Amber sits in front of a mirror with her beauty caisse. Valerie and Hana are rushed into the tubs. Edel’s wet hair is fanned dry by three people.
I tangle my feet up in plush floor rugs. My bath is drawn, and I’m in and out of it before the water can soak fully into my skin. An onsen servant leads me to a vanity. With fluid movements she wipes my arms, legs, and face with a damp rose-scented cloth and cuts and buffs my nails, then paints and dries them. She puts my feet into little red shoes. Another woman touches my eyelids, making me close them. I hear them unhook the compartments of my beauty caisse. Now I’m the one to be made beautiful. She powders my face and rubs a rouge-stick over my lips.
The clicks of Belle-pencils echo. She lines my eyes with two different kohl tips. Layer after layer of Belle-powder and rouge are applied to my cheeks and eyes. She rubs a waxy perfume-stick behind my ears and along my wrists. The soft powders and pencils and warm creams relax me. It would be easier if I could use my arcana on myself, even though Du Barry says it’s impossible. The arcana are for the service of others.
I imagine my new life-to-be: being chosen, living at the palace, enjoying all the court has to offer, creating beautiful people. I take deep breaths. But Du Barry’s words hover around me like the beauty-lanterns.
“Hair is next.” The servant sections my hair, combing it through. The steam from the rollers creates a cloud around me, and their warmth seeps into my scalp as she sets my curls with them. Big waves hit my shoulders and are quickly pinned up into a signature Belle-bun, with Belle-rose petals to prevent frizzing.
The women rush me from this room to our dressing stalls. Bree waits for me. She fits me in a patterned long-sleeved gown in black and white. I’ve never worn any other color besides the deep pink Du Barry claims brings out the honey undertones in my brown skin. Bree’s deft fingers close a series of hooks and clasps along my back. A bloodred waist-sash is tied at the middle to gather the skirts into the perfect bell shape. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Are you excited to see the royal family and court?” Bree asks.
“Yes, I am.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. I welcome the conversation. “What is the queen like?”
“Gracious, my lady,” she whispers.
“And the princess?”
“Gracious, my lady,” she says again, but her voice quivers. “Long live the queen and the princess.”
I repeat the blessing as well.
“It’s time, little dolls,” the Fashion Minister calls out.
We step out from behind the dressing screens. The Beauty Minister gasps and claps. She fawns over us, and the dresses, and our new looks. The Fashion Minister beams, and takes us one by one to parade around the room.
Padma wears a bright purple dress with an empire waist that falls in a clean line to the floor. The silk ripples out behind her in waves, and jewels crawl in a pattern up her arms like snakes. Edel’s dress spills over with layers of rubies and her edelweiss flowers. Her movements echo through the near-silent room. The cream strapless gown Valerie wears hugs tightly around her curves before blooming out in a fish’s tail. Hana’s silk gown boasts hand-painted images of our island and its cypress trees, and her sleeves swing low to the ground. Soft golden silk wraps around Amber’s lean frame, and her Belle-bun is bursting with yellow ribbons like sunbeams. She’s never looked more beautiful.
A mirror is brought out. My heart punches inside my chest. The reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. My makeup is done up like a courtier in a beauty-scope—thickly lined eyes with gold accents, red jewels dotted along my eyebrows, a powdered face, bright lips. My Belle-bun spills over with Belle-roses, and the dress hugs me so closely I have a shape I’ve never seen on me before. The shape of my mother.
Du Barry goes down the line, kissing each of us on the cheek. When she gets to me, she whispers, “You look nice. Your mother would approve.” She touches the textured pattern of my gown. I picture my mother’s face, and I feel her proud and admiring smile deep inside.
“What do you think?” the Fashion Minister asks us.
“I love it,” I whisper as my sisters squeal.
“I figured I shouldn’t dress you traditionally. It’s time to modernize Belles, in my humble opinion. Du Barry has been so ancient in her preparations,” he says under his breath.
“What was that, Gustave?” Du Barry asks.
“Oh, nothing.” He winks at us.
