But before I can make a plan, we round a corner and reach a door clearly made for giants, attended by footmen in blue livery. My feet sink into lush carpet. The blank-faced footmen, making no eye contact or sign they’ve seen us, open the door and allow us to enter.

19

The Dauphin of France

The room is like the inside of a confectioner’s box, papered in soft, sugary pink. There are giant windows framed by velvet curtains with tassels the size of my head. Ten servants crowd toward the middle of the room, framing two sofas in perfect symmetry.

A fine smiling lady in a dress of palest blush, diamonds at her throat and ears and an elaborate wig on her head, sits in the middle of one sofa. Behind her stands a gentleman with eyes like a hawk’s. He makes a low-voiced comment to the woman, while in the corner, at an ornate desk of eggshell blue, is a gentleman busy with something I cannot see.

The other sofa has its back to us, over the top of which I can see a dark head, hair tied back in a blue velvet ribbon.

A doorman takes his stick and bangs it on the floor, and in a loud voice says, “Les invitées.”

I glance at him. Like all the other servants, he looks straight ahead, announcing our presence while ignoring our existence. At his words, the occupants of the room turn to us.

My Cat instincts tell me this is not a place to let down my guard. For a long moment I evaluate my situation: the number of people, the potential for pieces of decor to be used as weapons to defend ourselves, how quickly I could drag Ettie to the door, what expensive items I could take with me.

The smiling lady beckons to us. Moon-Face pushes us, whispering a reminder to curtsy. We stand right before the lady. She might be attractive under the layers of heavy paint, but it’s hard to tell. I curtsy neatly, but Ettie bows. I kick myself for not having taught Ettie the rules of curtsying. In the Miracle Court all the children bow. But the lady bursts into peals of honeyed laughter.

“How enchanting.” She puts out a hand to Ettie, inviting her to approach. I trail behind her.

“What are your names, little ones?”

“I’m Ettie, and she’s Nina.”

The lady’s eyes linger momentarily on my face and run down my frame. She dismisses me, and I’m suddenly painfully aware that I’m the only person in the room whose skin is not milky white. In the Miracle Court, race, origin, family mean nothing. We are all one blood. But here … here, with one flicker of her eyelashes, the lady has told me that I’m not worth looking at. Not worth paying attention to.

As sudden as a viper, the lady’s hand darts out and takes Ettie’s chin in a firm grip. She tilts Ettie’s head and looks at her.