Chapter 48

Bellatrice had picked out our gowns for the masquerade, spending a full week dragging us from one atelier to another, all across the city. She'd examined hundreds of renderings and fabric swatches, determined to find the most exquisite masterpieces for us to wear, ensuring our names would be on the lips of every society matron and our appearance at the forefront of the minds of their handsome, eligible sons.

Unlike the parties we'd attended earlier in the season—each vying to have the most over-the-top and spectacular theme—the only thing to pay homage to tonight was the Marnaigne name itself. Everyone was to don their best black-and-gold finery, showing support for and allegiance to their most triumphant monarch.

Wanting herself to shine brightest, Bellatrice had selected the more daring of the designs—a gown with a sheer fitted bodice and a full skirt made of layers and layers of flesh-colored tulle. Dozens of black flocked-velvet snakes were carefully stitched into the netting, twisting artfully through the skirts and across her bodice, barely covering her nipples. One serpent wound about her neck before plunging into the deep V of her cleavage with a bold flick of its threaded tongue. Bellatrice's maid, Cherise, had let out a gasp of dismayed delight after spotting the wicked creature.

Bellatrice's smile had been noticeably subdued.

I watched her carefully in her giant dressing mirror as Cherise stabbed hairpins into the sweep of my updo, attempting to keep my halo tiara in place. Bellatrice had insisted I borrow one of hers to complete my look, choosing a delicate headdress with golden rays radiating from its arch, each topped with dazzling celestial spangles. I couldn't fathom the number of jewels currently atop my head, each winking with far too much luster to ever be mistaken for paste.

My dress hung off me like liquid gold, giving me a far more festive appearance than my mood prescribed. The sparkling lamé wrapped around my torso with an asymmetric sunburst of pleats that left my shoulders and back bare and luminous, thanks to a dusting of pearlescent powder.

Though my black agar tonic had put an end to the Shivers, glittering skin was now macabrely vogue throughout Chatellerault, prompting dressmakers to dip their bodices lower and lower to show off greater swaths of sparkles.

Bellatrice had opted for a flashy smear of gold over her collarbones, lips, and eyelids and was now absentmindedly dipping her hands into a pot of paint. The shimmering cosmetic gave the impression of gloves and imbued her with an otherworldly glamour.

"I should have put my mask on first," she realized, waving her hands back and forth to dry them. Her sigh was heavy.

"I'll handle that for you, milady," Cherise promised, jabbing one last pin in my hair. "How does that feel, Mademoiselle Trépas?"

I tilted my head from side to side. "If it should fall off, the fault will be entirely my own."

"Or your dance companion's," Bellatrice predicted. Her words were witty but her tone sounded hollow. "They're all perfectly dashing, but I can't imagine any of our esteemed soldiers will make for graceful partners."

"Not even Mathéo?" I asked, trying to nudge her into a cheerier mood. I picked up my mask—a shimmering domino of hammered gold with black painted stars—and tied it in place.

"Especially Mathéo."

Cherise laughed, fitting a thin strip of black tulle over the princess's eyes. Bellatrice fussed at the mirror for a moment before nodding to the maid and dismissing her from the room.

I waited until I heard the door click shut before speaking, keeping my words hushed. "Are you all right?"

For the barest moment, I saw her freeze, her spine growing rigid, but she immediately shook it off and leaned back against the elegant slope of her chair, peering at me thoughtfully. "You should have gone with the gold dust instead of that opalescent shimmer."

"Bells…," I began worriedly.

She sighed, annoyed at my persistence. "I need to find a husband, Hazel. Tonight."

It was such an unexpected turn of topic, I could only raise my eyebrows in response.

"I'm twenty-three," she went on. "I'm tired of being kept at court with no word of when that may change, if ever. First we were in mourning, and then there was the war and I thought perhaps Papa was keeping me here should something happen to Leo, you know, at the front."

She paused, arranging her face into a look of expected contrition.

