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It starts out small, really, just little things. Camille feels a bit woozy in the morning, nothing awful. Maybe her face is more flushed than normal—God, she already blushes so much around Yvette already—but she can’t possibly be sick. Who would take care of things if she got sick?
Some of that anxiety she knows is due to professional pride; she needs to be the best for her job, and if she is not there, how can she be certain? A larger, uglier part of her worries wears her lady’s face. Yvette means a great deal to her and the last thing she wants is to be absent! Who would bring her coffee? Would they make it the way she likes?
So, with all that in mind, Camille Laurent attacks her day with the same gusto she always does.
It isn’t a hard day, Yvette is out for most of it. She’s off to see her fellow revolutionaries, as she usually does. Her life seems so very exciting! Camille would be jealous, but she likes Yvette too much.
“I’ll be off to Desmoulins’ this morning, then to Saint-Just’s,” Yvette tells her, over breakfast.
They’ve eaten together often since her lady came to Paris; it makes her heart flutter. There is always coffee and little pastries paired with comfortable conversation. They’re friends . Yvette’s little laugh catches her attention, even as she feels fuzzier by the minute.
“One of these days they shall have to stop fighting, or Maxime is going to combust.”
Maxime? Oh, yes. Robespierre. She knows Robespierre. Well, about him. She’s seen him from the galleries in the convention hall, briefly in the house, and often in Yvette’s paper. He seems nice enough, from what little she’s seen. He makes Yvette smile when she speaks of him, too, like she’s doing now. The expression looks so lovely on her face and Camille’s heart hurts so, so much.
Maybe she is sick. She feels delirious.
She downs the rest of her coffee in one quick burst to wash the taste of envy from her mouth. Yvette is up and ready to go, all business-like with a folder of papers under her arm. She stalls at the doorway to bid Camille farewell, gracing her with a smile, and her golden hoop earrings sparkle in the sun against her hair. Camille waves in response, Yvette’s tailcoats swishing out the front door. Just like that, all the lightness of the house goes with her.
Camille thinks about Yvette’s day as she goes back to her own. As much as she craves the excitement of revolutionary life, she can’t imagine ever making a speech! Yvette’s done a lot of those, Camille knows first-hand. She gets to listen to her lady practice them, after all! Of course, she’s also supposed to criticize them, help them improve, but it’s difficult. Maybe she has something useful to add, but Yvette wears suits almost always these days and that has sharply worsened Camille’s hopeless adoration. She gets lost in thought, is all.
What was she doing? Ah, right, the house. She has to clean. Luckily, the two of them had moved out of the Baron’s dilapidated accommodations into something smaller and neater. There is less to do and it isn’t falling apart! Camille even has her own room now, filled with things she’s bought for herself. She never recalled having disposable income before.
There are fabrics that need washing, so she gets to that first. The sheets, tablecloths, some of her aprons, and an unfortunate jacket that had wine spilled on it need to be taken care of.
“This,” Yvette had said, when she’d come home in that poor jacket, “is why I will not take you to meet Danton.”
Camille goes and fetches water to do the washing with, grateful for the cool breeze outside. It’s a nice day today, with a light cloud cover and warm enough air. Despite that, her arms, even through the fabric of sleeves, disagree with her on the state of the weather. Her hands shake with a chill as she brings water back to their rooms.
A stool and a bar of soap later, she’s ready to get started. The methodical rhythm of her scrubbing is relaxing in a way. The cool water may feel uncomfortable against her clammy hands, but pressing them to her heating cheeks is pleasant. Are they red from being sick? Or is she thinking of Yvette again? Probably both. Now that she’s thinking about it, Yvette has been on her mind almost all day. Is it because she’s sick? Really, she hasn’t the faintest idea.
Laundry goes by quickly. Camille gives herself some credit for being able to get the wine stain out. The jacket, in all its deep blue glory, has been saved! Naturally, finishing one task just means she has to start another. The kitchen could do with some tidying, so that’s what she moves on to once she’s hung everything up to dry.
It’s once she’s reached the kitchen when the dizziness really hits her.