The Beauty Minister taps his shoulder with a fan, then looks at me and my sisters. “It’s time to go learn your fates.”
10
A plush red carpet cuts through the middle of the Receiving Hall like a thick river of blood. On either side of the aisle sit high-backed chairs filled with undeniably elegant women dressed in colorful silks, taffetas, satins, and crepes. Men ring the perimeter, and a sea of top hats peeks above the women’s headdresses, fans, and tall hairstyles. People place eyescopes and spyglasses to their faces, squinting to see us. Over my head, a glass ceiling etched with the Orléansian royal emblem lets in light from the early evening stars.
“Eyes forward,” the Beauty Minister whispers before we take our first steps inside.
Imperial guards wear deep purple vestments. The queen’s divine color. I drown under the weight of the many stares. These people are the most important in the entire kingdom.
The Beauty Minister is silhouetted ahead, her pace slow and steady as we approach the pure gold chrysanthemum throne. My knees shake a little as I move closer. I try to steady them. I follow behind Padma. The lotus flowers in her hair open and close, winking at the onlookers.
A rustling of sound follows me. Women lean in to one another and mumble behind lace fans. They look at me like I’m a slice of spiced cake waiting to be eaten. Newsies sketch pictures of us, and black gossip post-balloons shift in and out of the crowd, their tails whipping in all directions, trying to catch a scandalous word here or there.
At the front of the room, a set of golden gazebos cluster to the left and right of the throne platform, each one covered with a canopy of flowers and garlands. A royal attendant helps me step into one marked with my name and camellia flowers. My sisters stand beside me in theirs.
A pyramid of stairs leads up to four thrones. They glimmer in the light of the dusk-lanterns, and hold the three most important people in the entire world: King Francis, Queen Celeste, and Princess Sophia. The second-to-last chair is left empty to represent the invalid Princess Charlotte. She hasn’t been seen for years. Newsies speculate she’s being kept alive so the monarchy doesn’t pass the crown to Princess Sophia. The papers say Princess Sophia will make a terrible queen. That she’s a spendthrift and loves to gamble and entertain with extravagant parties. But if the stories are true, I’m more than intrigued. She sounds impulsive, thrill-seeking, explosive, and above all, fascinating.
The queen descends from her throne. Guards fan out behind her like a cluster of shelled insects. Streaks of golden paint shimmer and twist into beautiful shapes on her skin. Sapphires decorate the slopes of her bright eyes. Her dark hair has a shock of gray in the front, like a vanilla swirl in a crème-cone. The tattlers say she leaves it there to pay homage to the roots of Orléans, the Gris.
The princess joins her. She matches her mother today. Same beautiful brown skin and soft oval face. Most families desire to be a matched set. Mothers determine the family features and manage their children’s outward appearance, especially the families from high houses. But Princess Sophia has always changed what she looks like, as if she were merely donning a different dress. A teacup monkey perches on her shoulder.
I suck in my breath and hold it in my chest until the queen speaks. Every whisper, murmur, hum disappears.
“Welcome, my trusted advisors, my beloved ladies, and my ever-loyal court”—she waves a hand in the air—“to the most important day in our kingdom. The naming of our most glorious treasure.” She faces us. “Beautiful Belles, welcome to my court and the beginning
s of your divine service to our world. Without you and the gods, we would be nothing.”
The room rumbles with applause. Its echo beats in my chest.
“Feast your eyes on our new generation of Belles!”
I knit my fingers in my lap as the entire crowd turns its attention from her to us. Servants open one of the floor-to-ceiling windows along the east wall, and scarlet post-balloons fly in. They sail over us, zipping and dipping and spinning, their little compasses guiding them to the throne platform. The tiny blimps dangle Belle-cards from golden ropes. Rich, animated, glossy. They tease the hands grabbing for them, coming close enough to be touched but not caught.
I spot my face on one, but the ink waxes and wanes, changing too quickly for me to read it and know my fate.
