Rachelle managed to slip away that afternoon to hunt for the door, but she found nothing. All the search gained her were a lot of curious glances from the bustling crowds, and Amélie’s worried wrath when she got back to her room too late to be dressed up for the night’s reception.
“I’m not a guest,” Rachelle protested.
“You would be once I finished dressing you,” Amélie muttered.
The reception was held in the Salon du Mars—a vast, domed, hexagonal room that was considered one of the wonders of Château de Lune. Personally, Rachelle couldn’t see the appeal. For one, it had no suns or moons anywhere, which made it useless to her. For another, it looked like someone had vomited artwork over every available surface. The six walls were practically paneled in gold-framed paintings of every shape and size. The ceiling was just one mural, but it was such a writhing mess of billowing fabric and twisting limbs that she couldn’t tell what it depicted. Around the edges of the room were placed alternating black and white marble statues, all of them contorted into feverishly passionate poses.
Add to that six tables of cakes, ices, and punch bowls, a group of seven musicians playing the violin, three hundred candles, and who knew how many courtiers, and the result was a room that made Rachelle feel like she was being punched in the face just by looking at it.
It didn’t help that Armand had entered the room with the King, which meant that Rachelle came in a step behind them, right at the center of the panoply. The room stilled and silenced at the King’s entrance; the mass of people swayed down in bows and curtsies and then rose back up again, like a wave ebbing and flowing. The low roar of conversation resumed. Instantly they were swarmed by an exquisite crowd of people—dripping silk and lace, powder and jewels—who must speak with the King or Armand. According to some set of precise, secret rules, each of them bowed low, or kissed a hand, or received a kiss on the cheek.
Then they would look at Rachelle—sometimes a swift, covert glance, sometimes an openly nervous stare. But they didn’t try to talk to her, perhaps because she was in her normal patrol clothes. She wasn’t here to pretend she belonged to the glittering throng.
She was here to find Joyeuse. But after some careful glances, Rachelle was pretty sure that there was no sun or moon anywhere in the decorations. Which meant that the next few hours would be an idiotic waste of her time, and she didn’t even know how much time she had left.
Then a woman spoke up from behind Rachelle: “Good evening, Armand. Who’s your cheerful friend?”
Rachelle turned and saw a nearly colorless young woman. Her skin was powdered very pale, her curls were dull flax, and her dress was pure white silk. Strings of pearls rimmed the low neckline, gathered the puffy sleeves just below her elbows, and ran in a line down the center of her bodice. The only spot of color was a single large ruby hanging at her neck. Her face was narrow, flat, and not remotely pretty.
Armand’s smile was crooked and far more real than anything Rachelle had seen on his face before. “Mademoiselle Brinon, may I present la Fontaine, my second cousin and already a famous poet, fabulist, and salon hostess. She has a real name but we don’t bother to use it. My dear Fontaine, this is Rachelle Brinon, most excellent of the King’s bloodbound and my bodyguard.”
“I’m charmed.” La Fontaine inclined her head. “But you’re too cold, calling me just your second cousin when I’m practically your mother.” Her fingers brushed the ruby at her throat. “Since His Majesty has been so kind.”
She smiled as Armand turned red. Rachelle was baffled for a moment, and then remembered that a single red ruby was the gift noblemen would give their mistresses. This young woman must be the latest of King Auguste-Philippe’s long line of favorites.
“I played with you when we were both four years old,” said Armand with precise calm. “I am not going to call you ‘mother.’”
“Pity. You’ll just have to come to my salon and address