Her face feels very hot, in contrast to the rest of her. She’d grabbed one of her shawls(what a marvel to have multiple! Yvette had bought them for her, in an array of pretty colors) and wrapped it about her arms. Stubbornly, they still shook with a strange chill. This was not good.
Camille tells herself she’ll be fine after a small break, so she makes herself some tea. Just as she puts some water she’d saved from earlier on the stove, her thoughts wander to Yvette again, wondering. Is she still at the Desmoulins’, drinking more coffee and writing for her paper? Or is she at Saint-Just’s already? Maybe Robespierre has joined them, maybe he’s making Yvette laugh and smile. With so many people to keep track of, it’s a wonder she can manage it all.
The shriek of the kettle startles her badly enough that she jumps, quickly removing it from the heat. Breathing deeply, she tries to calm the sudden racing of her heart. It’s amusing, in an embarrassing way; she hasn’t been scared by a kettle since she was a little girl. At least she can brew her tea now. The steam rising from the cup is nice, so she rests her fingers just above the rim to warm them. Eventually, she takes delicate sips of the still-hot liquid; she hadn’t even noticed how sore her throat was until the tea went down it.
She doesn’t feel great, but at least she feels a bit better. Sitting at the kitchen bench, she slowly finishes her cup. Part of her also wants to eat something, but her stomach clenches uncomfortably at the thought. Nausea, wonderful.
Regretfully, the tea is eventually gone. There is one valiant attempt on her part to stand back up. After all, she still has work to do! She sits very quickly back down, though, as her head immediately begins to swim. Blinking a few times, she rubs at her temples. Really, she has things that need doing! Her second, less valiant attempt goes worse. Her head is pounding and she lets out a groan.
Camille pushes her teacup to the far end of the kitchen table and tucks her head into her arms. If she stays still for a few moments, maybe she’ll be fine. Probably.
She does not plan to fall asleep, but her head hurts too much to worry about it at the moment.
When she wakes up, if one could even call her odd, hazy state “awake,” it’s to someone brushing her fringe back. She feels even worse than she did before she fell asleep, all hot and achy. The usual panic she’d feel for falling asleep in the kitchen, especially when she’s supposed to be working, is replaced with a great deal of sluggish indifference.
“Camille?” asks a voice, “Can you walk?”
Whoever is talking to her sounds very familiar. They don’t seem concerned, so neither is she. She responds with a noncommittal hum. If opening her eyes sounded in any way appealing, she might try and figure out who is talking to her.
“Well, can you at least help me by turning around?”
Camille tries, really, she does. Her legs feel heavy, so she gets one to the other side of the bench before having to stop. She’s sure her skirts are an absolute mess. Something for future Camille to worry about.
She hears a sigh before her visitor is hiking her other leg over the bench for her. She has enough sense to be embarrassed about that, at least, making a soft whine since her throat refuses to let her talk.
“You’ll be fine, I’m putting you to bed.”
Then, suddenly, she’s hoisted into someone’s arms. Her head hates that so, so much; she groans in pain at the movement.
“My apologies,” says the voice, followed by a mumbled, “I really need to make you eat more.”
There are a few awful moments of being carried, better than walking herself, but not by much. The light changes around her as she is taken through different rooms. She squeezes her eyes shut to keep out what she can. She tries to regain her balance as she’s set down on a stool somewhere but ends up half-leaning on whoever carried her there.
“Forgive my indiscretion, but I know you’ll regret sleeping in your stays,” she hears.
Her very intelligent response is something similar to “I’m cold,” but she doubts she said anything clearly.
“I’ll bring you more blankets,” a pause, “and a different shift, you’ve been overheating all day.”
Camille feels lethargic, more focused on keeping herself upright than speaking. She gets manhandled, just a tad, so she can wriggle out of her layers. Future Camille will probably have a lot to worry about. She cracks open one eye as much as she can when whoever is undressing her kneels at her feet. Her skirt, petticoat, pockets, and shortgown are in a little puddle of fabric on the floor—when did that happen?—and kneeling in front of her is a very blurry Yvette.
