Enchantée

by Gita Trelease

“What a nervous fool you are,” Camille told herself as she stood up. She needed some air.

  From their attic apartment, a narrow window opened onto the slant of the building’s roof. Camille often scrambled out there in her bare feet to sit next to one of the mansard’s dormers. A metal railing ran along the edge; if it hadn’t been there, she would never have gone out.

  Sometimes she had the feeling that if she went too close to the edge, she wouldn’t be able to control her body and that it would fling itself out and over, into the air—and smash on the street below. Being this high up made her stomach churn, the muscles in her neck contract.

  But she was drawn to what the roof gave her, a moment of solitude and a way to see beyond what she normally could—away to the Seine and beyond. So she stayed away from the drop. If she tucked her feet in close, she could settle back against the corner where the roof met the stone wall. Pigeons were her companions up there, and black-clad chimney sweeps. When they spotted her, they doffed their cloth caps and made extravagant bows, their teeth flashing white against their sooty faces. They never seemed surprised to see her.

  Beneath her perch ran the rue Charlot, and out from it, other streets, like arteries in the huge body of Paris. Near to the Durbonnes’ neighborhood sprawled the grand hôtels built by noblemen in the last century, each iron-gated mansion so large it occupied an entire block. Between where she sat and the watery curve of the Seine glowed a patch of emerald grass, embroidered with paths—the still somewhat-fashionable Place des Vosges. Elegant phaetons and carriages circled the square. Not far off, on an island in the middle of the river, rose the gray towers of the cathédrale of Notre-Dame and the single iron spike of Sainte-Chapelle, and beyond them, the rest of Paris, a haze of places she’d never been.

  What if she dared to go farther? Higher? She wondered what it would be like to venture beyond what she knew. What would she see?

  Somewhere there had to be a place for herself and Sophie. In that maze of streets, there had to be an apartment where they would be safe. Was it too much to ask, when all the nobles had their elegant, well-guarded fortresses? It was not. There would be a window—several windows, as long as she was dreaming—tall and full of golden light, rooms peacefully papered in pale pinks and blues, fireplaces in all of them, soft sofas and featherbeds and warm rugs on the polished floors, a maid to clean and scrub and carry water. It would be a secret place, a space without drunken brothers, fists, or knives.

  Over the river, a flock of birds lifted and curved into the pale dawn sky. That balloonist—Lazare Mellais—he didn’t think about things like this. He and his badger-looking friend were probably pondering release valves and fuel and ballast, not wondering if their brothers would hit them and take their money. Not wondering how they might be safe.

  Her fingers ached with frustration and sorrow. She’d go make something of it, use her sadness to turn coins to buy ointment for her eye. Camille stood up, stretching her neck. A warm breeze playing in her hair, she stood—a fierce silhouette—on the roof for a moment longer, wishing.

  * * *

  After she’d turned the coins, Camille woke Sophie and they dressed to go out. Standing in front of the old mirror on the mantelpiece and settling her broad-brimmed straw hat on her hair, Camille tilted her face to the side and inspected her reflection. The crazed glass made the bruise around her eye even darker and angrier. “It looks like I’ve been beaten.”

  “I’m sorry, ma belle, but you were beaten.” Sophie fiddled with the wide, yellow ribbons on her much prettier hat, a loan from Madame Bénard. She’d styled her hair so that it swooped across her forehead, hiding the pockmarks she didn’t like. “The ointment will help your eye. And laudanum, for your headache. Plus the apothecary is right by the park. The queen believes fresh air solves a multitude of problems.”

  Camille frowned. She loved the fresh morning air as much as anyone, but she hated the way she looked. Broken. In the glass, shadows hung around her eyes, her cheekbones stood out, and her mouth felt too wide in her face. More than anything she resembled a hungry fox. Not exactly the right appearance for a stroll at the Place des Vosges. “Too bad I couldn’t work one of Maman’s glamoires, remember?”

  “Maman did it once. She said it was too dangerous for you to do—remember?”

  Camille did. She also remembered how radiant her mother had looked, more beautiful than ever, as she swept into the apartment in a silk gown Camille had never seen, diamonds at her throat and a glittering brooch on her shoulder, smiling as Papa spun her in a circle. Her face was her face, but not. It had been a dream face: Maman, perfected.