“These royal Belle-cards will be sent to every single citizen of the kingdom: the five major islands, and the smaller outlying clusters. If anyone has forgotten your names after the Beauté Carnaval, they’ll remember them all in a matter of moments,” the queen says.
The spectators clap.
“Now, my dearest court, cast your coins before I reveal the favorite. Let us see if we’ve picked the same Belle. May you always find beauty.”
The women and men, and a few children, rush from their seats like a swarm of bees. They buzz around the gazebos, dropping coins into baskets held by servants who kneel beside them. They push eyescopes and spyglasses to their eyes and squint at our faces. They flap their fans at us. They listen through ear-trumpets for responses to their questions.
“What are your thoughts on coral-colored eyes?”
“Pale white skin turns gray faster, can you remedy that?”
“Could you give me a new face?”
“Do you think the laws should adjust, and allow for smaller waistlines?”
“My skin is getting old and doesn’t take color well anymore, can you fix that?”
“Any opinion on smaller breasts this season versus larger ones?”
“I liked the trend of darker skin and light eyes; will that be back in fashion?”
“Any ideas on extending how long beauty treatments last?”
I can’t answer one question before another one comes. The faces and voices blur into a spinning mass.
One face sticks out of the herd crowding around me.
The boy from the gate.
I feel his presence like a teacup dragon. Loud, commanding, full of fire. Courtier girls are watching him; some giggle behind their gloved hands and painted fans, and others ask him questions he leaves unacknowledged. He struts to the front of the line, and people clear a path for him. My eyes travel from the sapphire-blue cravat at his neck to the royal emblem pinned to it. Two ships sailing along the curve of a chrysanthemum stem. He’s one of the sons of the Minister of Seas.
A drum beats inside me. I try not to stare. I try to pretend he’s not gazing at me. I try to act like I don’t remember him.
He starts to drop his coin in my basket, then pulls his hand back. His gaze burns my skin. A deep flush climbs from my stomach to my cheeks.
“Did you have a question?” I ask.
“Oh, she speaks.” The pitch of his voice is richer than the darkest chocolate. He hides a smile behind his hand.
“I’m not a doll.”
“I didn’t think you were.” He reaches for my hand. I feel the heat of it through my lace glove.
I pull away.
A guard steps forward. “No touching.”
He flashes his palms. “I meant no offense. I’m Auguste Fabry, son of the Minister of the Seas, a harmless sailor. Just wanted to offer Lady”—he cranes to look up at the sign twinkling with my name—“Camellia my sincerest apologies. She’s upset with me.”
I bite back a smile, fighting with the corners of my mouth. “What is it? I’m very busy and have a long line,” I tease.
“Very well. Do you think men should be as beautiful as women?” His question curls around me like smoke, sliding over and under my skin, and through my dress. His words hold a challenge. One I want to win.
The women around my gazebo grow quiet. A nervous tremor flutters in my stomach.
“I think it’s unfair that women must parade around like peacocks and men do not. There should be an equal effort.”
The left side of his mouth lifts in a smile. “But aren’t women supposed to be more beautiful than men in order to be enjoyed?”
“Are women quills or télétropes or new carriages?” Heat rises to my cheeks. He doesn’t break eye contact.
Women fan themselves and trade whispers and gasps. Their eyes dart from me to him, and back again.
“No, they are not.” He hides a smile beneath his hand. “It seems I know just what to say to make you angry with me.”
“It seems you say stupid things.”
“But it was a question, not a statement.”
I sigh, even though I enjoy sparring with him. It’s different than arguing with my sisters.
“Final question,” he says, lifting his coin in the air.
“I think you’ve asked enough questions, and slowed down my line.”
“Just one more. Is that all right?” He pokes his bottom lip out, like he’s a child on the edge of a tantrum. The women fuss, goading me into allowing it.
“Go on,” I demand, feigning annoyance.
“If you could change anything about me, what would it be?” he asks.
“You will have to make a private appointment for us to discuss your options.”
“I’ll take that answer to mean you’d change nothing.”
The women snicker, coo, and shower him with compliments. He grins at me as he basks in it. I want to laugh, but hold the outburst in my chest. I will not smile. I will not let him know that he amuses me.