“Hello,” she says, catching Camille looking, “You’re horribly sick.”
Camille tries to shake her head, but the movement just causes her to groan. Yvette tsk’s at her.
“May I?” asks her lady, delicately placing her fingertips on the front laces of Camille’s stays. If her face wasn’t already red from being ill, it would have flushed at that. All she can do is sort of nod her assent; she trusts Yvette, even if she’s checked out mentally. Whatever happens, she’s in good hands.
Camille, if it wasn’t for how horrid she feels, might assume she’s still dreaming and slumped over the kitchen table. Yvette is very efficient at unlacing stays, it turns out. It’s odd to recall that she used to wear them, back when she dressed as a woman. There have been many a sleepless night where Camille has thought about Yvette unlacing her garments, among other things.
“I need to take this off you, can you hold your arms back?” Yvette asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Mm,” responds Camille. It doesn’t sound like it means anything, but she holds her arms back accordingly. Her stays is quickly pushed to the floor and it lands with a soft thump. Yvette is back at her feet, tugging up Camille’s left leg to pull off one shoe, before lifting the other and taking both. They clunk against the floor before Yvette moves on to her stockings.
It takes all of her willpower to not horribly embarrass herself as her ribbon garters are untied. She is either going to dream of this moment forever and cherish it or want to toss herself in the Seine once she recovers enough to think straight. Or both.
Her stockings stick to her legs as they’re pulled off. It’s odd, sweating so much when she feels so cold. She’s gripping the edge of the stool tightly to keep herself upright, though her hands are starting to cramp.
“You’ll need something to sleep in,” Yvette says, breaking the brief lapse in their mostly one-sided conversation. Her lady contemplates for a moment before she stands up again. Camille’s stockings are tossed in the fabric pile with the rest of her clothes. There’s some shuffling around the room, Camille’s eyes falling closed again. She is trying very hard to not go back to sleep.
“I have something for you,” Yvette says, brushing an errant strand of hair out of Camille’s face. Has she always been this affectionate? Camille supposes it doesn’t matter at the moment.
“Can you put this on yourself, or do you need my help?” What an odd question. She’s been undressing Camille this whole time, and now she asks once they get to—oh. Yes, she would be naked under her shift, wouldn’t she?
“I can,” Camille rasps, doing her best to open her eyes and stay on her stool. She really doesn’t want to think about how this whole situation makes her feel. A soft, smooth sleeping gown is deposited in her arms. Yvette steps back and turns around. It hurts, a bit. Camille does not know how to go about explaining what she wants; all she knows is that she really, really wants Yvette to always be looking at her.
After a few moments of awkward shuffling, Camille has her shift off and tossed to the floor. She still feels sweaty, cold, and awful, but she manages to pull the sleeping gown over her head. She doesn’t recognize it, which is confusing, but she assumes she’s just too tired to remember. Making another hum at Yvette, she slumps forward onto her knees.
Yvette is quick to hoist her back into her arms—isn’t that something!—and deposits her under the covers. Camille remembers she’s being put to bed. There’s still so much work to be done, but Yvette is tucking her in and the sheets smell like a mixture of the soap and perfume her lady uses so Camille just sinks. She can worry about being alive later, after she’s had a decent nap.
She thinks she feels a pair of lips press against her forehead, but she’s asleep in moments, so there’s no way to be sure.
Camille has brief bursts of consciousness after falling asleep.
The first time she wakes up, it’s the middle of the night. The whole room is a messy blur, and she’s half asleep still, but she can see Yvette in a chair nearby. She’s asleep, a book sitting in her lap, and hair cascading messily about her face. It’s comforting to see her there. Camille rolls a bit and goes back to sleep.
The second time she wakes up, it’s to people talking. Yvette is leaning against the room’s doorframe, speaking in a low voice to other people.
“A bit of rest and good food and she’ll be alright within a few days,” says an unfamiliar man. He’s balding, with greying hair, and wears a dark suit.
“That’s good,” Yvette replies, “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
The unfamiliar man chuckles, “Of course.”
