Beatriz waves his words away. “But beyond that,” she says. “When we spoke of it before, Gigi and Nico, you didn’t seem to think it sacrilegious so much as scandalous. Pas, you’ve never expressed the same level of hate I’ve heard from others. If Lord Savelle is guilty of what the king has accused him of, do you think he should die for it?”
For a moment, none of them says anything, but to Beatriz’s surprise it is Ambrose who speaks first.
“It’s a lot of power for a person to have,” he says quietly. “But I’ve read many books—far too many, more than likely, and a good many of them illegal here, I’ll admit. I’ve read stories of terrible things empyreas have done with that power, but also the good things. The great things. The miracles.” He hesitates, looking around at the others with some degree of mistrust. Beatriz can’t blame him. The words he’s saying could get him killed. But he continues. “No, I think if Lord Savelle has the power to bring the stars down from the sky, to bend them to his will, that perhaps we should consider that the stars have seen fit to bless him. If that’s the case, would killing him then count as sacrilege?”
It’s a wordy answer, and more of a theological debate than Beatriz can quite wrap her head around, but as far as she understands it, Ambrose doesn’t wish her dead, and that is good enough for her. She glances at the others.
“I’m not sure about all of that,” Gisella says, looking at Beatriz. “But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wished on a few stars myself, just to see if I had the gift. You have, too, Nico, don’t pretend you haven’t.”
Nicolo scowls at his sister before looking at Beatriz. “She’s right. I have,” he admits. “I’d imagine most people have, even in Cellaria. It’s not something a person should burn for.”
Beatriz feels somewhat validated, even though it isn’t as much of an affirmation as she’d like to hear. It’s enough, she supposes. She turns toward Pasquale, who meets her gaze with surprising steadiness.
“I’ve known my father’s laws were wrong for a long time, but I think about Lord Savelle’s daughter often. She didn’t deserve to die for what she did. I wish I could have done something to help her then, but I’ll certainly help her father now.”
Nicolo looks from Pasquale to Beatriz. “So?” he asks. “What do you have in mind?”
Beatriz glances at Pasquale. This is the part of the plan he thought was lunacy, but he’s willing to trust her. She hopes the others are as well.
“We’re going to break Lord Savelle out of prison and send him back to Temarin.”
Beatriz dips a fluffy angled brush into a pot of powder just a shade darker than Gisella’s skin, brushing it just below her cheekbones. In the bright light of her bedroom, Gisella looks like a performer in one of the farces the king has put on every so often—her face has been painted and powdered so much that she doesn’t look like herself any longer. She looks a good twenty years older, with bushy eyebrows, heavy-lidded eyes, and hollowed-out cheeks.
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have made me prettier,” Gisella complains, eyeing herself in the gilded vanity mirror. “A bit of rouge on the cheeks—a little tint on the lips, maybe.”
“Because,” Beatriz says, trading the angled brush for the biggest, fluffiest one she has and dipping that into a pot of translucent powder—Think of it as a seal, to finish off any illusion, the Bessemian Mistress of Disguises, Madame Curioux, told her. “People notice beautiful girls—you know that as well as I do. But they tend to ignore and forget plain women. Or, better yet, women above a certain age. And tonight, we want to be ignored and forgotten.”
It’s been two days since Nicolo, Gisella, and Ambrose agreed to help Beatriz and Pasquale break Lord Savelle out of the dungeon. Pasquale wanted to wait longer, to plan better, but with the king’s unpredictable moods, Beatriz doesn’t want to risk him moving Lord Savelle’s execution date up.
Gisella lets out a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” she says, looking at her reflection again and frowning. “Though I could have done without this reminder of my own mortality. Do you really think I’ll have this many wrinkles?”
Before Beatriz can answer, Nicolo gives a snort from his place, lounging on the chaise. “Gigi, we’re about to commit treason. If we live long enough for you to get wrinkles, consider yourself lucky.”
Gisella rolls her eyes. “Ever the optimist.”
“I am wondering, though,” Nicolo says, glancing at Beatriz. “Exactly how did a Bessemian princess become so accomplished with cosmetics? Surely you had a maid to apply them for you if you wanted.”
Beatriz knew this question was bound to come up, and she has a response ready. “My sisters and I used to like sneaking out of the castle from time to time to visit a tavern down in the city. It was nice to sometimes spend a night with people who didn’t know who we were.”
It isn’t a complete lie—Beatriz did use her talents with a cosmetic brush on several occasions for such a purpose—it just wasn’t the original reason for her studies with Madame Curioux. But Nicolo seems to accept the answer readily enough.
“I still don’t see why the two of you have to do this bit alone,” he says. “It’s the most dangerous part.”
“Because people underestimate women, Nico,” Gisella says. “They won’t think we’re capable of breaking a man out of prison. Are you disappointed you don’t get to have any fun?”
He snorts again. “Trust me—playing lookout sounds like exactly the right level of fun for me tonight.”
Gisella opens her mouth to issue some scathing retort, Beatriz is sure, but she interrupts with a smile. “You’re all done, Gigi,” she says, setting the brush down. “Do you mind checking on Pasquale and Ambrose while I disguise Nico? They should have gotten back by now.”
Gisella raises her eyebrows at Beatriz but gets to her feet. “Fine,” she says. “But do try not to add adultery to our list of crimes tonight, will you?” she says over her shoulder when she reaches the door. She’s gone before either of them can respond.
Nicolo’s cheeks flush red and he doesn’t look at Beatriz as he makes his way toward her, sitting down on the vanity bench his sister just vacated. “I didn’t tell her anything,” he mutters under his breath.
“I didn’t assume you had,” Beatriz says, focusing on the jarred pigments in front of her. He and Gisella have almost the exact same skin tone, so she can reuse the same colors, which will make things simpler. “My sisters always used to know if I’d kissed anyone,” she admits. “It was like I had a sign hanging around my neck.”
“Did you…kiss a lot of people, then?” he asks.
Beatriz glances at him. If she didn’t know better, she might think he sounds jealous, but considering that she’s married, the boys she kissed before are the least of their problems.