The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  I press myself against the nearest wall. My breath catches. “What’s happening?” I say.

  No one answers me.

  “Seal off the courtyard,” Madam Claire screams. She presses the front doors closed, smacking away pairs of hands holding pens and parchment pads marked with the newsie house emblem.

  Bodies thud against the doors. A chaos of men and women press against the glass, drumming and beating each window. I hold my hands to my stomach. My heartbeat overwhelms my entire body. Fists knock. Screams and shouts assault my ears. In one of the windows, a crack in the glass spreads out like lightning as the determined people try to get in.

  Servants draw the curtains. Bree rushes to my side, her face pink and sweaty.

  “What’s happening? I ask her.

  “Everyone’s saying something’s amiss at the palace,” she whispers.

  Madam Claire clicks a series of locks, and then topples over with exhaustion. Makeup runs down her face. A servant helps her to the nearest chaise.

  “Madam Claire.” I race forward, batting at black post-balloons. “What is all this?”

  “I don’t know,” she pants, then motions to a nearby servant. “Use the circuit-phone to call for the guard.”

  “Madam, the queen’s post arrived through the back entrance,” a servant announces as she tugs the glistening ribbons of a gold-and-white post-balloon. It floats over Madam Claire’s head like a small, glittering sun. She pulls it into her lap, removes a parchment scroll, and breaks the queen’s seal. Her eyes flicker with excitement as she gazes from the page to me. “You’ve been summoned by the queen.”

  16

  The dress Madam Claire picks out for me wraps my body in rich layers of cerise and coral. The six tiers of fabric are like different frostings of tulle and lace and silk. A sweetheart neckline scoops low above my bodice, and she decorates my neck with layers of diamonds. The waist-sash pinches around my center; its bow holds tiny embroidered Belle-roses.

  I run my fingers over the dress to assure myself it’s real. A tiny tremble quivers through me. Why would the queen want to see me? Why would the newsies attack the teahouse? My heart won’t slow down. Should I be afraid or excited or hopeful or confused? The emotions crash inside me like a carriage accident happening over and over again.

  I’m back in the queen’s Receiving Hall. Its glass ceiling winks light over the queen’s throne, making her glow. Du Barry and Madam Claire stand to my right. The Beauty Minister is at my left. The queen’s court and ministers look on from plush high-backed chairs. I search for Amber. She should be standing to the left of the Beauty Minister, but she’s nowhere. I’m afraid to take my eyes off the queen, as if this whole moment might disappear. My stomach rises and falls like I’m on the tree swing at home.

  “Your Majesties and Your Highness, allow me to present to you Camellia Beauregard once more,” the Beauty Minister announces.

  I curtsy and bow all the way to the floor. The queen’s hot stare makes me sweat.

  “Your Majesties. Your Highness.”

  “Up, my child. Let me have a look at you,” the queen says.

  I stand, head still bowed, but steal glances at her. The scandal sheets and tattlers call her icy and passionless. I swallow down the peculiar mix of dread and excitement bobbing in my stomach. She looks at me with cold eyes and an unsmiling expression, a gaze that sends a chill through me. Her dark skin glistens with powder, like she’s covered in stardust. She clutches a small scepter.

  As many times as I whispered to myself that this was a happy visit to the palace, one with the promise of good news, it doesn’t feel like that. One question repeats over and over in my head: What does the queen want with me?

  The king smiles at her and rubs his red beard. The princess sits on the very edge of her throne with bright red cheeks. She looks at me with eager eyes, like I’m a caramel crème-cone ready to be devoured on a warm day. Her teacup pets surround her—a monkey on her shoulder, an elephant in her lap, and a thimble-size rabbit perched on the tip of her scepter.

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling you back to court. Though the king says I’m behaving like a finicky cat, and I should be embarrassed.”

  The court laughs; the king chuckles, taking her jeweled hand and kissing it. I watch the way he looks at her, his eyes big, his mouth soft. I wonder if they’re in love and the tattlers and scandal sheets are wrong about his countless mistresses and affairs.

