The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  The applause is thunderous. I watch Sophia’s eyes sparkle as she looks at her father.

  He puts a hand on the queen’s shoulder. “We will feast, have the presentation of the gifts, and conclude with much dancing and merriment. Bon appétit.”

  Servants release a set of sparkler balloons into the air. They glimmer above our heads, leaving glowing trails above the table, until they explode with color and light, and take the shape of Sophia’s royal emblem. The brightness of the chrysanthemum blinds me.

  “Happy birthday, my love.” The king blows her a kiss. “Papa loves you.”

  He makes me wonder what it’s like to have a father. As little girls, my sisters and I asked about ours, after being read stories full of mothers and fathers and their misbehaving children. We were told Belles had mothers. Several of them. We were told that Belles didn’t need anything else.

  The king and queen sit in their high-backed chairs. Sophia and her ladies are led to the opposite end of the table.

  The queen rises again. Everyone stops talking. “My husband forgot to introduce another new member to court this season. Our new favorite Belle of this generation, Camellia Beauregard.” My name booms through the sound-box like an explosion. Unexpectedly loud.

  The Fashion Minister stands and pulls out my chair for me.

  I flash them all my best smile and walk over to the queen. I execute a full bow before taking her hand.

  “Your Majesty,” I whisper. The queen’s eyes remain cold, her face and words formal. I wish she’d look at me the way she looked at Amber after she named her the favorite. Elated. Thrilled.

  My stomach tightens. Eyes are sweeping over me from head to toe. My knees shake, and I’m grateful for the thick layers of tulle.

  I glance up and feel Auguste’s eyes on my face. The heat in my cheeks threatens to melt my makeup.

  Polite applause echoes through the hall.

  I curtsy, keeping my gaze on the floor. I return to my seat. Sweat pools beneath my arms, and I use a lace handkerchief to blot my face.

  The meal is served. I can’t keep up with all the silverware and dishes appearing and disappearing in front of me.

  A servant dips a spoon into the princess’s bowl, tasting it. Sophia studies the girl’s face as she swallows, then after a few moments waves her off. She spots me watching the exchange, and frowns. I drop my gaze and dig into the wedge of cheese that’s been left beside my bread.

  “Isn’t that goat cheese just divine, Camellia?” The Beauty Minister leans close to my ear. “Just keep smiling and pretend that I’m discussing the cheese. Be wary of staring too much. I know this environment can be shocking. I swear, Madam Du Barry shelters you Belles way too much for my tastes.”

  “But what was that woman doing with the princess’s food?” I whisper.

  “That woman was a food-taster. That young girl’s tongue has been trained to detect over ninety-eight types of poisons to be found in our kingdom.”

  I try not to let the shock show on my face. Instead, I smile and ask another question. “Is it common to find poison in the palace food?”

  “Poisonings have become more frequent than an assassin’s dagger, my dear. The illness of Princess Charlotte makes the queen even more vigilant in taking care of her children.”

  With that, she turns her attention to another courtier. I remember the pictures of Princess Charlotte from our history books and the newspapers. Two years older than Sophia, she fell into a deep sleep after her fifteenth birthday, and hasn’t woken up for four years. Periodically, the queen releases a new portrait of her—sleeping soundly in a four-poster bed—to assure the kingdom that their heir is still alive.

  Another plate is put in front of me. I eat to distract myself.

  “Camellia.” The queen’s voice travels through the sound-box again.

  My fork clatters against my plate. People stare at me—eyebrows raised, expressions puzzled. My etiquette is usually impeccable. We had years of lessons on it. But now Du Barry glares at me, appalled.

  “Pardon me, Your Majesty,” I say.

  “How are you enjoying your first few days at court?” the queen asks.

  The Beauty Minister nudges me to lean closer to the sound-box. “Speak into it,” she whispers.

  “They’ve been wonderful, Your Majesty,” I say. “Thank you for your kindness and generosity, and for this second chance.” The noise of my voice drifts down the long table. Du Barry nods at me with approval.

  The Fashion Minister draws the queen’s attention away from me with a question about silkworm production and winter gowns. I exhale.

  Auguste’s voice travels as he tells a grand story about a sea monster he kept from capsizing the imperial fleet last year. The women don’t take their eyes off him. Elisabeth puts an ear-trumpet up so she can hear every word.

  “Did you capture the creature?” Sophia asks him.

  “Of course,” he boasts. “I’m quite strong.”

  “Did you cut its head off to make a trophy?” her lady-of-honor Gabrielle asks.

  “I carry one of its tentacles in my pocket.”