  Which was exactly what she needed now, Camille thought, arranging her hat so it hid her eye.

  Once at the Place des Vosges, Sophie forgot completely about Camille’s bruise and their errand to the apothecary. In the park, the sun shone on the frilled, silk parasols of women who strolled the paths. It blinded as it reflected off the gilded ornaments of the carriages that spun, in a dance of sleek horses’ legs, around the park’s edges. The soft thump of hooves mingled with the jingle of harnesses and the lazy swat of the coachmen’s whips. Ladies waved from gold-painted carriages or rode on glossy horses, the men next to them in tight suits and polished boots, all of them bowing and smiling, exclaiming and flirting and flicking their painted fans. Birds chirped in the clipped hedges. There was not a cloud in the sky, as if the nobles could buy even the sun and the rain and order the weather to their liking.

  As a group of women in rose-sprigged gowns passed them, Camille tipped her head away, hiding her bruise the best she could.

  “What pretty dresses—like darling shepherdesses.” Sophie sighed. “Madame Bénard was right. Cotton’s all the rage.”

  “Which means that the silk weavers of Lyon will starve, because of the queen’s fancy to be a milkmaid.”

  “And see? Such wide sashes,” Sophie went on, ignoring Camille’s scowl. “C’est la mode. I wish we had dresses like that.”

  “This way,” Camille said, guiding her sister into the sheltered arcade that ran around the park. In its cool shade, gilt letters announcing Apothecaire Arnaud arched across one of the shop windows. Beneath the name gleamed row after row of glass bottles, some packed with powders and others full of syrupy tinctures. The bell jingled and a plump, tightly corseted woman stepped onto the street, clutching her package. She frowned when she saw Camille’s bruise.

  “You go,” Sophie said. “I’ll wait here.”

  “On the street?”

  “Who are you with this sudden compulsion for etiquette? In any case, it’s hardly a street. It’s a park. Please—it’s too dull to wait in there. And it always reminds me of Maman’s illness.”

  Hopeless. Camille sighed and went in. The shop smelled of dried herbs, alcohol, and camphor. She inhaled and felt her head clear a little. The line ahead of her was long, as Sophie had suspected. Everyone relished the chance to tell the apothecary their symptoms before surrendering their money. Outside, Sophie stood alone on the grass, gazing at the carriages. A breeze played in the long ribbons in her hat. She swayed slightly, as if to music, as she watched the wheels spin. She looked very small, not much bigger than a child.

  Sophie deserved better. They both did.

  Camille was determined to change things. As long as Alain knew where they lived, a new lock for the door wasn’t going to be enough. He would always be there, taking, taking, taking. She only wished there were another way besides magic.

  When Papa lost the shop, all the children had to learn to work la magie. Alain had been first to volunteer, but he hadn’t been able to turn even the simplest things, like a torn piece of paper into a whole one. He’d been resentful when Camille had done it, quickly—as if it had been easy. But it wasn’t. Maman was exacting when it came to la magie, forcing Camille to practice again and again before she would accept the result. She didn’t see how Camille hated it. But when the magic caught, when Camille changed something useless into something useful, Maman had
praised her. She’d called Camille her magical daughter, and in that moment, she felt she was.

  She should have worked harder at it, she saw that now.

  “Oui, mademoiselle?” the apothecary said, wiping his hands on his apron. “What is your complaint?”

  My complaints are many, monsieur. Carefully, Camille tilted her hat back to reveal the bruise.

  The man pursed his lips. “You have hit yourself on a doorjamb.”

  Camille said nothing. The apothecary’s eyes dropped to his ocher-stained fingers. “Une minute. I’ll get what you need.”

  With the ointment jar and a laudanum bottle for Sophie wrapped in paper and tucked under her arm, Camille stepped out of the dusk of the shop and stood for a moment under the arcade, blinking at the bright sunlight, searching for the yellow of Sophie’s dress.

  There she was, at the far end, past the fountain. Camille was about to cross the street when someone called out to her: “Mademoiselle? Is it you?”

