I lift the Imperial Inquirer and grin at images of royal women stuck in carriage traffic the day before the Beauté Carnaval. I spot the headline the boy from the gate mentioned:
CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD RUMORED TO BE
ABLE TO CREATE A PERSON FROM CLAY
I trace my finger over the curving letters.
On a footstool, tattlers sit in piles like stacks of warm sugar crepes. The pages hold potential suitors for the princess. The Parlor of Titillating Tidbits accuses the princess of having multiple torrid affairs, even with her ladies-of-honor. Another, Speculations of the Foulest Kind, broadcasts royal and courtier relationship breakups, blaming them on appearance shifts or lack of beauty maintenance, and a third, Scurrilous Scandals and Secrets, speaks about a series of black-market beauty products rumored to perform the same feats as the Belles themselves. I laugh at the ridiculous headline. No tonic can act as a substitute for what we do.
Tiny perfume blimps drift about, leaving their scented trails.
“The space will be re-accented to the liking of the favorite,” the Beauty Minister says. “This is where one of you will meet your clients before their treatments begin.” She does a lap around us, touching the most luxurious pieces of furniture, then waves a hand at the servants. They pull back a series of curtains, revealing a glass wall and a magnificent garden alive with roses of every color, flowers of every shape, and plants of every kind. “This is the solarium courtyard to inspire your arcana. I encourage all favorites to walk in it daily. Very therapeutic.”
If Maman were here, she would tell me to pluck flower petals to help me create perfect natural shades, and ignore Du Barry’s extensive color guides. Hana rushes to my side. “Can you believe it?”
“No,” I say.
We race around squealing, scattering like beautiful marbles cast in all directions. I follow one of the perfume blimps down a hall. Gold-framed portraits of past favorites line the walls. I stop in front of my mother’s. Her bright eyes stare back at me. I imagine her drifting from room to room. I imagine her creating one beautiful person after another. I imagine my face beside hers.
I step into a chamber. By the look of the space, it must be a treatment salon: a series of cabinets stretch to the ceiling with drawer labels like ROSE CREAM, SWANSDOWN PUFFS, OILS, and POMADES; portraits and canvases sit on easels; ladders click left and right as servants stock supplies; cases hold pigment-paste pots in every skin color imaginable; baskets contain bundles of candles and wax blocks and pastille cakes and metal instruments; a potbellied stove lurks in the distant corner, boasting trays of hot irons and steam curlers; a large table is covered with fluffy pillows and towels.
Hana peeks her head in. “Camille, c’mon,” she says. She drags me out.
The Beauty Minister leads the group through another set of doors. “This way, my girls. Here’s the sleeping chamber.” Six canopied four-poster beds are lined up and draped with rich tapestries the color of our signature flowers. The floor is covered in plush rugs. A fireplace roars with light and warmth. “The extra beds will be removed, of course, after the naming of the favorite.” She walks ahead again and two doors open, leading us outside onto a terraced balcony. The royal beach sits below; the waters of La Mer du Roi are crashing along the shore, and imperial ships drift down the coastline. Some ships are docked at the palace pier—alive with light and late-night merchants and markets. Du Barry hovers behind us.
It’s better than I ever imagined, better than I dreamed. Behind us, the golden tops of three palace pavilions catch the moonlight.
“I daresay this is one of the best views in the whole palace,” the Beauty Minister declares before leading us back inside. She points down a hallway. “The bathing onsens are toward the end of that corridor, and the treatment salons and recovery rooms.”
“How many in total?” Padma asks.
“Eight grand apartments, all interconnected. Many years ago, the queen would invite the teahouse Belles to come here for treatment parties. She would provide beauty services for her favorite courtiers, and they’d try out new trends and experiments. They were quite the affair.”
We follow her back to the main salon.
“Each and every favorite has stayed here. This is truly hallowed ground,” she says.
I shiver, thinking about Maman walking through these rooms.
I envision how I will make the apartments my own: by replacing the white candles with beeswax ones for a honeyed scent; swapping out heavy drapes with thinner curtains to welcome the sun; having the bed moved closer to the balcony doors so the ocean sounds can help me drift off to sleep; bringing the desk inside the bedroom so I can look out over the terrace while I write letters and send post-balloons.
