“Let me see,” said Armand, leaning over her shoulder.

“Pity Raoul isn’t here,” said Vincent. “I seem to remember him always helping you when you got in trouble.”

“Where is Monsieur Courtavel?” asked one of the ladies. “We all miss him.”

Raoul Courtavel was another of the King’s illegitimate sons. He was widely considered a contender for the throne, despite his famously not getting along with his father, because he was enormously popular with the people for fighting pirates in the Mare Nostrum. Rachelle did not much care about the pirates—safe trade routes meant nothing when the daylight was dying—but at least Raoul Courtavel had never called for the bloodbound to be exterminated. He’d also never tried to recruit any of them as his personal retainers, which Vincent apparently had.

“I believe Raoul is still resting at his country estate,” said Armand, “ever since Father told him that he was overworking himself.” He looked at the cards, then at the faces of the other players. “Put that one down,” he said, pointing at the leftmost card in her hands.

Rachelle never worked out exactly what the rules of the game were, except that some of the cards could be laid down, some could be demanded from another player’s hand, and some must be held on to at all costs. But what she realized very quickly was that players were allowed to lie about their hands—except when they weren’t—and that successful bluffing was the only way to win.

Armand smiled politely, lied through his teeth, and in ten minutes he had won all the money that everyone else had put down on the table.

“A marvelous conquest,” said la Fontaine. “Clearly fortune favors the holy.”

“Or the—” Vincent Angevin cut off whatever he’d been about to say. He shoved back his chair instead and bowed stiffly. “Good evening.” Then he was gone.

“I do believe that’s a miracle itself,” said la Fontaine. “Vincent Angevin, leaving the gambling table before dawn.” She rapped Armand’s silver hand with her fan. “You still have not come to my salon. You will be there tomorrow morning, I command it.”

“If the King permits it,” said Armand, not looking at Rachelle.

“You too, Mademoiselle Brinon,” said la Fontaine. “You must be there.”

“I’m his bodyguard,” said Rachelle. “Of course I have to follow him.”

She stared grimly at the cards scattered across the table and tried not to remember la Fontaine finding her in the King’s outer chambers.

“I mean as a guest,” said la Fontaine. “I’ll insist to my lord, if you need a royal order.”

It was probably some bizarre scheme to humiliate her. But she couldn’t afford to get in any trouble with the King.

“You can call me a guest if you like,” she said.

The next morning, Amélie looked her in the eye and said, “You’re going to wear a dress this time. You’re going to wear a dress and let me paint your face, and no, you don’t get a choice about it.”

“I’m not there as a guest,” Rachelle muttered.

“Yes, you are,” said Amélie. “A page delivered a note last night. She officially invited you, and that means a dress and cosmetics.”

“She wants to humiliate me,” said Rachelle. “That means it doesn’t matter what I wear.”

Amélie clapped her hands. “Then you’ll just have to be more beautiful than her.”

What does it matter? Rachelle thought. The world is ending and I’m trapped attending parties.

But then Amélie met her eyes and said quietly, “We had a bargain.”

If the world was ending, she owed it to Amélie to keep her promise and let her do what she loved.

And that was how Rachelle ended up sitting in a chair by the table full of little pots and brushes. Amélie, standing beside her, picked up a brush and set it down again. She put two fingers on each of Rachelle’s temples and slowly tilted her head from side to side, scrutinizing her face. Then she let go and bit her lip.

“Something wrong?” asked Rachelle.

“The question is,” said Amélie, sounding like she had just come to the end of a long speech, “are you brave enough?”

“What?”

“I can’t make you beautiful,” said Amélie. “I’m going to give you the most beautiful makeup you’ve ever seen, but if you just sit under it and—and wilt, you’ll look pathetic. It’s like a sword. If you don’t wield it, then it isn’t any use to you. And it’s all right if you want to look pathetic most of the time, but this is my one chance to show anyone what I can do, so you are not going to ruin it. Understood?”

“Do I usually look pathetic?”

“No,” said Amélie, “but you do get a look of terror when I talk to you about dresses.”

“I’m not . . . I don’t know how to be a lady,” said Rachelle. “If you wanted that, you should have gotten someone else.”

“No,” said Amélie. “I don’t want anyone else. Just walk into that salon and defy them. Promise?”

“All right,” said Rachelle after a moment. The words I don’t want anyone else drummed through her head, desperately comforting. Amélie didn’t know everything Rachelle had done, so it should be no comfort at all to be wanted by her, but it was.

“Good.” Amélie nodded sharply. Then she raised her voice and called, “Sévigné!”

The chambermaid—a short, plump woman with a few gray hairs peeking out from under her cap—appeared at Amélie’s side, and they had a short, swift discussion in low voices, Amélie frequently jabbing a brush at Rachelle’s face to make a point. Then Amélie unbraided Rachelle’s hair and first piled it loosely on top of her head, next pulled it all back so tightly her scalp felt stretched. Sévigné clucked her tongue, took hold of Rachelle’s hair, and seemed to do exactly the same thing—but it set off another little flurry of discussion.

Rachelle didn’t listen to what they said; they were speaking in half sentences about things she didn’t understand anyway. She let the patter of their words wash over her. They were both talking as if she weren’t there, which was something that normally drove her to distraction. But they were talking about how to use her face and body for a canvas, and it made her feel oddly treasured.