  “I’m happy to return, Your Majesty,” I say. And I want to stay forever.

  “Camellia, this is an important time in our kingdom. The marriage of my daughter is on the horizon.”

  The court calls out a wedding blessing. Everyone applauds.

  “I want to ensure that Princess Sophia’s marriage starts off properly, and that her eventual reign falls seamlessly into our legacy. House Orléans, as you know, founded our magnificent kingdom and created the great city of Trianon. My daughter must be outfitted with a look appropriate for the Orléans Dynasty. To fit seamlessly with the great queens and with her ancestors.”

  My heart thuds. I scan the room for Amber again, and search the crowd for a bright red Belle-bun. My hands knit in front of me. Trails of sweat inch down my back.

  “Long live the queen,” the crowd shouts out.

  Kings and queens don’t get to participate in the royal fad of changing their looks. Once married, it is customary to settle into one consistent appearance. According to Du Barry, it should be elegant yet regal, memorable but not eccentric, and most of all, fit for royalty.

  “My daughter’s been responsible for setting a few unnatural beauty trends among the younger courtiers. That terrible blip with the sea-blue skin tone, and the trend where courtiers matched their teacup pets.” The queen shudders. “So unfortunate.”

  The princess scoffs, then glares at her mother, turning redder by the minute.

  The women in the crowd nod their heads and whisper in agreement with the queen.

  “And she’s broken her fair share of beauty laws. However, with help, I have no doubt that she’ll take this opportunity to refine herself and come into her life as a future queen, leaving behind the temperamental little girl.”

  Her words confuse me. My eyes volley between her and the princess, who squirms and fusses with the ruffles of her dress.

  “Nothing about this year has been easy, Camellia. I thought my eldest, Princess Charlotte, would have woken by now. I thought my cabinet would have passed legislation to help make beauty treatments more affordable for the Gris.” She sighs, and the king kisses her hand again. “I hope you’ll be patient with me.”

  She rises. The entire court mimics her. My heart beats like a hummingbird’s wings. The room becomes a swirl of colors with the queen at the very center.

  “I am going to do something unprecedented in the history of our kingdom, and I hope you’ll prove that it’s the right decision.” I hold my breath. I don’t take my eyes off the queen. I’m frozen. “My challenge for you, Camellia, is for you to become the favorite, and teach my daughter. Will you?”

  The word favorite ruptures through me.

  My heart might stop.

  “Yes,” I almost shout.

  Amber’s face pops into my mind. My excitement tangles with a thread of sadness.

  “Behold, Camellia Beauregard, our new favorite!” the queen announces. “May you always find beauty!”

  Small chrysanthemum flower-lanterns are released in the air. Thundering cheers and high-pitched whistles roar through the room.

  17

  The Receiving Hall turns into a chaos of light. Newsies flood the room, flashing their light-boxes in my face. Black gossip post-balloons storm overhead, with their candles shining down on me. The windows open, and a kaleidoscope of congratulatory post-balloons pours in from every corner of the kingdom.

  I search for Amber. A glimpse of red hair sends me snaking through the crowd. Where is she? Is she okay? What happened to her? Women squeeze my hands as I pass, and wave
their beauty tokens in the air. Men tip their hats and wink. They say how excited they are to work with me. They ask my thoughts on the latest beauty laws. They swarm me with questions about my favorite arcana. I give quick answers and continue to search.

  But I can’t find Amber.

  The Beauty Minister grabs my hand and kisses my cheeks.

  “Where’s my sister? Where’s Amber?” I whisper to her.

  “Shh,” she says, like I’ve uttered a dirty word. “No talk of that. Enjoy yourself.”

  The night rages on in one continuous loop of laughter and dancing and questions and excitement until I’m brought to the Belle apartments right after the midnight star rises. The rich bed drapery now matches my signature pink camellia flowers. I think about the ambrosia-orange curtains that once hung here. A pinch burns in my chest, and I imagine Amber’s Belle-trunk being packed.