I circle the furniture, letting my fingers drift over its plush cushions. I stop at a bassinet hanging from a set of delicate ceiling chains. “Will the favorite have to change infants?”
“Very rarely, a royal will use her beauty tokens for her child, bypassing the nursery chamber at La Maison. It’s quite unusual, but it happens.” The Beauty Minister snaps her fingers at a servant, and the woman springs into action. “While on the subject of beauty tokens, there’s very beautiful craftsmanship this season. I chose the artisan myself from the House of Smiths.” She claps her hands together. “The keys to beauty.”
Two servants present dainty skeleton keys nestled onto a velvet board. They glitter like fallen stars tucked in place.
“Very clever, Madam Minister,” Du Barry says.
“The newsies just loved it. You may receive a token like this from men or women at court. They are worth more than spintria. Only given out by the king, queen, or princess, or even the favorite herself at times. My office tracks them.” The Beauty Minister waves away the servants.
“I loved the hand tokens, too,” Valerie says, “from two seasons ago.”
“Those used to be my first loves,” the Beauty Minister says. “Until the keys.” She knocks on the wall behind her. “One last important thing. In addition to Ivy, our past favorite who will be here for a month to help the favorite transition . . .” A hidden door cracks open to reveal a small office drowning with circuit-phones that look like endless rows of candlesticks. Their tinny sounds ring out. A sliding ladder clicks along the wall. Receivers dangle from their bases like temple bells.
Out pops Elisabeth Du Barry, Madam’s daughter. Du Barry beams at her. Her face is long and narrow like a grain of rice, and she wears her hair cut into a mushroom-shaped bob. No amount of beauty work will erase the sour expression she always has on her face.
The Beauty Minister scrunches her nose while inspecting Elisabeth’s features. “Miss Elisabeth Du Barry will also be stationed at court,” she says without enthusiasm.
“I’ll be in the circuit center,” Elisabeth says with a sniff. “I answer the phones and book the beauty appointments for the Belles at the teahouses, and also for the favorite. I take orders for Belle-products and arrange the court delivery balloons.” She pauses and clucks her tongue. “People are phoning nonstop.”
At home, whenever Elisabeth speaks, we pay no more attention than we do to the stray teacup cats. She’s always liked to tell lies about the other islands to scare us, and will do anything else she can to make us feel inferior.
Edel groans. “I thought we were rid of her.”
Padma pinches her. I try not to laugh.
“Elisabeth is to be obeyed in my stead. I’ll be back and forth between home and court,” Du Barry says. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Madam Du Barry,” we say in unison, like we’re little girls in her lesson room again.
“Well, girls.” The Beauty Minister moves underneath a tapestry depicting an ancient map of Orléans. “Look how far you’ve come.” She points to the very top corner, where golden embroidery outlines our island and its old name—Hana. “I’m delighted you’re finally here. Relish this night, for the world—yours, mine, the kingdom’s—shall change tomorrow.”
Du Barry gives her a round
of applause, and we all join in.
“See you first thing.” The minister saunters out, her mink trailing behind her.
“Young ladies, wonderful display of talent tonight.” Du Barry rests her eyes on each of us in turn. “Even your big sisters were mightily impressed. They look forward to helping you with your transitions once you learn your placements tomorrow. Several remarked how a few of you may not even need a full month with them to acclimate to court and teahouse life.”
I flush with anticipation, excitement, and a little fear.
“Tonight was one of the strongest debuts I think we’ve had since my maman was still alive.” She kisses two fingers and places them over her heart. We mimic her to show respect for the dead. She removes prayer beads from her dress pocket and wraps the string around her hands. “Your arcana levels will be checked and balanced. Then you will be dressed for bed.” Du Barry places a warm hand on each of our cheeks. “You must be sure to get plenty of rest. Tonight is your first time experiencing this much stimulation. You must rid yourselves of it, and reestablish your balance. Always remember that emotions are tethered to the blood, and the blood is where your gifts are. Any excess passion can cause contamination and too much pressure. It can damage the arcana. I cannot stress this enough.”
