She’s painting again,” I say.

  Bette’s face lights up. “She is?”

  “A lot. I think she’s feeling inspired.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad she’s gone back to that. She’s talented.”

  “So are you. Are you still playing?”

  “Julian keeps a piano in the atrium for me. I’m in there almost every day.”

  “The atrium? You used to play concerts for The Crown and the entire court. Now you’re playing to roses?”

  Her brow drops. “The acoustics are perfect,” she says defensively.

  Crap!

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize earnestly. “That was rude. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know how you meant it.” Bette casts me a forgiving smile. “It’s alright, Relia.”

  It’s not. She’s hurt. I did that because I always do that, even though I never mean to. I just don’t always think about how a thing sounds before I say it.

  You have a vicious tongue, Mother likes to tell me.

  It’s irritating because for once we actually agree.

  “I didn’t want to leave things the way they were with Clare,” Bette tells me.

  Oh good. We’re back to this.

  I nod in understanding. “I know you didn’t.”

  “Clare was never going to understand.”

  “No. She wasn’t.”

  Bette sighs, glancing at the long table. “Will she be at dinner tonight?”

  “She will. Her dad is a minister. He won’t let her miss it.”

  “Even if I’m there.”

  I don’t know what to say to that so for once I say nothing at all. I keep my tongue carefully controlled in my mouth.

  “Does anyone else know?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

  “No, Bette. No one knows.”

  “Good.” She straightens a fork that doesn’t need straightening. “That’s good.”

  Footsteps are coming down the hall. They’re slow. Methodical. Not at all rushed which is a little insulting considering I’m meant to be writhing on the floor in agony, badly injured.

  But what can you expect from the man who stabbed his own brother through the gut to get the crown?

  Bette and I turn to greet Bastian, our hands clasped demurely in front of us. Footmen open the door for him. Both of them. I doubt Bastian Bouchard has opened a door for himself in a decade, unless it was the door to a woman’s bedroom late at night. As he was leaving. While she was still asleep and none the wiser.

  I cringe when he breezes into the room.

  He’s tall and lean, wiry in his strength. His face is angular, his nose Roman and dominating like his father’s, his jaw cut like a knife against my neck. He’s wearing dark jeans and a crisp white button-down shirt tucked in at his narrow waist. Everything about him is designed to destroy me, and a part of me is broken in two when I look at him.

  Bastian pauses to survey the room. When his eyes land on me, he smirks. “You don’t look like you’ve broken your neck.”

  “I overreacted.”

  “To what exactly?”

  “A paper cut.” I gesture to the table behind me. “While we have you here—”

  “You did not bring me in here to look at table settings.”

  “I’m sorry, Monseigneur. Were you busy?”

  “I’m always busy, Villette.”

  “It’s a busy day,” I agree.

  He stares at me, waiting for me to apologize again.

  I will not. He was lucky to get one. I’ll vomit on this priceless Persian rug if he asks me to do it again.

  “Where’s my mother?” he demands.

  “Still in the country.”

  “I’m guessing you couldn’t get my father in here.”

  “Should I disturb His Serene Majesty before you?”

  Bastian’s jaw tightens. I can see the muscles flexing under his tan skin. “No. You shouldn’t.”

  “We have to get it approved by The Crown and you’re already here, so if you wouldn’t mind, we could use your input. Please.”

  That ‘please’ will cost me ten years of my life. It aches like pulling teeth from my own skull.

  But it does the job.

  Bastian walks briskly into the room. He stands at the head of the table where his father will sit, staring down the line of plates, platters, silverware, candlesticks, saucers, glasses, goblets, and vases filled with nothing but air. The flowers are coming later this evening with the Queen, whenever she decides to finally come back from ‘resting’.

  Hiding. That’s what she’s doing. And I don’t blame her one bit.

  If I was a coward, I’d hide from the Bouchard men too.

  “The gold is tacky,” Bastian says briskly. “Use the white.”

  “With all due respect—”

  “Don’t say that. Whenever someone says ‘with all due respect’, they’re about to be disrespectful.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “I wish you were. It would make you so much more interesting.” He looks at me sideways. “You used to be fun, Villette. Why’d you stop?”

  Because you killed your brother and I hate you.

  I shrug. “I don’t know, Monseigneur.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “What part?”

  “The ‘Monseigneur’ bit. It sounds sarcastic coming from you.”

  “Is there anything I can say that doesn’t sound disrespectful to you?”

  “Not today.”

