The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  “There are ten floors, with thirty-five rooms on each one. They used to be brimming over with Belles, their ledgers chock-full of courtiers. The queen had the hardest job, sifting through so many talented Belles to select the favorite. The Beauté Carnaval lasted a month when I was a child.”

  I run my fingers over ornate banisters. Some doors remain closed, and others flash their themed interiors. Snowy white chaises with chartreuse pillows, jade bedcurtains and saffron drapes, fuchsia walls and garnet tapestries. I imagine each room as the beauty workshop of a Belle. House-lanterns follow behind us. Their tiny whooshing noises echo.

  Du Barry never told us why there are so few of us now.

  “I wonder if my sister knows how to nurture Belles anymore.” Madam Claire winks at me.

  I keep my face blank. Du Barry’s threats still ring in my ears.

  Madam Claire shows me the beautiful breakfast veranda and the game salon and tea parlors. “Historically, this teahouse was where the queen and her ladies came, before Queen Anaïs built the palace Belle apartments in the Charvois Dynasty. My family lives on the tenth floor, and your quarters will be on the third.”

  We return to the grand staircase.

  “Where’s my big sister, Aza? Will we share a room as she trains me?”

  Madam Claire stops and pivots around. Her mouth crumples into a frown. “You won’t be needing her help transitioning.”

  “But Madam Du Barry said we had a month together. She’s supposed to show me how to do everything perfectly and take over her clients.”

  “I sent her home to La Maison Rouge early. She had an unpleasant disposition, if you will. But not to worry, you have me. I’ve been mistress of this teahouse for fifteen years. There’s no one better to show you what’s expected.”

  More disappointment piles on top of the growing mountain inside me. I thought I would have an elder sister to rely on—at least for a time. That was what we’d been told.

  We walk along the third floor. Servants open a set of doors. Bree and I follow Madam Claire inside.

  “These are your chambers”—Madam Claire motions—“and your imperial servant will be in nearby quarters.”

  The most enormous bed I’ve ever seen sits in the middle of the room. Velvet drapes hang from gilded posts tied with gossamer bows. The bed is covered in silk pillows made of swansdown, and thick blankets embroidered with the Chrysanthemum House emblem. Flames curl and hiss in a stone fireplace, even though it’s the end of the warm months. Bowls hold floating tea lights and flower petals. Gold-framed portraits swallow the walls. Marble statues of the Goddess of Beauty and famous Belles peek out of every corner. I spot my mother in the long row. I wonder what she’d say if she were here. Would she admit her disappointment? Would she tell me to be grateful?

  Bree works with the others to unpack my Belle-trunk. The beauty caisse is lifted to a vanity complete with three mirrors and a series of beauty-lantern hooks. A Belle-book sits on the table, embossed with my portrait and name, and an instruction card from Du Barry demanding that I record everything. Dresses are hung in a closet so big my new bed could fit inside it.

  “The Fashion Minister sent a hundred dresses. I advised him that I’d like for you to match the house, so he used the teahouse colors as inspiration.” Madam Claire’s words fade into a distant murmur.

  I think of the beauty of the room in which Amber now sleeps. The whole scene with her replays over and over again: the hurt in her eyes and the noise she made as she fell. A heaviness settles into me, like a post-balloon with too much to carry. And even though this is a beautiful room in an even more beautiful house, and I am the second most important Belle in the kingdom, all I see are images of the palace Belle apartments, and all I hear are Amber’s words, and all I feel is that this room isn’t good enough.

  “I think you will be perfect here. You already seem to fit with the space.” Madam Claire giggles. “Your skin is the right shade of brown to match it. The designers worked hard to ensure it’d be the right fit.” She runs her hands over the furniture, then leans on the vanity, staring in the mirror. “Oh, dear, I’ve put on too much rouge-stick again.” She rubs at her teeth.

  The servants stifle laughter. She clears her throat, and they stop. She looks at me in the mirror’s reflection. “I thought the queen was going to choose you.”

  I meet her gaze, and tears well in my eyes.

  “Your exhibition was so clever. I rooted for you because it was markedly different from the others. And because you made my sister so mad.”