  Her breath caught. Halfway down the arcade, coming toward her at a run, was the boy from the balloon. Lazare Mellais. He wore a plain brown suit, wrapped packages stuffed into its pockets. His cravat, as before, was carelessly tied and his hair was coming loose. As he reached her, Lazare swept off his hat and bowed.

  “I can’t say, mademoiselle, how I’d been hoping that I might pass you, just like this, on the street, so that I might tell you how much—”

  He stopped speaking. His eyes fastened on her purple bruise with its sickly yellow edge.

  Why, of all times, did she have to meet him now? Camille stared down at the cobbles, hoping her hat’s brim would hide her face. She saw the toes of her shoes were dusty.

  “Look at me.” Lazare put his hand on her arm. “Mon Dieu, what happened?”

  “Rien.” Camille pulled her arm away. “It’s nothing.”

  He stepped easily around her. “Whatever it is, it isn’t nothing.” His voice was soft, pleading. “Please, mademoiselle—what’s wrong? I only wish to help.”

  Dropping her head, she tugged the brim of her hat as far down as she could. Humiliation burned hot in the tops of her ears. Any moment he’d realize what had happened to her and the awful greasy dirtiness of her life would be exposed. “If you wish to help, monsieur, just leave me alone.”

  “I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

  “Then please—please stop looking at me.” Despite her intention to be brave, her voice shook.

  Lazare stooped, his warm brown eyes meeting hers under the brim of her hat. “It wasn’t a what, was it?”

  She shook her head once.

  “Then who did this to you?” he said, an edge in his voice. “The dishonorable—”

  Camille shook her head again. Imagine if she told him. If this boy then somehow found Alain and—did what? Beat him? Threatened him? Had him thrown in jail?

  Any good to come of that would never erase the humiliation of Lazare knowing about her drunken wastrel of a brother. And that she had allowed this, somehow, to happen. If she said anything about it, this beautiful boy with his balloon would know her life of pinching poverty, dirty nails, two decent dresses. Nothing could possibly persuade her to reveal that.

  “Stop peering under my hat, monsieur. People are staring.”

  Lazare stood back. “Forgive me. I can’t stand that someone would hurt you—”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  He frowned, as if he didn’t agree. He took a deep breath, exhaled. “Well, then. This is what I’ve been thinking since yesterday, hoping to see you again.” He suddenly looked very young and awkward, all his easy grace gone. “Come visit our workshop, won’t you? Where the balloon is kept? You could properly meet the others. Rosier has all these ideas.”

  “Me?”

  He pretended to glance back over his shoulder, as if there might be someone there. “Who else? You saved the balloon and us, after all. You were so clever about the ballast, and, besides, I need all the help I can get to keep Armand in his place.” That slow smile. “Don’t say no.”

  Lazare was inviting her.

  Her heart lifted. He hadn’t thought her a fool. Her bruise hadn’t repulsed him. He hadn’t wanted to get away from her. It had just been the rain. He had been thinking about her. He wished for her to visit his workshop. He wished to see her again. He had been wishing it this entire time.

  “Where—”

  Camille’s words were cut short by a scream.

  10

  Across the park, one of the gilded carriages shrieked to a halt. Its chestnut horses reared and whinnied as the coachman sawed on the reins. In front of the horses’ legs, a young man—green suit, blond hair—bent and picked up a body from the street. Its head bobbed loosely on his shoulder, its yellow skirts catching around his legs.

  Sophie.

  The breath left Camille’s lungs with a rush. Lazare said something—she could not heed it—she was already running. Her head spun. The park wasn’t large, but full of people, walking slow as death, and she had to dodge them all. A group had gathered around the carriage but Camille pushed her way through, using her elbows and feet to get them to move.

  Please let her not be hurt. Please. Let her have fainted. Anything, anything, but not—

  A dark-haired girl, white-faced and wearing an enormous plumed hat, rushed from the carriage, her mouth a pink O of worry. She was staggeringly pretty, with long dark lashes framing intelligent green eyes. Nearby, the boy knelt and laid Sophie in the grass. Her face was ashen, her lips bloodless.

  Not dead, please, not dead, Camille begged, as she ran up to them. “What happened?”

