The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  “Camellia, time to get dressed,” Bree calls from outside the bathing chamber door.

  “Yes, just a second.”

  I step out of the bath and onto a prickly object. The rug is covered with thorny dead roses. Shriveled petals leave a rotten scent throughout the room. How did these get here?

  An emerald-green post-balloon hovers in the corner. I grab a towel and wrap it around myself. I kick away the roses and make my way to the balloon. There’s no house emblem or compass on the side of it. I snatch the dangling ribbons and fish out the card.

  Dearest Camellia,

  Congratulations on being named the favorite.

  I’m sure you deserve whatever comes your way now.

  I think of Amber’s desk next to mine in our lesson room at home: her quill, ink pot, and handwriting ledgers. I think about the curling g’s and c’s she was so proud to mark on her pages and show Du Barry when we were little. In my mind, I see her clearly, sitting at a desk in her new room at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse, writing this letter.

  I ball my hand into an angry fist, crumpling the note with it. I throw it into the tub and watch as the water eats away at the parchment, and the ink bleeds until it disintegrates into nothing.

  “Lady Camellia.” The door slides open. “Are you ready?” The servant looks at all the dead roses on the ground. “What happened in—”

  “I’m fine. Everything is fine.” I storm from the room.

  18

  Servants help me into a bustling day dress that is a creamy blur of whipped frosting and sweetened milk sprinkled with gossamer ribbons. My wet hair is sectioned and combed through with a cinnamon-scented hair cream before being twisted up into a Belle-bun.

  I walk down the corridor to the main salon. Ivy steps inside from the solarium.

  “Where did you go?” I ask.

  “You look lovely,” she says.

  “Someone put dead roses in the bathing chamber.”

  Her nose crinkles. “Strange. Why would someone do that?”

  “Is Amber still here? Please tell me the truth.”

  “She’s been sent to replace you at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. Stop asking about her.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s time for you to focus.”

  “She’s my sister.”

  “She’s your competitor.” She pivots and strides toward the main salon.

  I hurry after her.

  A young man kneels beside the Beauty Minister, head down, sword at his waist.

  “Camellia, the queen has assigned you a personal guard.” The Beauty Minister reaches out a hand to me. “This is Rémy Chevalier, son of Christophe Chevalier, and a member of the Minister of War’s First Guard.”

  He stands, towering over us with broad shoulders and muscles that strain the seams of his uniform. The hard angles of his face have the deep richness of a black calla lily. His lips don’t betray the faintest hint of a smile; rather, they’re frozen in a perpetual scowl. A scar hooks under his right eye like a crescent moon, and I wonder why he hasn’t allowed a Belle to erase it for him. Dark hair is cut closely to his scalp with a single silver stripe down the very center, marking him as a soldier from the House of War.

  I nod at him. He doesn’t look me in the eye, choosing to stare at some point above my head.

  “He’s been trained to protect you. He is one of Orléans’s finest soldiers. He graduated from the Royal Military Academy with the highest honors. First in his class. Rumor has it he’s favored by the Minister of War himself, and might succeed him one day. He helped put down the Silk Rebellion, commandeered his own men. Very decorated soldier at such a young age.”

  He bows after the Beauty Minister’s compliment, but still doesn’t look at me.

  “And now he’s here to look after me like I’m a baby?” I say. “Don’t you think it’s a waste of his talents?”

  The Beauty Minister laughs and touches my shoulder as if I’m purposefully being funny. “You’re a very important person. Only a talented soldier would be entrusted with your care.”

  A muscle in Rémy’s jaw clenches. I wait for his expression to change. Nothing.

  “Now, Rémy will accompany you everywhere you need to go, and stand guard outside the Belle apartments at all times. Be sure to heed his instructions.”

  “I hardly find that necess—” I start to say, but Ivy reaches forward to squeeze my hand.