  I bow so she won’t see the smile that her statement inspires. “Thank you, Madam.”

  “But Ambrosia is the right favorite for the current royal family,” she says, and the momentary happiness disappears like a popped bubble. “They’ve had enough strife. They need someone who will do exactly as told.”

  “I could’ve done that,” I say, even though it feels like a lie.

  She walks over and places a hand against my cheek. “Who are you trying to fool, me or you?” She smiles, the rouge-stick now coating more of her teeth, and leans forward to sniff me. “You smell like lavender. How lovely. I’m happy to have you here. Tomorrow we’ll get to work.” She excuses herself, sending in nurses to check my arcana levels.

  I climb into the too-large bed and let the nurses poke and prod me. After they leave, I take out the cameo of my mother and set it on the pillow beside me. I trace my fingers over the silhouette of her face, carved from blush-pink stone, glass, and white quartz.

  “What should I do, Maman?”

  I close my eyes and imagine her beside me. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the sound of her breathing. I listen hard for her voice like it’s only a faraway whisper.

  Do what you’ve been asked to do, she’d say.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  You must. The queen has made her decision. You weren’t raised to covet the path of others. It allows the God of Envy’s snake to enter your veins.

  “I yelled at my best friend.”

  You should never let your anger bubble over. It blinds you. It shatters hearts.

  “I’m sorry, Maman. I’m sorry I failed. I didn’t work hard enough.”

  I wait for her voice. I wait for her to tell me it’s all right. I wait to feel her arms curl around my waist, to feel the soft beat of her heart pushing through my back.

  Nothing comes.

  I sink down in the new mattress, wishing for an indentation like the one left behind by Maman in our bed at home, and drift into disappointed dreams.

  13

  Unfamiliar noises and new scents wake me early, and I’m swept into the day. Breakfast on the veranda, and a list of morning appointments.

  Mistress Daniela Jocquard, House Maille 7:00

  Lady Renée Laurent, House of Silk 8:00

  Countess Madeleine Rembrandt, House Glaston 9:00

  Lady Ruth Barlon, House Eugene 10:00

  Duchesse Adelaide Bruen, House of Pomanders 11:00

  The small treatment salon has pale blue walls and a circular shape, like the inside of a robin’s egg. Servants work to fluff pillows and drape blankets across a long table. Bree opens up my beauty caisse and sets out instruments on a silver tray.

  A skylight window reveals angry clouds ready to thunder and rain down. It’s as if the sky reflects my insides.

  “Lady Camellia,” Bree whispers.

  “Yes?”

  “Your first clients have arrived in the parlor. Tea has been served.”

  “Thank you.”

  I take a deep breath and smooth the front of my canary-yellow work dress. Bree squeezes my shoulder, and I flash her a thankful smile.

  Madam Claire strides in. “Camellia, darling, how are you feeling this morning?” Rouge-stick bleeds around her smile. She mops sweat from her brow.

  I curtsy. “Fine.”

  “I trust you slept well.” She rubs my shoulder. “It’s your first day here, so I wanted to check on you.”

&n
bsp; “I’m fine.”

  “You keep saying that.” Her nose scrunches.

  “Because I am.”

  She eyes me suspiciously but says nothing more, and we walk together to the adjacent waiting parlor. A little girl marches around in circles. She chases a tawny teacup lion.

  “Come here, Chat. Little Chat, come back.” The teacup lion yelps out a tiny roar as the girl yanks its tail. The girl’s jeweled pinafore balloons around her small waist, and the little hat on her head threatens to fall off. She can’t be more than five years old. Her elegant mother grabs at her, demanding she sit down.

  “Lady Jocquard and Mistress Daniela, may I present the new Belle of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse at your service.”

  I bow. “I’m Camellia Beauregard.”

  “I know exactly who you are,” Lady Jacquard replies, waving my Belle-card at me. “And I’m quite excited to see what you can actually do. It will be such a relief to work with an official Belle again.”

  “Official?” I say.

  “You are the official Belle of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse, Camellia,” Madam Claire says. “I shall leave you two to discuss Daniela’s treatments.”