  The ladies giggle and the gentlemen chuckle at his outlandishness. I hide a laugh with a forkful of salad. Waiters clear our plates. The fourth and fifth courses appear, and then the table is prepared for dessert. Three women wheel out a thousand-layer crepe cake with massive strawberries the size of snow globes. The princess and her ladies leave the table and pose in front of the cake. Newsies draw pictures for their late-night editions. The room’s candles are extinguished. Sparklers blaze on each cake layer.

  Everyone shouts “Happy birthday!” and Sophia blows out the hundreds of candles with help from her friends.

  The cake is cut and served, and gifts are presented to Sophia. A royal attendant parades around an all-white teacup tiger with a jeweled collar from the royal House Lothair. The leash trembles in his grip as he walks the beautiful animal around the table. A display of plum-colored jewels and diamond necklaces comes from the mercantile House of Bijoux. A teacup dragon sails in through one of the doors with the House Glaston flag in its jaws.

  Guests clap and comment as more gifts are showered on the princess. The treasures all seem to please Sophia and her ladies. Especially the dragon.

  The king clinks his glass. The table falls quiet. “My darling girl,” he says to Sophia, “dance tonight, for in the morning and the days to come, you will face more responsibilities as you take your place in this world. Your mother and I have also selected three suitors to vie for your heart. Marriage is on your horizon.”

  The crowd applauds. Sophia’s eyes light up. Her ladies-of-honor perch in their seats, their mouths permanently fixed in smiles.

  “On behalf of our entire family, Queen Celeste and I would like to extend the warmest welcome to Sir Louis Dubois and his son Alexander, from House Berry; Sir Guillaume Laurent, his wife Lady Adelaide, and their son Ethan, from House Merania; and the Minister of the Seas, Commander Pierre Fabry, and his son Auguste, from House Rouen.” He raises a glass. “Thank you for being apt suitors for our daughter.”

  An unexpected knot forms in my throat as Auguste stands. He smiles and basks in the cheers and attention lavished upon him. My hand quivers as I grip the stem of my glass for the toast. Auguste is one of Sophia’s formal suitors. The reality of that feels strange. He was just an insufferable, overtalkative boy before. And now he’s someone important. Someone I have no business wondering about. I gulp down the fizzy champagne.

  Sophia’s ladies-of-honor whistle and clap.

  Everyone drinks to the health of the suitors and the princess. The royal orchestra marches in with stringed misens and violins and cellos, and the first waltz of the evening begins.

  The Fashion Minister presents his hand. “A dance with the favorite?”

  “Is it allowed?” I tease.

  “I am very important and have immunity from being jailed by the queen’s court. I can risk it.” When he smiles, the many freckles on his cheeks
blend into one.

  “I’ve never danced with a man before.”

  “I bet there’s a long list of things you haven’t done.” He puts a hand around my waist and turns me. “I’m honored to be the first.” Other couples steal glances at us. I watch them turn like colorful spinning tops. The Fashion Minister spins me as if we’re on the Imperial Carousel. The room becomes a swirl of laughter and light and color. The rich dinner churns in my stomach.

  “I have to slow down,” I say.

  “So soon?” He stops.

  My legs wobble and shake. A sticky sweat climbs over my skin. People stare as they dance by. I press my hands to my mouth and vomit into them.

  The Beauty Minister apologizes to the guests. She mentions the fragile constitution of the Belles. Du Barry gives servants instructions about me. Elisabeth laughs. Many people whisper about my soiled gown. Their faces blur, and their voices become one ambient hum like the noise of the bayou.

  Bree rushes to help me clean off, but my gown is a wet mess. Remnants of the lavish birthday dinner stain its violet folds. I am disgusting.

  The queen approaches, and I’m dizzy all over again.

  “Camellia,” she says.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I reply with a bow.

  “I’m going to walk you out.”

  My chest flutters with panic. Her eyes burn into me. Giggles and whispers follow us.

  She waves away her imperial attendant, and walks me into the long hall. Rémy and a member of the First Guard follow closely behind. Newsies maintain their distance but sketch pictures and send black gossip post-balloons in our direction. Both Rémy and her guard crush them like paper animals.

  I worry that I look and smell terrible. I hate that she’s standing so close to me. I hate that this entire thing happened. My stomach knots again, threatening to empty anything that didn’t already escape.

  The queen looks me over from head to toe. “Are you well, child?” She touches my cheek as if she’s checking my temperature.

  “I had too much to eat and drink. I’ve never really had champagne before.”

  “Can you do this?” she asks.

  “Do what, Your Majesty?”

  “Be who I need you to be.”

  “I will do whatever you want me—”

  She puts a finger to my lips. “We will see. I am not yet convinced.” She walks back to the Grand Banquet Hall.