  “The favorite is always given a proper guard, Camellia. It is tradition, and we are nothing without our beloved customs.” The minister snaps her fingers at a nearby servant. The girl leaps into action. “By all means, move slowly. It’s not as if I have a packed schedule.” The woman rushes forward to drape a white mink coat around the minister, whose blue eyes burn into mine. “I’m not happy to be going through all of this for a second time, so please cooperate, will you? Ivy will give you a palace tour.” She blows air kisses at me, then leaves.

  “Come on,” Ivy says.

  We walk into the corridor outside the Belle apartments. The Beauty Minister heads in the opposite direction with her entourage.

  I steal glances back at Rémy. Irritation and annoyance knot in my stomach. I don’t want a guard. I don’t want another person telling me what to do.

  “Stop letting them know how you feel about things. No one cares,” Ivy says.

  “Them?”

  “You let everyone see you so easily. No one needs to know that you don’t want a guard. Nobody wants to be followed around all day. Not even the queen.”

  Her words feel like a scold. “I just don’t—”

  “You are now the kingdom’s most important treasure. There are so many things you don’t understand yet. But I will show you.”

  Rémy’s heavy footsteps clomp behind us. Morning-lanterns drift through the halls, catching sunlight from long picture windows to carry through darker corridors.

  “You are in the north wing of the palace. The Belle apartments face the morning star, the eye of the Goddess of Beauty,” Ivy says.

  The hall outside the Belle apartments stretches like a great river I never want to stop floating on. Colorful portraits of the Goddess of Beauty in her various forms cover the walls. Smooth marble floors spread out beneath our feet. The light from jeweled chandelier-lanterns dusts statues with beautiful silhouettes.

  She leads me over a glittering walkway. Golden spindles curl into royal chrysanthemums. The palace floors below bustle with moving bodies. Balconies spill over with flowers, chatty men and women, and servants darting from one place to another. Royal vendors push pastry carts that leave buttery and sugary scents in every corner.

  “Did you have a guard?”

  “Yes. A soldier named Émilie.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Shipped off to the Spice Isles to protect the southern waters, now that I’m no longer such a valued asset,” she says, then turns left.

  We pass through a series of imperial guard checkpoints. Ivy salutes one of the sentries. He smiles at her. “They aren’t so bad once you get to know them.” She moves beneath a golden archway. “This is the west wing of the palace. The residential homes of the royal family are here.”

  Guards line the walls like statues.

  “This is the Hall of Kings and Queens.” She waves her hands at massive, gold-framed portraits of our many royals, from the very first ruler of Orléans, Queen Marjorie, all the way down to the current queen, Celeste.

  We turn right. Walls sparkle with golden plaques that showcase the imperial beauty laws. “This is the Hall of Law and Justice.”

  We pass by thousands of plaques, each emblazoned with ornate script.

  FINGERS AND TOES SHALL REMAIN AT A TEN-DIGIT

  COUNT SO AS TO PRESERVE THE GODDESS OF

  BEAUTY’S FAVORITE NUMBER. BELLES SHALL ADD

  OR SUBTRACT TO MEET THIS DIVINE NUMBER.

  BREASTS WILL BE LIMITED IN SIZE AND SHAPE—

  NO LARGER THAN A SNOWMELON.

  MIMICRY IS STRICTLY P
ROHIBITED.

  Du Barry had tested us on these laws until we could recite them on command. The flock must always be guided, and the laws keep their bodies safe. They are not to be questioned. They maintain a sacred order, she’d said.

  I stop to read more.

  NO MAN SHALL BE TALLER THAN THE SITTING KING.

  AFTER CORONATION, ROYAL MONARCHS

  MUST SETTLE INTO ONE LOOK TO PRESERVE THE SECURITY

  AND SANCTITY OF THE MAGNANIMOUS THRONE.

  “Did you help pass the current beauty laws?” I graze my fingers across the cool metal and etched calligraphy.

  Ivy turns around. “No, I wasn’t consulted.”

  “I want to be part of it all.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” I say. “I want to make the people of Orléans love themselves.”

  Ivy continues down the hall. “You are here to make things beautiful,” she says.