  Daniela climbs into a small wing-backed chair. Her legs dangle, and she clicks her little heels together. “You’re the new Belle?” Her voice is as small as she is.

  “Yes.” I sit in the chair beside her. She stares at me with big hazel eyes, and blinks rapidly as if I might disappear.

  “Camellia,” she says.

  “Lady Camellia,” her mother corrects.

  I reach for her hand. “It doesn’t seem like you need any work done. May I take a closer look?”

  Daniela jumps up, and I twirl her about like a tiny top.

  “Are you sure?” Daniela cups her hand around my ear. “Mother says I’m a complete disaster,” she whispers.

  The little girl only needs a few small refreshments—a new coat of skin paste, an eye brightening, reinforcement of her hair texture.

  “We could give you a tail, and maybe some whiskers—then you two can match.” I point to the teacup lion licking her leg.

  She picks him up and nuzzles her face in his fur. “Really?”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Jocquard says. “Her looks have been a mess lately. Can’t you see her eyes and nose? They’ve always been a problem. Her natural template is flawed.”

  Daniela’s eyes are a little sunken, like two finch’s eggs in a nest, and her nose hooks left. I want to tell her that Daniela’s little hooked nose gives her character—natural individuality, uncreated by Belles. I want to remind her that Daniela’s bones will always drift back to their original shape, and that some are more stubborn than others. I want to tell her Daniela’s distinctive features make her appear sweet and curious.

  “I’d like for you to give her a new, darker hair shade, and work on her face,” Lady Jocquard says. “We might have to discuss giving her a completely new one at some point.”

  “She’s a very pretty little girl—”

  She scoffs, then lifts a bag from her pocket and jingles it.

  A long silence drifts between us. I stare into her eyes.

  “I like it when my daughter looks a certain way. She must learn how to maintain herself well. Even at this age.” Lady Jocquard snaps her fingers at her attendant. “Here’s a beauty board I had created. I’d like her skin to be the color of the night sky, but with a tinge of blue. I’m going to dust her with the new glitter sparkle opera singer Geneviève Gareau is wearing. Did you see her in the Trianon Tribune? Just shining. The next trend, for sure. My whole family will be first to do it.”

  Her attendant hands it to me. Color smudges streak around an old cameo of Daniela. Hair-texture swatches line the perimeter, boasting an array of types—coiled, straight, coarse, wavy, fine, curly, frizzy, and smooth. The portraits of other courtier children circle hers.

  I glance from the board to Daniela, and then to her mother. I wish Lady Jocquard could see her the same way I do.

  “I really love how Lady Élise Saint-Germain—from House Garlande—styles her twins. You know, they made the newsies’ new child beauty-scopes. Twice. She updates them in the perfect way.”

  “Have you thought about leaving—”

  She puts a hand up. “I didn’t come here to argue about what’s best for my daughter. I came here to spend money. I can just as easily go to the Silk Teahouse, and make sure all my courtier friends know exactly what type of experience they’ll get here with you.”

  My cheeks flame and my heart skips. I stutter out an apology.

  “I’d rather you get started. Save the formalities.”

  Her words are a slap.

  “Yes, of course; off to the bathing chamber first,” I say.

  Daniela wants me with her at every step of the process. I lead her to the bathing onsen. Beauty-lanterns glide through the room. Candles float in three small pools: the first is full of rose petals, the second is thick with an infusion of aloe, and the last one simmers with salt, sulfur, and steam. Four poultice rooms line the wall, holding the promise of healing from red clay, oakwood charcoal, amethyst gem, and blue onyx.

  Daniela takes a dip in each pool and visits each poultice room just to take a peek. She interlocks her hand with mine as we enter the treatment salon. Her mother follows closely behind.

  A long table cuts through the middle of the room like a knife. Servants fluff pillows and turn down blankets.

  “She will need more tea,” Lady Jocquard says. “Her pain tolerance is low, unfortunately.”

  “Bree, would you mind bringing more?” I ask.

  She returns with a tray of teapots, and she pours Daniela a cup. Bree adds three ice cubes to cool it. Daniela gags and tries to spit it out.