During the weeks leading up to our birthday and the Beauté Carnaval, I had heard this over and over again, as if a needle were stuck on a phonograph record. From our mothers, our nurses, and especially from Du Barry, as if I’d forgotten what I had been taught about the arcana my whole life.
Beauty is in the blood.
My sisters and I chanted the mantra even as we learned our letters and numbers.
She tugs a cord on the wall, then turns to me. “Camellia and Edelweiss, you both will be woken early.” Her tone is ominous. “We need to speak.”
7
My cheeks flame as my sisters gawk in my direction. A nervous sweat slicks my makeup. Elisabeth grins at me.
“Why?” I ask.
Du Barry bristles.
“Yes, I want to know as well.” Edel steps beside me.
“Camellia and Edelweiss, when I ask you for something, no explanation need be given. Whether at home or here. All of you should remember that.” She sweeps her skirts behind her and storms out of the room.
“Good night, girls.” Elisabeth blows us a kiss, then follows her mother.
“It’ll be fine,” Amber whispers, and takes my hand.
Edel starts to laugh.
“It isn’t funny, Edel,” Amber snaps.
Servants pour in. They herd us to the bathing onsen, where they feed us honey-soaked peaches to help reset our arcana levels, undo our Belle-buns, remove our expensive gowns, wash out our hair, and bathe us until we’re soft as tea cakes.
Nurses wait for us outside the baths. Their white uniform dresses make stiff noises. Their shiny Palace Infirmary emblems sparkle around their necks. There are a few pushcarts spilling over with towers of chocolate squares, pots of spiced tea, orange slices, sugar-coated blueberries, and skewers of smoked salmon and beef sprinkled with garlic and ginger. Other nurses hold arcana meters.
I sink into the chaise lounge, wondering what Du Barry wants to talk to me about. My mind races with all the things she might say. I hope she tells me how much she loved my exhibition. I hope she tells me that the crowd clapped the loudest for me. I hope she tells me my use of the second arcana was unique.
But a voice inside me whispers: She didn’t like it.
My sisters file into the room one by one and find seats.
The servants leave.
“Look at these.” Padma drops the Orléansian Times in my lap. The headlines scatter, then settle again. “I can’t read enough of them.”
LADY FRANCESCA CARNIGAN, OF HOUSE HELIE,
RUMORED TO HAVE A BEAUTY ADDICTION
QUEEN MIGHT LIFT SAILING RESTRICTIONS,
OPENING KINGDOM TO TRADE
SOME HAIR TEXTURES DON’T CATCH
THE BEAUTY-LANTERN LIGHT
SERVANT OF HOUSE CANNEN JAILED FOR ILLEGAL BEAUTY
WORK AND IMPERSONATION OF DUCHESS CANNEN
COUNTESS MICHELLE GIRARD OF HOUSE EUGENE TO WED
ROYAL MINISTER OF FINANCE LÉA BOYER IN GLASS ISLES
Edel takes the paper from my hands as she crashes into the chaise lounge beside mine. “We’re in trouble, little fox.” She looks like a spirit; her snowy nightdress is the same shade as her skin and hair.
“Edel, you’re always in trouble,” Valerie says, as she sticks her nose into a cart of sweets and her wet hair gets frosting in it.
“Well, Camille, you too—maybe just a little bit. You don’t always follow instructions,” Padma adds, then smiles.
“I wanted them to remember me,” I say. “And my girl kept squirming.”
“Oh, so that explains why you made her your twin?” Valerie teases.
I laugh. “Not quite.”
“Your girl turned out so lovely, Camille,” Hana says through a yawn. Her straight black hair spreads around her body like tentacles. Her eyes fight to stay open, and when closed, fold so smoothly and neatly in the corners, like creases in paper.
“I didn’t plan on breaking the rules,” I say.
“Of course you did, Camille.” Edel’s mouth curves in the corner. “Du Barry looked absolutely pinched. Cheeks red as cherries. I was so proud. I should’ve refused to do beauty work at all. Let them put me on that platform, raise it all the way to the top, then do nothing. Can you imagine? Then Du Barry’s face would’ve been the ugliest in the entire kingdom. I really considered it, but I figured she would bleed me if I did it. She gives me the meanest sangsues. I swear she does.”