  “I know,” I reply. “But—”

  “The princess’s chambers are ahead,” Ivy says.

  Servants move in and out of a set of doors carrying trays and baskets. The princess’s emblem shines on the rich wood—a chrysanthemum blooming inside a jeweled petit-crown. Several other ladies hover outside.

  The hall goes silent. Courtiers crowd on both sides of me. Ivy and I pass through the heavy silence like it’s thick mud. Their faces are curious, and behind their smiles is a reminder: they all want something from me.

  “I’m supposed to prepare you to serve Princess Sophia.”

  “I studied a lot about her, reading papers and beauty pamphlets, even the tattlers. I stole them from Du Barry’s mail chest—”

  Ivy presses a finger to my mouth.

  “Not a single word you’ve read could prepare you for the real thing.”

  The doors open.

  A trumpet flourish sounds. The princess saunters into the hall. Her day dress is buttercup yellow and perfectly complements her new skin color—a dusky light brown, like warmed milk with cinnamon and nutmeg stirred into it. A swirl of red hair sits atop her head like a tiered dessert stand.

  “Do you still do her beauty work?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Ivy whispers while bowing.

  “I heard the new favorite was outside of my boudoir,” the princess calls out.

  I join Ivy in a deep bow all the way to the floor. I lift back up. The princess takes my hands and kisses both my cheeks.

  “Your Highness,” I say.

  “Call me Sophia.” She smells like honey and anise.

  A train of women cluster behind her. Newsies send navy story-balloons over our heads to try to capture any tiny bit of our conversation. Sophia’s eyes scan my face, staring intently, like she means to memorize each part.

  “I like the way you look,” she says, reaching out to touch my cheek. “We will spend time together soon. I have so many questions.”

  An attendant approaches and bows before us. “Your Highness.”

  She turns to address him. “What is it?”

  “The infirmary staff is ready,” he says.

  “Take her,” Sophia orders before turning back to me. “Camellia, my mother’s summoned me. And when the queen calls”—she sighs—“I can’t ignore her, as much as I might want to.” She touches my cheek again. “More soon. I’m very excited about you.” Her eyes flash with eagerness. Her procession of women and attendants and newsies trails her down the hall like an army of ants.

  The doors to her chambers reopen. Male attendants carry out a young woman on a stretcher. Her limbs flop like dying fish. Moans echo through the halls and scatter nosy women in a dozen directions.

  “What do you think happened to her?” I ask Ivy.

  She stiffens, and her gulp is so loud it almost echoes. “Princess Sophia,” she says.

  19

  An afternoon fireworks display explodes over the Royal Harbor to celebrate the princess’s birthday. The popping and crackling sounds boom through the apartment. I watch from the balcony. Colorful lightning spiderwebs across the sky; silver, white, and emerald green weave the most beautiful and terrifying exhibition to mark the hour of the princess’s birth. The garden arcades and grounds are abuzz with movement as the palace prepares for the royal birthday party. A hopeful thought wells in my chest—my sisters will most likely be here for the party. It’s an official kingdom-wide holiday.

  I prepare two urgent post-balloons—one to Edel and one to Amber.

  Edel,

  Is anything better? Will you be at the palace tonight?

  Please come. I need to see you. We need to talk.

  Love,

  Camille

  Amber,

  What happened to you at the palace? There are rumors, but I don’t believe them.

  I’m sorry. Please write me. I hope to see you at the palace tonight.

  Love,

  Camille

  I wait for a pause in the fireworks to send the two palace-official post-balloons off the balcony. An air-postman will check their compasses and sweep them to their destinations this afternoon. I just hope Amber will read the note and write me back, and maybe even come to the party tonight. I need to see her. I watch until their lilac forms disappear among the clouds.

  A violet dress and a matching mask of sunbird feathers arrive in the main salon. The princess’s masked garden party starts in two hourglasses’ worth of time. I ring the bell near the Orléans tapestry.

  “Yes, my lady?” Bree asks.

  “Where’s Ivy?”