  I climb into the big four-poster bed and stare at the ceiling for an eternity until I fall asleep.

  “Time to get up,” a voice calls out. The bedcurtains rustle.

  “But I’m not awake.” I open one eye. “Who is it?”

  “Ivy,” she says. The favorite of the previous generation.

  “You’re talking, so you must be,” she says, tugging at my sheets. “Always be up before they come in. So you can watch them and be aware of the things going on around you.”

  Ivy’s veil reveals nothing. Not even an outline of her nose or mouth. The fabric completely hides her from view. I wonder how she can see through the shrouded layers. She wears a long-sleeved black day dress and lace gloves. Not one sliver of her skin shows. I touch her to make sure she’s real and not some dark spirit. She removes my hand from her arm.

  “Where’s Amber?”

  “Go on, freshen up. Questions later.” A pitcher of steaming water sits beside the porcelain basin on my new vanity. She watches while I wipe the sleep from my eyes and wet my skin. “I need you awake. You’ll bathe later.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Just after the morning star.”

  I want to dive back into bed and tell her it’s too early to be awake, but she knows what palace life is like, and I need to learn from her. While I clean my teeth and mouth, the silence extends to every corner of the room.

  “Ivy, please. Tell me where Amber is? Is she at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse now? What happened?”

  “These aren’t questions you should be concerning yourself with.” Ivy takes the wet cloth from me. How I wish I could see her eyes.

  “But—”

  “I will show you how to be the favorite. I’m staying in the room just down the main corridor. I will be with you during your initial beauty treatments to ensure all goes well. I will help you navigate the rules of working with the queen and the princess.”

  Ivy is all business, and I reluctantly accept that I’m not going to get any information about Amber. I’ll have to find out about her some other way.

  “Why do you and the other big sisters wear veils now? You never did when we were at home.”

  “Because it’s protocol, and to signal to the world that our generation is over.” She pulls one of the strings on the wall above the nightstand table, and a sleepy-eyed Bree appears.

  “Bree!” I hug her.

  “Congratulations,” she whispers.

  “Are you happy to be back?” I ask.

  “Yes”—she leans in—“and away from Madam Claire.”

  We laugh.

  “Breakfast,” Ivy barks at her.

  Bree slides out of my arms and scurries from the room.

  “Time to check the morning ledger.” Ivy walks to the main salon. “Follow.” She points to a board. Elisabeth Du Barry’s cursive handwriting spells out the date: DAY 262 OF THE YEAR OF THE GOD OF LUCK. There are no appointments listed.

  Moments later wheeled carts arrive, chock-full of pastries, eggs cooked in every way, grilled meat, petit-pancakes with sugar dust, and bowls of colorful fruit. Ivy doesn’t touch the food, but I pick at it.

  “We need to review a few rules for court life.” Her words sound scripted and practiced. She clears her throat. “You are not to pursue anything other than your purpose. You are a Belle.”

  “Can we talk about what happened first?” I ignore her earlier warning and switch seats to join her on the couch. “Why was Amber dismissed? I need to know.”

  “You are to act as if you’re an artist floating through this world. Your sole purpose is to beautify, and transform the Gris. You are a Belle.”

  I put my hand up, hoping she’ll pause. “Ivy, can we—”

  “You are to sell your skills—the arcana—not your body. You are a Belle.”

  My anger rises as she ignores my questions.

  “You exist inside a secret world of beauty. You were born full of color, like a moving work of art. The Goddess of Beauty has given you responsibility. You are not to reveal the inner workings of your arcana. You are a Belle.”

  I touch her. Her whole body flinches and she stands.

  “You are to respect your sisters—both past and present. You must respect those who are guardians of your kind. You are a Belle.

  “You were cared for, and in return you must care for Orléans, the Land of Rising Beauty, and share your gifts. You are a Belle.

  “You must vow to return home and continue the Belle line. These—”

  “Just tell me what happened to my sister,” I shout. “I don’t care about these rules.”

  “These rules are to be adhered to and followed at all times. They have served your sisters and will serve you well,” she says at last.