There are the sounds of him shuffling off, a door opening and closing. Yvette turns slightly, addressing another person that isn’t visible from the bed. Why are so many people in their house?
“Can you handle Antoine for a few days?” she asks, “I think I’ll be a bit busy and he tends to have a general disregard for his personal wellbeing.”
“I can,” says another man’s voice, lighter than the one before. It’s familiar, somehow. “If all else fails, I can always fall ill myself. He tends to dote.”
Yvette laughs, though it’s quickly smothered, and that’s when Camille remembers who the voice belongs to. But why is Robespierre here? She wants to get up and investigate, but her body still aches something fierce. She buries herself under the covers and tries to fall back asleep. She only succeeds moments after Yvette laughs again from something Robespierre has said.
The third, and final, time she wakes up is because she smells food.
It’s like she hasn’t eaten in ages, so she eagerly shoots up only to collapse backward when her head punishes her for her hubris. She groans and tosses an arm across her eyes as Yvette appears at the door as if summoned, looking her over.
“I made you soup, Camille, how are you feeling?”
“Did I get kicked by a horse?”
There’s a moment of laughter that makes her feel light. She doesn’t feel as bad as she did, but she still feels awful.
“No, there were no horses involved,” Yvette tells her, “Can you sit up? You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
Camille manages to prop herself up with the ludicrous amount of pillows behind her. She doesn’t recall sleeping with so many before she was put there. Rubbing at her eyes, she manages to get her first coherent look of the room since she was put there right as a tray is placed next to her.
She is in Yvette’s room. She is in her bed. She is wearing one of her shirts; it still smells of coffee and orange blossoms.
“...why am I in your bed?” she asks, trying not to panic. It’s fine , Yvette put her there, she’s fine. But what does it mean? Does it mean anything at all?
“Eat your soup,” Yvette says, tugging the chair she was sleeping in earlier to the side of the bed, “You had quite the day yesterday.”
Begrudgingly, Camille spoons some soup into her mouth. She’s grateful she has enough strength that Yvette does not have to feed her. This is already very unbecoming. Once she swallows, her stomach recalls her hunger. She eats as quickly as she dares, ensuring nothing spills into the sheets. Yvette’s sheets. No, no, she is not panicking! Absolutely not. She’s calm.
She finishes her soup. That makes Yvette smile.
“There you go. I promise I’ll tell you everything once I put this away. D’accord? ”
Camille nods. She does not trust her voice, though her throat no longer feels so sore. Yvette stalks out of the room as gracefully as she always does, though there is a severe lack of tailcoat swishing. She’s in a suit, still, just without the jacket. Her waistcoat, uncovered, is a reminder that she has, well, a waist. Camille, sick and embarrassed as she is, is still hopelessly in love. She wants to roll over and go back to sleep.
She does not get the chance. Yvette returns as smoothly as she left and settles in the chair. Her legs cross at the knee. She’s not wearing shoes. Her calves and ankles look nice in their white stockings.
“I came back at lunch, planning on eating and then going to Saint-Just’s,” Yvette says.
Oh, she’s explaining. Camille forgot she wanted to know.
“It was an attempt to curb his habit of eating out so much—I try not to encourage it,” she continues, “Of course, when I arrived, I found you asleep in the kitchen. Coupled with the fact that you made yourself tea and that your face was bright red, I knew you were sick.”
Yvette shrugs, nonchalant, “I brought you here because your sheets were still hung up, and I didn’t want to leave you where you were.”
Camille nods, that makes sense.
“I can take you back to your room, if you’d like me to,” Yvette offers, an inscrutable expression on her face.
Oh. Suddenly, a flurry of butterflies fills her stomach. Her face heats up. She buries herself lower in the sheets. She could say she still feels ill, it wouldn’t be a total lie, but she’s known Yvette long enough that trying to deceive her is a dangerous game. Her lady gets the truth sooner or later.
“I don’t want to go,” Camille admits, averting her eyes. Saying it out loud feels like jumping off a cliff. Yvette must know, Camille is aware that she isn’t a very good liar, not when it comes to this. She doesn’t know if her lightheadedness is due to her illness or her nervousness.