“The design you shaved in that little girl’s hair was rude,” Padma says, then giggles.
“So rude it made you laugh.” Edel’s grin is so wide you can almost see all of her teeth.
“I didn’t see it,” Hana says. “What did you do?”
“I put the letters D-U-N-G there. That’s why she wants to talk to me,” Edel says.
We all burst with laughter, imagining the late-night newspapers circulating all over the kingdom with pictures of Edel’s little girl, the word shaved into her hair beside a picture of cow feces. When we were little and we wanted to sneak out of our rooms late at night, we’d leave each other notes with that word etched into them, and Du Barry’s exact location.
Amber enters the room. “I don’t think either of you should’ve done what you did. I even heard the servants whispering about it. So disrespectful.”
Edel sighs. “Of course you don’t. You always do exactly what you’re told. And, just so you’re aware, I had a guard slip my girl one of Du Barry’s beauty tokens, so she can come see me—wherever I end up—and I’ll fix it. It was just a bit of fun.”
Amber turns to me. “And you? What’s your excuse?”
“I just got inspired,” I say. “That’s what I’m telling Du Barry.”
Amber purses her lips together the same way Du Barry does, and flashes me an I-told-you-to-follow-the-rules look.
“Who cares, Amber. Both of us gave the crowd a show, and gave the newsies something to fill their papers with. That was the point,” Edel snaps.
Amber balls her fists like she’s readying herself for a challenge. The sting of our earlier conversation returns. Her eyes flicker with tears.
“Or maybe Camille or I will be named the favorite.” Edel’s gaze burns as she stares at Amber.
“It hasn’t been decided,” Amber says. “We shouldn’t—”
A servant enters with a carafe of warm oil and we fall quiet. As silently as a floating feather, the servant combs the oil through Padma’s hair, making it shimmer in the subtle light like onyx. The servant then moves on to me, twisting the frizz out of each curl with the sweet liquid and pinning it up. Another servant drapes a blanket over a snoring Valerie; then they leave again.
“Du Barry said we shouldn’t speculate,” Amber says.
Ha
na and Edel flash me a look of annoyance. It’s the same one Valerie gave me earlier while the hairdressers created our Belle-buns, and Amber bragged about being the best at creating the perfect curl. The girls have always called her Du Barry’s “bird” behind her back.
“Scared to lose, Amber?” Edel’s words stir up Amber’s growing fury.
“It’s not a game,” I say, and now I’m the one sounding like Du Barry. “Calm down, everyone.” I try to smile at Amber, and get her to let it go. Her hands are shaking, and she’s flushed from head to toe like she’s been scalded.
“Why do you even care, Edel? You hate being a Belle,” Amber says. Tension spreads out like a thick blanket ready to suffocate us all. As we’ve grown older, spats like this have begun to ignite over the silliest of things: the chair one sits in on the breakfast veranda, whose lesson marks are the highest, who knows the most about Belle history, who Du Barry praises. The heat of the arguments lasts for weeks, like too much sun in the warm season.
Hana waves her hands in the air. “Stop! We’re too old for this.”
“And it’s our birthday,” Padma reminds us.
“Oh, I don’t care.” Edel rises from her chair. “I just don’t think it should be you, Amber, just because you always do everything you’re told.”
Amber’s glare stings. “Being a Belle is an honor—”
“There was a boy near our carriages,” I blurt out.
Edel, Hana, Padma, and Amber turn to stare at me. I’m sure my cheeks are glowing pink.
“He was standing next to the gate.”
“A boy?” Padma claps her hands.
“What happened? What could he possibly have wanted?” Amber zips through a flurry of questions. “And how did he get past the guards?”
“What did he say?” Hana says.
“He asked if I could make someone out of clay, like the newspaper headline—”
“Those newsies have no idea—” Amber starts to say.
“Yes, Amber, we know. Let her finish.” Edel scowls.
“It was just the two of us,” I say. “I don’t know where the guard went.”
“Were you afraid?” Padma asks. “I would’ve been shaking.”
The Belles Page 4