“But if you want my coin . . .” He rubs his hand under his chin, and his dark brows slant up. “You’ll have to tell me. Because maybe I should give you my vote.” He dangles the coin over the basket again. “Or maybe I shouldn’t.”
“Save your coins, I have plenty,” I say. “My sisters are just as talented.”
“But are they as beautiful?”
Nearby women burst with chatter.
I blush.
“I think you might make for an interesting favorite. Plus, I like to place a good bet.” He drops the coin in just as the baskets are collected, then he disappears into the crowd. Traces of his smug attitude linger like perfume, distracting me from an onslaught of new questions. I search for him in the masses, wanting to tell him I’m not here for him to find me beautiful. I’m here to help the world. I’m not an ornament.
The queen returns to her throne, and she nods at the Beauty Minister.
“It’s time,” the Beauty Minister says into a voice-trumpet.
New scarlet post-balloons zip through the room, glowing bright with our Belle-emblem. They circle over the Beauty Minister like tanager birds looking for their nest. She reaches for one of the blimps and removes the card. “First up, Valeria Beauregard.”
Valerie steps out of her gazebo.
“You will return home to Maison Rouge de la Beauté.”
Valerie bows. When she returns to her platform, she looks at the ground and tries to catch the tears falling down her face.
We all clap for her.
The Beauty Minister reaches for another card. I resist bunching my dress.
“Edelweiss Beauregard,” she says.
“Yes,” Edel accidentally calls out, before clapping a hand over her mouth. The Beauty Minister smiles at her.
“My lovely, you will be at the Fire Teahouse in the Fire Isles,” she says.
Edel curtsies.
“Hana Beauregard.”
Hana snaps upright. Her hands dig into the folds of her dress as she walks out of her gazebo. She doesn’t look at the Beauty Minister; her eyes are fixed on the ground. A few cherry-blossom petals fall from her Belle-bun. She takes in a large breath.
The Beauty Minister scans the Belle-card. “Y
ou will be at the Glass Teahouse in the Glass Isles.”
Hana exhales, claps her hands together, then bows.
“Padma Beauregard, you will be at the Silk Teahouse in the Bay of Silk,” the Beauty Minister says.
Padma’s chin drops to her chest. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she does her best to wipe them away. A sob escapes her. She covers her mouth. A nearby servant rubs her back, and whispers something to her.
Two blimps linger over the Beauty Minister’s head, chasing each other in a perfect circle.
This is it.
I look at Amber to my left. She winks at me. I blow her a silent kiss and cross my fingers for both of us. I tell myself: If it isn’t me, then I’ll be happy it’s her. I hope she feels the same. I ignore the tiny voice inside me that whispers, You’re lying.
The Beauty Minister reaches for the cards displaying our faces. I stand up straight and ball my fists in anticipation of what she’s going to say. The girls watch and wait.
“Camellia Beauregard,” she says.
I walk forward. Fear and excitement climb over me like vines. My palms itch. My face feels flushed. I don’t know whether I want to vomit, shriek, or both. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
“You’ll be at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse in the Rose Quartier of our Imperial City of Trianon.”
My cheeks flame and I know they’re red as strawberries. My heart plummets into my stomach with a crash. Sweat streams down my back. “But . . .” I start to say, before Du Barry glares at me.
I bow and return to my gazebo. My chest heaves. I might never be able to catch my breath again.
The queen stands. The Beauty Minister turns to her.
“Ambrosia Beauregard.” The queen stretches out the syllables of her name.
Amber steps forward—eyes gazing ahead, shoulders back, slight smile on her face—looking exactly how Du Barry trained us to. Gracious. Alert. Always ready.
“You have been named the favorite,” the Beauty Minister announces. The word explodes through the room like a cannon.
I put a hand over my mouth.
The queen claps. “Ambrosia is the favorite.”
A servant dumps out Amber’s basket. Coins splatter on the floor and make a golden mountain. The court cast many bets for her.
The Belles Page 7