“You can stay for as long as you like,” Yvette responds. She leans forward to brush Camille’s hair out of her face, though her hand comes to rest at her cheek instead of returning to her side. Camille wants , so suddenly and fiercely, that it hurts. This whole dance that they’re doing, it must mean something. It has to, because it’s driving her mad.
So she surges forward to close the small gap between them and sets their lips together. And oh, oh, it’s good . Yvette is smooth and firm and warm and home . It’s good before Camille realizes what she’s done.
Then she jumps back, a millisecond later, and buries herself under the covers. She is going to die! Or worse, be dismissed! She’ll have to leave and go far, far away from everything she’s come to love because she’s just kissed Yvette Decaux and now she can’t live with herself. She’s ruined everything—everything and anything.
The sheets offer her protection from the outside world and she quickly curls in on herself. She doesn’t know what to expect. Maybe Yvette will leave and let her just gather her things and go. Maybe she’ll scold her, get angry, toss her out, something worthy of that indiscretion. It’s all awful. Camille stews in her own worry and not-quite regret for a few moments.
There is pressure on her shoulder, light and hand-shaped.
“Camille,” Yvette says, “Camille, please come back. I am not upset with you.”
If she’s lying, she’s very good at it. She doesn’t sound angry, she sounds… Camille doesn’t dare to hope. Still, she gathers what courage she has and peeks her head back out.
Yvette has moved, no longer resting mostly in the chair but leaning across what space in the bed Camille is not currently occupying.
“Hello, Millie,” Yvette says, smiling at her, and the nickname makes Camille’s heart stop entirely, never mind skipping a beat.
“I’m sorry for—for kissing you,” she responds, quietly. The stutter frustrates her, makes her feel like the other Camille. Hopefully, she does not cry; that would make it even worse. She’s tempted to go under the covers again, to roll over and pretend none of this is happening, but Yvette cups her cheek before she can go anywhere.
“I enjoyed it,” Yvette tells her, still smiling, “But I do not want you to feel obligated.”
Camille shakes her head, wincing as the sudden movement catches up to her.
“I don’t! I-I care! I just… I want you to look at me.”
“Oh, Millie .”
Before she knows it, Camille has been tugged up into Yvette’s arms. She’s being held so gently, Yvette pressing their foreheads together. Camille’s hands curl around Yvette’s back, clutching at the fabric there. She does not want to move.
“How could I not look at you?” whispers Yvette, “You have had my heart since I first saw you.”
Camille shakes her head slowly, confused. It cannot have been that long, that was years ago! It isn’t like she came to Paris to meet her fiance’s maid , of all people.
“But… what of Armand?” she asks. Yvette scoffs, bringing up a hand to stroke Camille’s messy hair.
“He will not return to Paris, least of all for me,” she says, “Last we met, I called him a moderate and a coward. I did not plan to marry him at all.”
It’s odd, hearing it. Camille knows he was far from a model husband, but she liked him once. He allowed for her to afford to live, she thought it a kindness.
“The bare minimum is not kindness,” Yvette had said when Camille had expressed her thoughts on Armand. She had been altering one of her dresses to fit Camille’s smaller frame, after barely a week of knowing her. “If he was kind, he would not have left. He would have taken better care of you.”
“Then… what of Robespierre?” Camille worries. They must be involved, somehow. They are so connected, how could they not be? He seems to be everything Armand failed to live up to.
At that, Yvette does laugh. It shakes them both, but it isn’t cruel-sounding.
“Maximilien is rather preoccupied with Saint-Just, I’m afraid,” she says, still giggling slightly. It trails off into a somber sigh, her grip on Camille tightening slightly. “In another life, perhaps, we could have been something, but I was already too infatuated with you to bother.”
Camille flushes bright red. It’s an admission, a reciprocation, delivered easily in the most Yvette-way. She buries her face into Yvette’s neck, the fabric of her cravat tickles lightly.
“Saint-Just? Truly?” she mumbles.