  Well, they didn’t help Amber, the greatest rule-follower of us all.

  A wall panel shifts forward and Elisabeth Du Barry walks out. “Why are you yelling this early?”

  “What happened to Amber, Elisabeth? Where is she?” I stand to face her.

  Elisabeth flashes me the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. She presses a hand to her chest as if she’s holding in the answer to my question.

  “Please.”

  She sighs like I’m bothering her and it’s an imposition for her to tell me, but I know she covets the attention. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “This isn’t a game,” I snap.

  “But it is, and you’ve won.”

  The word won hits me, and my stomach churns with the implication of it.

  “I need to know if she’s all right.”

  “What would you do for me? Give me an extra beauty treatment?”

  I blink. Does she really want me to bribe her?

  “I need you to fix me, Camellia. Mother is making me earn my own spintria now, just like everybody else, booking these appointments all day long.” She turns to the large mirror over the hearth and examines herself.

  “Yes.” I take her hand, and the shock of it softens her. “Whatever you want.”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I can tell she relishes the information she holds over me.

  “Amber made one of Sophia’s ladies translucent,” she says. “You could see every vein and organ and blood vessel inside her. It was disgusting. And she gave Sophia a too-small waist that violated the beauty law. Then she covered another lady-of-honor in feathers. Like a parrot. They grew straight out of the woman’s skin.”

  I gasp. “She wouldn’t do that,” I protest.

  “I’m just telling you what I heard.” Elisabeth smoothes her eyebrows, like we’re merely discussing the weather.

  “You must’ve heard wrong.” I pace in a circle.

  “I thought that, too. Amber was always the boring one. My mother’s pet. It all sounded outlandish. But it was like she changed. Became a different person. More like you, and less like her.” She inspects the breakfast cart.

  “I wouldn’t make someone see-through.”

  “Right, but you’d experiment.” She grins at me, then pops a strawberry into her mouth.

  The front doors open, and the Beauty Minister is announced. She strides in, her h
air fashioned into a tower made of blond strands and blue flowers. She has to hold her head very still. “Good morning, Camellia. Glad to see you’re already up,” she says. “Good morning, Elisabeth.” Attendants trail behind her, holding stacked towers of dress boxes. Her eyes flutter over Ivy as if she’s a piece of furniture in the room. “Please set out the peach dress for Lady Camellia.” She ushers the attendants into the apartment’s dressing salon.

  Du Barry is announced next. She rushes in like she’s being chased. “Camellia.” She wraps me up in a frenzied hug. She smells like home—Belle-roses and marzipan crème and the bayou. She leans close to my ear and whispers, “Now that Ambrosia has put us in a precarious position, you must fix it. You have to do what you’re told. You have to be perfect.” She pushes my shoulders back and stares at me with panic in her eyes.

  Her words curl inside me and make my heart race.

  “Tell me you’ll do what needs to be done,” she demands.

  “Yes, Madam Du Barry.”

  The Beauty Minister returns. “Ana, let’s have her bathed and dressed, then make introductions before she has her tour.”

  Du Barry squeezes my shoulder. She paints on a grin and turns around to face the Beauty Minister. “Of course, Madam Minister. As you wish.”

  The Beauty Minister steers me to the apartment’s dress salon.

  Ivy’s chair is now empty. “Where did Ivy go?”

  “No need for you to worry about her, little darling. Go on and change. The staff await you in the bathing chamber.”

  “I’ve already washed up.”

  “You can never be clean enough, pretty enough, or smart enough.” She pinches my chin and pats my back.

  Servants draw me a bath. I soak in the steaming tub and close my eyes. Today is my first full day as the favorite. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. I wait for the excitement to fill me up, but all I think about is Amber. Her long lashes fringed with tears, her red cheeks flushed with anger and upset, the sound she made when she fell that night. Where is she? What did she really do wrong? Is she all right?

  I dunk my head into the frothy water and try to let the warmth wash these thoughts all away. I wait until my lungs threaten to give out before surfacing.