  I take a deep breath and a bold step toward him.

  It catches his attention. It reminds him I’m not afraid of him. His eyes flicker to my hands as though he expects me to reach out and touch him. Or is he looking for a weapon?

  His guard at the door definitely is.

  “I was going to say that I agree with you,” I tell him. “I like the white better. But—”

  “There’s always a but,” he grumbles.

  “—it might not be right for the occasion. It’s the centennial celebration. His Majesty said he wanted it to be the grandest we’ve ever seen.”

  “Does ‘grand’ equate to ‘gawdy’?”

  “I think, in this case, it does.”

  He studies me in silence.

  Two.

  Three.

  Four.

  My cheeks grow warm, my fingers icy cold like I’ve lost all the blood in my body, because that’s what he does to me – he ruins me. Every. Single. Time.

  I hope I destroy him too. I hope as he looks at me, his eyes locked on mine in a hold that feels like a trap he can’t escape, that he’s suffering. I want him to hurt the way I do. Hope the way I do. Wish and dream and long for things that are already dead and buried, just the way I do.

  Bastian clears his throat, turning sharply toward the door. “Go with the gawdy gold then. What the hell do I care?”

  chapitre quatorze

  My grandparents are leaving. We haven’t even had dinner yet (the place settings look like King Midas threw up on the table) and they’re already packed up, ready to go. It will look bad for us, Mother reminds them. It will look like Grandfather is refusing to break bread with the King.

  “Then he’ll understand,” Grandfather tells her.

  I pull my shawl tight around my bare shoulders as I watch them say their goodbyes to Mother and Iris. The evening gown my mother didn’t want me to wear is constricting and strapless, an uncomfortable mess, but it’s beautiful. It’s dark as midnight with a thousand handstitched gemstones that shimmer like constellations in the sky. After getting the castle ready for tonight’s dinner with The Crown, I barely had time to squeeze myself into it. My hair was rushed, a careless mass of curls spilling down my back. My feet ache in my shoes, my back is sore from hours of standing and delegating. I feel like I’m at the end of my night, not the beginning of it.

  Grandmother kisses me dryly on the cheek. “Goodbye, darling.”

  “Goodbye, Mémé.”

  “Be good tonight.”

  “What else would I be?”

  She laughs airily as she lowers herself into the shining black car.

  My eyes dart to the stables at the opposite end of the courtyard. A light is burning inside. I harbor a small but urgent hope that Gable will step outside so I can see him. Mostly I want him to see me in my dress.

  Across the roof of the car, Grandfather is muttering to Mother. Her face is pinched and impatient. She nods twice. A third time, harder now, as though to say, ‘Yes! I said I understand!’ He looks at her heavily before gripping both of her shoulders. He kisses her forehead. Her arms are crossed over her chest, her eyes downcast.

  When they’ve gone, she turns to Iris and I. For a second she seems surprised to find us there. Like she’d forgotten we existed.

  She covers it quickly with a smile. “Who’s ready for dinner? I’m starved.”

  I have to stop myself from reminding her that starvation is her natural state.

  We follow Mother over the uneven cobblestones of the courtyard up to the steps leading inside the castle. Her silk shoes click loudly on the stones, alerting two footmen of our arrival. They open the heavy glass doors wide, inviting us out of the dark and into the warm yellow glow inside.

  “What’s for dinner?” Iris asks me.

  “Goat’s brains.”

  She giggles. “No, really.”

  “That’s really what we’re having. I was put in charge of the menu and I wanted goat’s brains.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “We’re having whale tongue for dessert.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Anything is edible if you put enough sugar on it.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Tell me one thing sugar can’t fix.”

  Her blond head bobs back and forth, thinking carefully. “Typhoid.”

  “You got me there.”

  Before going in, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at the stables.

  The light inside has gone dark.

  chapitre quinze

  We do not have goat’s brains for dinner. We’re supposed to have coq au vin but to even make it to the first course of seven, we need our King. Or the Queen. We’d get by with just the Dauphin, but we don’t have Bastian either. We have nothing. Not even an explanation.

  “I heard your sister play in the gazebo today,” Lady Casta beams at me. Her face is painted aggressively. It cracks on the corners when she smiles. “She is so lovely. Such a delicate girl. And the way she plays the flute is inspired.”

  I smile with pride. “She’s a wonder.”

  “Do you play?”

  “Not a note.”

  “Not on any instrument?”

  My smile is self-effacing. “I can’t even sing.”