“I know, he has odd taste in men,” Yvette replies. “The first thing Antoine wrote him was a love letter of sorts, if you can believe it. It was embarrassing. For all the time I knew him beforehand, I seemed to have taught him nothing at all. Their relationship is no small miracle; Antoine is much worse at romance than he believes he is.”
So there they sit, wrapped up in one another’s arms. It’s nice, more than Camille ever dreamed she’d be allowed.
“Will you stay?” Camille asks, biting her tongue on the ‘with me’ that threatens to spill past her lips. Yvette probably knows of its existence, anyway, but she’s trying her best.
“I will,” she hears.
“Will you kiss me again?” Camille asks.
“Whenever you like.”
They kiss again. And again. And many more times after that, until Camille feels like she’s going to burst with how happy she is. There is much she wants to say, much she wants to ask. Is she still technically Yvette’s servant? They never really had the most typical relationship in that sense, far too close even before this. What about getting married? They are both women, despite the fact that Yvette does not dress like one. Camille always held the expectation that she would marry, one she assumes all women carry. Yvette came to this city on the presumption of marriage, too; would she pursue it again?
“You worry very loudly,” Yvette teases, separating from her for a brief moment.
“I—I still have questions,” Camille responds. Yvette’s face pinches for a moment, before quickly smoothing out into her usual expression.
“Ask away.”
“Do I still work for you, after this?”
Yvette blinks, tilting her head in contemplation. Camille does not know what to expect. Now that they’ve acknowledged there is something between them, the answer worries her. Whatever it is, she simply does not want to go. If she could bottle up this little moment in time, cradle it away from the movings of the rest of the world, she would. She wants so desperately to be this happy always .
Yvette lets out a contemplative hum, one’s she’s used before when she’s writing for her paper or talking of politics in general, “No, I don’t think so, at least not in the traditional sense.”
Camille does not know what to say.
“Allow me to elaborate, if I may,” Yvette resumes, in her speech-making voice, “You do not have to leave if you do not wish to, but I would rather you ask me for things you need or want directly, instead of relying on a salary. What is mine is yours, if you would like it.”
The image brings to mind her second worry, that of marriage. It seems the solution is quite simple, so much so that she giggles and curls into Yvette’s side once more.
“Ah, so I’ve married you,” she says, tone light and joking. In her heart, she knows she is serious, however. Yvette would make a good husband, she thinks, better than many Camille has seen. At her proclamation, Yvette giggles along with her.
“I’m working on that,” she says, through her laughter.
“How?” is the incredulous response she receives.
“Saint-Just is hopelessly in love with another man. He’s smart enough to include me in his scheme. A topic for another day, perhaps.”
Camille nods, feeling the urge to fall asleep against Yvette’s side. She’s warm and smells lovely. Like home.
“If you’re going to sleep, you should probably lie back,” Yvette says, mumbled into Camille’s hair.
“If I sleep,” she repeats, “will you lie with me?”
She feels bolder now that she knows Yvette sees her, that she wasn’t the only one hopelessly pining. Well, Yvette was perhaps less hopeless, that word doesn’t fit her very well. Still, she wants to fall asleep in her arms, if she’d be allowed. She’d like to wake up like that, too.
“Let me get out of this suit, and I will.”
They separate. The bed seems less comfortable without Yvette to occupy it with her. Camille wiggles down into the covers again, shifting to the side to make room. There’s the sound of rustling fabric and when she looks up it’s to Yvette unbuttoning her waistcoat. She blushes again, even after all they’ve spoken about, and she isn’t sure if she should watch. She can’t look away, either, drawn to the way Yvette’s fingers work.
“I don’t mind if you stare,” she says. Her ability to read Camille is uncanny, but maybe she’s more of an open book than she originally thought. Of course, she had helped Yvette dress before, when she wore back-lacing stays and dresses meant for higher society. She hasn’t been apart of that for years, though. There’s something special about the way Yvette carries herself in men’s clothing, even as she’s taking it off.