  “She’s fainted,” the girl murmured, without a glance at Camille. Careless of her extravagant dress, she dropped to her knees in the grass, unstoppered a bottle of sal volatile she’d pulled from her purse, and waved it under Sophie’s nose. Camille threw herself down next to her sister’s still body. She smoothed Sophie’s fair hair from her forehead.

  “Wake up, darling!” Her voice shook. “Wake up!”

  Sophie’s eyelids trembled, but she did not open them. Smiling a little, the girl gently slapped Sophie’s cheeks.

  “What are you doing?” Camille snapped.

  The girl raised one elegant eyebrow, daggerlike against the alabaster whiteness of her skin. “Trust me, I’ve years of experience. Two sisters, both excessively sensitive. She took a fright, that’s all. Poor petite!”

  At that, Sophie opened her blue eyes. There was a smudge of dirt across her forehead. “Camille!” she said, wonderingly. “Who are these people?”

  “Mademoiselle,” the boy said to Camille, “do you know this girl?”

  “She’s my sister.” Camille clasped Sophie’s hand and kissed it. “How do you feel?”

  “Well enough.” Sophie blinked and tried to smile. “How pretty everyone is!” she said to the girl with the fan. “What a marvelous hat!”

  The raven-haired girl laughed. “Fashion is the first thing you think of? It is lovely, isn’t it? I bought it at Rose Bertin’s.”

  Camille glared at the boy. “Tell me what happened.”

  “First, may I offer my deepest apologies,” he said as his strange, golden eyes met hers. Like the girl, he looked about the same age as Camille. He was elegantly dressed, fair and handsome, though his mouth seemed as likely to curve into a sneer as a smile. “Just as your sister was stepping into the street, the horses shied at a flag. My coachman pulled them up immediately; rest assured, they did not touch her.” He smiled faintly. “It was my friend the marquise’s scream you heard, not your sister’s.”

  “Ça alors,” said the girl, her emerald eyes snapping. “What else was I to do, Vicomte? Allow your wild animals to run over this darling girl?” Her voice had a warning edge to it. “Never mind your reputation would be destroyed beyond mending if she’d been hurt.”

  Vicomte. Marquise. Of course it was a pair of aristocrats who’d nearly mown down her sister. They were as heedless as they were rich. C
amille helped Sophie to sitting. “Come, ma chèrie, we’ve got to be going.”

  “So quickly?” There was a little color in Sophie’s cheeks now, though she swayed a little.

  “We’ll take you in the carriage,” the boy said. “It’s no bother—in fact, I insist.” He held out a ringed hand to Sophie.

  But before Sophie could take it, Lazare appeared at the edge of the circle, breathing hard, his hand on the vicomte’s shoulder, pushing him aside. “Your sister! What’s happened?”

  “She fainted, that’s all,” Camille said, relieved that Lazare was finally there. “Thanks to—the marquise—she’s quite well now.”

  “All in a day’s work,” the marquise said, dropping her sal volatile into her purse.

  Lazare bowed in her direction before his eyes went like arrows to the vicomte. “He was involved?”

  “It was the horses!” the marquise said. “And a flag that ought to be torn to shreds, and a girl’s sweet, sensitive nature. Nothing more.” She smiled fondly at Sophie. “No harm done.”

  Lazare exhaled. “Are you well, mademoiselle?”

  “How could I not be, when the kindest people in all of Paris are taking care of me?” Sophie said prettily. She took the vicomte’s hand as he helped her to stand.

  Taking in the little scene, Camille could practically see the wheels spinning in Sophie’s head. Here she was, rescued by a nobleman with a fine nose and golden eyes! And a carriage painted Wedgwood blue and gold! She had stumbled into her very own fairy tale and she was in no rush to leave it. Camille bit her lip as the vicomte said something in Sophie’s ear that made her laugh.

  However well-intentioned this boy might be, she needed to get her sister home. “Thank you, messieurs, madame, for all your help.” As both Lazare and the vicomte started forward, she held up her hand. “We won’t need a carriage. A walk will be just the thing to revive us.”

  The vicomte bowed. “As you wish. Do accept my infinite apologies for having frightened you both. When we reach the stable, I shall whip my coachman and my horses to teach them a lesson.”