  “Nope, down it goes.” Her mother pushes the cup to Daniela’s lips and tips it upright. Most of the liquid dribbles down her chin. She wiggles, but her mother’s grip tightens. Daniela’s tea-soaked pinafore is removed. She swings her naked arms and legs all around.

  I tuck Daniela into the treatment bed. “Snug as a little bug.”

  She giggles. “Are you going to make me beautiful? What will you do?”

  “It’s a secret.” I cup my hand near her ear. I feel the hugeness of her smile. “You’re already very pretty. I’m going to make you the most beautiful little girl in the whole wide world.”

  She gasps, and turns to whisper in my ear. “I’d like that. Maman would like that, too. She would stop being so worried all the time.”

  “I hope so.” I fluff her pillow. “Time to get started. You ready?”

  She nods. I examine Daniela’s features. I run my fingers through her stiff hair; the strands remind me of hay in the carriage-house stables at home. The brown color is dull and ashen at the roots. A million looks flash through my head, like a deck of cards being shuffled.

  “Are you going to do it?” Daniela asks.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to keep my hands from trembling. “I’m thinking. Close your eyes.”

  “But I want to see,” she protests.

  Lady Jocquard paces around the bed. “Do what the Belle says, now.” Her voice makes me jump.

  I close my eyes. I block out the noise of Lady Jocquard’s heels. My body warms like I’ve swallowed a blazing star. Maman said that we are made of stardust, of the Goddess of Beauty herself, and to envision the arcana like a comet zipping through us.

  Her voice guides me. Be gentle, go slowly. Children require a light touch. You were born knowing how to do this.

  The veins in my body swell. They rise in my hands.

  Daniela appears in my head like a painting: doughy skin, dull hair, sinking eyes, crooked nose, long face. Bree and I coat her limbs with bei powder and darken her skin. I place a mesh marked with quadrants over her face. I paint a new color on a single strand of her hair. I imagine a raven sitting on Daniela’s shoulder, and I blacken her hair to match its wings. I tug lightly on the strands, forcing her hair to grow, and soon it tumbles over her
shoulders in coiled ribbons.

  “Ow.” She winces. Sweat beads dot her forehead. She bites her bottom lip and bursts into tears. I rub Daniela’s shoulder. Tears stream down her cheeks, wetting the mesh.

  “Maybe we should stop for a bit?” I say to her mother.

  “No, she’s fine. She always does this,” her mother says. “She’s going to be the most beautiful little girl now.” She holds Daniela’s arms down, but the little girl starts to kick and scream. The shrill sounds hit me in my chest. Servants rush forward to help Lady Jocquard pin her in place.

  I try to work faster. I fine-tune her hair, placing a nice wave in the strands, adding a shiny gloss like Padma’s black hair, and thickening it in the crown. She hollers even louder. She shakes her head left and right. The mesh falls to the floor.

  “I need her head to remain still.”

  “You stop it this instant. I will send Chat away immediately to be stuffed like a doll,” Lady Jocquard scolds. Daniela freezes and whimpers. Lady Jocquard cups Daniela’s head, firmly holding it in place.

  I pull her eyes a little out of their sockets, like spoons lifting eggs out of a cup-server. Her screams turn cold and sharp as ice. I flinch at each crescendo. I straighten out her nose into the perfect slope. The bone pops and cracks. Bree holds a handkerchief to the base, and a small stream of blood trickles out. I smooth out the break.

  “Hush all that noise, Daniela,” Lady Jocquard hollers. “Quit carrying on like that. You’re becoming an embarrassment.”

  “I’m done,” I say.

  Daniela’s cries turn to hiccups. “It . . . I . . . it . . .”

  “Wipe your face,” Lady Jocquard says to her. “And someone bring a mirror.” She snaps her fingers at Bree.

  Bree scurries off and returns with a mirror. I help Daniela sit up. Her skin is warm to the touch. Daniela gazes into the mirror. She pants, but flashes me a pained smile.

  “See?” Lady Jocquard hovers over Daniela. “Simply gorgeous. I love it.” She gazes up at me. “You’re such a talent. Much better than the others at this teahouse.”

  “Others?” I ask.

  A servant clears her throat. The two of them make eye contact.