  “Oh, that’s alright, dear.” She taps my hand with hot fingers. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you. That’s…” My smile is wearing thin. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. You’ll find your niche. I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good girl. Confidence! That’s what all women have to have. And once they have it, they better learn to hide it.”

  “Oh.” I blink in surprise. “Alright.”

  She leans in conspiratorially. Her breath smells like wine and antiquated wisdom. “Men don’t like it, darling. They want a woman incapable of making herself happy.”

  “Why would they want that?”

  “Because then they get to make her happy.”

  “But if she doesn’t know how to do it, how will they know?”

  “Because she does know. She’s just hiding it. She’ll tell him subtly, through hints. But he can never know that she knows. Only he knows.” She grabs for her wineglass. It sloshes red as blood right up to the rim before settling low inside. “And then he’ll make her happy and feel proud and they’ll last forever.”

  “But she’ll be lying,” I point out even though I shouldn’t.

  Lady Casta’s eyes are full of affection. “Everyone lies, darling. What matters is that you’re lying for the right reasons.”

  “How do you know when it’s right?”

  “Because it won’t leave you feeling like absolute shit.”

  I carefully disengage myself from Lady Casta. I do it by loudly asking my mother a question about her private plot in the garden. Mother’s plot is the envy of every woman at the table, particularly Lady Casta. She hasn’t got one. It’s like being a bee in the hive but you’re missing a wing. You dream of ripping a wing off every able-bodied bee in sight, just to level the playing field.

  “I was about to save you, but what do you know?” Clare asks quietly on my left. “You went and saved yourself.”

  “I had to sacrifice my mother to do it.”

  “All part of the game, kid.” Clare nods toward Lady Casta talking animatedly across the table. “What was she going on about?”

  “How talented Iris is. And that it’s okay that I don’t have a skill.”

  “It’s not, really. It’s sad.”

  “She says it doesn’t matter because I’m beautiful.”

  Clare gives me a quick look over. She shrugs. “You’re a seven at best.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “A terrible friend.”

  She grins. Her fingers flutter in the air, signaling for the nearest waiter to refill her wine. “No. Number.”

  “A two,” I answer blandly. “You have split ends and your eyebrows are always uneven.”

  It’s a lie. She’s a six, maybe a seven, depending on your taste. Her hair is long and dark, her body long and thin. She has a sort of angular face that can be interesting from one angle and shocking from another. Her personality is brusque. Rough as sandpaper. You won’t get a kind word out of her unless you’re on your deathbed, and even then you might not deserve it.

  I imagine when we’re old and dying, I’ll lay there looking up at her withered face and just as I take my last breath in this world, she’ll tell me, “I’ll see you in hell, Relia.”

  I’ll hope with my whole heart that she’s right.

  “Whatever,” she says to me, smiling salaciously at the waiter. “You’d be lucky to get a shot at this.”

  He disappears in a blur of black tuxedo and blond hair with good survival instincts.

  “You’re not my type,” I tell her.

  “No, but I know who is.”

  I close my eyes briefly, biting down on my annoyance. “Don’t. Do not bring that up in mixed company. You promised.”

  “I did?”

  “Stop. You know you did.”

  Clare blinks dramatically. “I don’t remember. What did I promise not to talk about?”

  I’ll kill her. Facing the repercussions of murdering her in public would be better than dealing with the alternative. She has such a big mouth. Why did I tell her?!

  “Are you sad that he’s not here yet?” she teases.

  I shake my head, my eyes focused on the wall across from me. “Stop.”

  “Hey, I don’t blame you. He’s delicious.”

  “He’s horrible.”

  “On the inside. But the outside is good stuff. Ten out of ten.”

  “Stop rating everybody.”

  Clare smiles proudly. “You’re blushing. Do you know that?”

  “I’m not,” I lie.

  “I wish Bastian was here to see this. You look so pretty when you’re chock full of shame.”

  I cast her a cold glare. “I will throw your wine in your face. I swear it.”

  “No, you won’t, because that would cause a scene and Villettes don’t cause scenes.”

  “I’ll pour water in your lap and tell everyone you’re drunk and peed yourself.”

  Her eyes are wide with respect. “That I believe you’ll do.”

  “Just… not tonight, okay? I can’t handle it tonight.”

  She shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Like she doesn’t understand why I’m even talking about it. “You got it. Won’t say anything.”

  “Thank you.”

  She crosses her heart somberly. “I’ll be good as gold.”

  “I believed you before you said that. Now it feels like you’re mocking me.”