The waistcoat is laid on the chair. Camille thinks she should look away when the buttons on Yvette’s cullottes follow. She does not manage. Yvette certainly doesn’t act like she’s being watched. The cullottes are deposited on the chair just as quickly; the view of Yvette’s thighs is something else. Her stockings follow. Camille is not given a moment to appreciate Yvette’s legs before the shirt is yanked over her head and tossed aside. She’s facing away from Camille—likely the only reason she hasn’t burst into flame—but she still drags the sheets up over the bottom half of her face. Then, there’s that odd piece of fabric across her upper chest. It’s peach-colored, laced at the side, and very tight.
Oh. So that is where her bust had gone.
That bit of fabric, she doesn’t know if it has a name, is unlaced and tossed off as well. It leaves an indent on the skin where its edges had been. Yvette pulls a sleeping gown over her head and Camille can breathe properly again.
Yvette tucks herself in promptly; Camille burrowing into her side and resting her cheek on Yvette’s chest. She feels fingers come up to brush hair out of her face and caress her cheek. It tickles, just a little, enough to pull her lips into a smile. This is good. Perfect, even.
They lay like that for a few moments, just basking in one another’s presence. The looming threat of having to get up eventually is roughly shoved from Camille’s mind. She wants all the joy she can get from this, squeezing it out like she would a wet cloth.
“You know, I’ve never gotten the chance to properly catalog your freckles,” Yvette mutters, not sounding like she expects a reply. Her fingers continue their journey across Camille’s cheeks and nose, “I can see dozens of constellations in them, up close.”
Camille looks up at her, hoping her expression does all the asking. She’s never been very fond of her freckles; they aren’t exactly considered fashionable. She got made fun of when she was little for having them, too. Several awful boys said they made her face look perpetually dirty. Yvette continues her little monologue, gazing sweetly down as she traces patterns across Camille’s face.
“You have an entire night sky here,” she says, voice soft. Camille can feel a blush coming on.
“Here,” Yvette whispers, running a finger in a line over Camille’s nose, “there’s a few in a Y-shape, after Sagitta , arrow of Hercules,” her fingers move to Camille’s right cheek, under the inner corner of her eye, “ Lyra sits here, after the first lyre made, given to Orpheus by Apollo,” her smile widens, Camille thinks she might not survive this part.
“It could charm anything, when played, even rocks and sirens. Just like you.”
Oh, she was right, she was so right. Her face burns and she hides it against Yvette’s throat as it starts to vibrate with laughter.
“Ah, come back, come back—I am not finished!”
Flustered, Camille slightly unburies herself. Is this what being wooed is like? Feeling like your chest is in a vice grip from it all?
“There you are, where was I…” Yvette trails off, pretending to think. Camille knows she’s teasing, but how is she supposed to react to this? Her heart is surely going to beat straight out of her chest.
Her fingers move to Camille’s cheek once more, “Here’s a more recent one: Apparatus Sculptoris . It’s shaped like a cane,” then back across her nose to the left side of her face. Camille knows she’s in for something, as Yvette’s face seems to light up as she looks.
“Just as I thought. Here,” she traces the letter W, before picking up her finger and tracing something with far more branching paths, “ Cassiopeia and Andromeda , women renowned for their beauty, placed among the stars. How fitting that they find themselves at home upon your face.”
Camille cracks.
She curls back into Yvette’s side in an instant, mumbling incoherently. Yvette must feel merciful this time, wrapping both arms around her to hold her close instead of heaping her with more romantic lines. Did she write those beforehand? Either way, they worked, and now Camille doesn’t know if she can speak properly.
“You are lovely,” Yvette says, finishing her little moment, “but you really should sleep, I won’t keep you.”
Camille knows her heart would be happy to let Yvette keep her up with more of that , even if her head can’t wrap itself around the concept. She hopes Yvette can feel her smiling against her neck, wriggling to press all of them together that she can manage.
Yes, it was worth it. She’d collapse a dozen times to do this again. It’s exciting, knowing what she has now. It makes her feel whole. She drifts off to the gentle sounds of Yvette’s breathing, one of her hands carding through Camille’s undone hair.