"It's a terrible thing to contemplate, of course, but if Papa no longer had a male heir, he would be forced to pass the crown to his eldest child…me," she added unnecessarily. "But now the war is over, and the threat to Leo is gone, and I…I just need to get out."

Marnaigne had made it clear he knew exactly what was meant to happen in Leopold's life. It seemed impossible he hadn't laid out Bellatrice's with as much foresight.

"Why the sudden rush? The war has only just ended. There's sure to be dozens of parties all season long. You want to find the right man, not just any man."

Bellatrice looked back to the dressing table mirror, her expression impossibly sad. She touched the corner of her lips with her knuckle. "If only I'd been born a boy…," she whispered.

I knelt beside her feet, yards of shining fabric piling up between us like a cloud. I reached out, taking her gold-flecked hand in mine. "You know you can tell me anything. What's bothering you?"

Her eyes fell on me, and even with the obscuring bit of tulle, I could see they were round and glassy. The princess was close totears.

"I need to get out of here, Hazel," she whispered in a quick rush. "This afternoon showed me that we're not safe here. None of us are, but especially…" She stopped short, weighing out her next words. "Me. I'm not safe. Not anymore."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bellatrice blew out a long breath, looking queasy. "There was a rumor, years ago, that I…" She leaned close to me, whispering her next words. "…that I might not actually be Papa's daughter."

I couldn't help my gasp of surprise. "What?"

She nodded, her eyes darting toward the door as if she'd heard Cherise return. Silent seconds ticked by before she continued. "There was talk that Mama and Uncle Baudouin had been…particularly close friends. That's why he left court after I was born…when my eyes changed."

"Your eyes?"

Her knees jangled with uncharacteristic nerves, bumping her vanity. "They say all babies are born with blue eyes, you know? And mine were, at first. Mama said they were every bit as blue as Papa's, that I was a Marnaigne through and through. But when I was about a year old, they started to change, lightening to green."

"Does Baudouin have green eyes?" I asked, then blanched."Did."

"He did, yes," she agreed. "It took Papa some time to notice, but when he did…" She blinked and a tear fell on the net of her mask. "Mama tried to smooth it over. She swore to every single one of the gods that her grandfather had had eyes as green as jade, but the damage was done. Baudouin left court and Papa never spoke to him again. Not until this morning. Not until Papa vowed to kill off every member of his lineage. A lineage that probably includes me, no matter what Mama said."

"Your perfume bottle," I murmured, recalling the odd comment Bellatrice had made here in this room, so many months ago. "Your mother used to call you her little diamond because you were hers and hers alone."

She nodded reluctantly. "You have no idea how much I wish she were here now. She could make everything better. She could help divert his moods. But it's just us." She blinked several times, trying to clear the tears from her eyes before more fell. "You can't breathe a word of this to anyone. Ever. But especially now." She shook my hands in hers and squeezed tight. The gold paint between us dug into my palms like shards of glass. "Please, Hazel."

"Never. You have my word," I swore.

She licked her lips. "Good. Just let me dance tonight, Hazel. Let me be as carefree and foolish as any other girl there. Let me find a man who thinks me witty and charming and will get me out of this palace alive. Please."

"But if we could only—"

I stopped short as Cherise bustled back in, carrying with her Bellatrice's tiara on a tufted pillow. Immediately, Bellatrice turned to her vanity and began dabbing at her cheeks.

"Is everything all right, milady?" the maid asked, catching sight of the princess's red eyes.

"Of course," she snapped with a testy fa?ade. "Only you tied my mask on too tight and now I've got this shimmering mess in my eyes."

Cherise scurried to the bathing chamber for water, murmuring a dozen apologies.

"Tell me, Hazel," Bellatrice went on, her voice bright and inviting and giving away nothing of her true state of mind. It also sounded too loud, raised so that Cherise could hear her in the other room. "Is there anyone you're hoping to dance with tonight?"

In the mirror, our eyes met, open and honest for one painfully brief moment, before an aggressively pleasant expression settled over her face. It radiated lighthearted gaiety and would be the most impenetrable mask she'd don that night.