  “I’ll—”

  A heavy knock rattles the apartment doors. She scurries to answer it. Rémy’s thick boots clomp against the wooden floors.

  “Lady Camellia.” His voice has a single, unaffected tone. The pitch of it booms in my chest like he’s speaking into a voice-trumpet.

  “You can call me Camille,” I say.

  “Lady Camellia,” he repeats without making eye contact.

  “Lady Rémy.”

  He clears his throat and sighs. “I’m here to discuss the plan for this evening’s festivities, and review the protocol with you.”

  I sigh. “But of course.”

  He adjusts his uniform jacket. “When you go to the princess’s chambers, I’ll be stationed right outside. When you’re in the gardens, I cannot allow you to venture more than fifteen paces away from me. At dinner, I’ll be posted behind you with the other guards.” He speaks as if I’m a child in need of a leash. And maybe I am.

  “Will you come to the commode with me, too? Stand beside me while I use it?”

  “I’ll be outside the door.”

  “It’s a joke,” I say.

  His eyes narrow. “There are risks at court.”

  The roses in the bathroom come to mind.

  “Where’s Ivy?”

  “Her presence has not been requested,” he says.

  “Well, I’d like her with me.”

  He turns without another word and leaves. I bathe and get dressed, then return to the main salon. Rémy reappears with Ivy.

  “Will you come with me today?” I ask.

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  “Why not?”

  “Camellia, my time is up. I bring no more value, other than to do beauty work until you’re trusted to do so, and train you to replace me.”

  The way she talks about herself reminds me of Du Barry discussing a worn-out pair of shoes. We learned that after our time is up at court or the teahouses, we train the next generation for a month before returning home to La Maison Rouge to become mamans and raise the next group of Belles. Maman once said that it went so fast she felt like she’d only been at court for a single turn of a télétrope.

  “I disagree.” I take her gloved hand.

  “That seems to be a trend with you,” she says, and if I could see her face, there might be a tiny smile playing across her lips.

  “Will my sisters be here tonight?” I ask.

  “All official Belles are invited.”

  “Official? What does t
hat mean?”

  “Just what I said.”

  Her ability to always use the fewest words infuriates me. She’s like a locked door I can’t pry open.

  The Belle-apartment doors swing forward. An attendant announces: “The Royal Beauty Minister.”

  The Beauty Minister strides in. She wears a model ship inside her nest of hair. “Camellia, the princess has requested your presence while she dresses for her party. This is a great opportunity to get to know her and to learn her preferences.”

  “Yes, Madam Minister.” Sudden nerves make my hands quiver. This is the first time the princess has asked to see me.

  The Beauty Minister glances at Ivy. “What are you doing here?”

  “Lady Camellia requested me,” Ivy mumbles.

  “It seems highly unnecessary. You won’t be able to attend. They won’t have a place setting.”

  Ivy steps back.

  “Ivy must come with me to the princess’s boudoir,” I say. “I need her counsel.”

  The Beauty Minister sighs. “The favorite gets what the favorite wants.” She leads Ivy, Rémy, and me out of the apartments, on the long walk to the princess’s chambers. But the trip feels shorter this time. Servants move in and out of the doors, carrying trays and baskets. Laughter escapes into the hall.

  “Sounds like she’s in a good mood. This bodes well for the day.” The Beauty Minister checks her tiny pocket hourglass. “Her toilette ritual is set to begin in just a moment. You’re right on time.”

  “You’re not staying?” Panic crackles inside me.

  “No, my dear. Not today. You must bond with Princess Sophia. Soon you will be completing all the beauty work for the entire family.” She knocks on the doors. “Just be your charming self. And you have Ivy here to help, and Rémy will be right outside.”

  “Not that he’s any comfort,” I whisper.

  Ivy thumps my arm. Rémy glowers at me.

  “Now, now,” she says. “That’s not what he’s trained for.”

  A servant opens the massive set of doors. I squeeze my hands together to keep them from shaking, and hold my head high.

  The Beauty Minister steps inside. I follow, with Ivy on my heels.