  I’m trapped by her words, each one a pin tacking me in place, until a pack of black gossip post-balloons swarms me like a kettle of vultures.

  I sprint ahead.

  “Slow down,” Rémy calls out from behind, chasing me down the corridor. “You’ll twist your ankle, and then I’ll have to carry you.”

  I think he’s attempting a joke.

  I kick off my shoes and carry them so I can move even faster. The cold marble is a comfort to my swollen feet.

  Rémy’s boots pound the floors, and he catches me before I reach the staircase. “You’re headed the wrong way,” he says. “And you’re too sick to run.” It feels like he’s poking at a bruise. “Your rooms are up the staircase to the north wing; this is the southern staircase.” His forehead glistens over with sweat, the curve of it like a hazelnut.

  “Show me, then,” I snap, bunching the folds of my wet dress. I want to get as far away from the Grand Banquet Hall and the newsies and the embarrassing memory as possible.

  He walks alongside me. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Why are you being nice to me?” I ask. “Up until now it’s been nothing but instructions and protocols.”

  “My commander says I have to shift my attitude,” he says, clearly repeating the instructions. “He believes my gruff demeanor is the reason you disobeyed orders in the garden.”

  “Oh, so it’s not because you want to.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He shrugs. “I’m not good with words. And I’m doing a terrible job at this. I’ve never done it before. My commander said the best way to protect a person is to start by getting acquainted with them.”

  “I don’t feel like talking,” I say.

  “Well, I do,” he says. “The third course was my favorite. Though the duck was a bit overcooked, in my opinion. And eating in the kitchen area isn’t ideal.”

  I ignore his rambles. The embarrassment of the night hits me over and over again. I wonder if it’ll land me in a tattler or scandal sheet or the late-night newsreel. I wonder if that is why the queen asked what she did; if she thinks I can’t handle being the favorite.

  The potential headlines scroll through my mind:

  THE FAVORITE VOMITS ALL OVER HERSELF

  CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD, NOT SO BEAUTIFUL TONIGHT

  BRING BACK THE OTHER FAVORITE;

  SHE DIDN’T SOIL HER GOWN

  QUEEN OVERHEARD WONDERING ABOUT

  THE FITNESS OF THE FAVORITE

  I quicken my pace, knowing I’ll need at least seven leeches tonight. Rémy makes three more turns, and my feet get colder and colder. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

  His back stiffens, and he turns to glare at me. “I won’t dignify that question with a response.”

  We enter a small, well-lit foyer, and my surroundings start to look more familiar. Plush carpeted stairs lead up to the Belle apartments. Night-lanterns cluster above the doors, glowing with the Belle-emblem.

  “Thank you,” I spit out, ready to be rid of his company. I tromp up the stairs two steps at a time.

  “I must check that your rooms are secure before you retire. New protocol after those dead roses were found in your bathing chamber.”

  “Spying in my onsen?”

  “It’s my job to know everything.”

  “I think the roses were from my sister Amber. She was upset,” I say. “No need to check. I want to go inside, get out of this dress, and get back to the party.”

  “They said you are not to return.”

  This news hits me hard. “What?”

  “Now, wait here. You can’t be sure, and I don’t take any risks.”

  I sigh, but stay near the doors. He doesn’t light a single candle or release one of the lanterns strung up in a line beside the entrance. He skulks around in the darkness.

  Servants rush down the hall.

  “What happened, Lady Camellia?” one asks.

  “The soup,” I lie. She inspects the stains on my dress. They lift the fabric and frown. “Don’t worry,” I tell them. “No need to come in. I can undress myself.” I don’t want to be fussed over.

  They look alarmed, but nod and curtsy.

  I walk inside the apartments, impatient with standing outside. I want to get out of this dress. I want to forget this night. I hear the click of the locks on the solarium doors, then the ones in my bedroom.

  Rémy returns with a satisfied look on his face. When he spots me, his expression morphs into a frown. “Why can’t you follow directions?”

  “People are always telling me what to do,” I say.

  “Do you feel safe here?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Wrong answer. You shouldn’t.” His brown eyes narrow. “As soon as you feel too comfortable, that’s when you know things are bound to go wrong.”

  “Thank you for the advice.” I sling my shoes in a corner. They thud against the wall, harder than I want them to.

  He starts to smile, and it’s a nice one. I wonder how many girls are running after him, a decorated military officer.

  “You’re not as delicate as you look. As all the Belles seem to be,” he says.

  “I’m not a flower.”

  “Well, they dress you up as one.”

  I clench my teeth.

  “You look like you want to slap someone,” he says.

  “Yes, you,” I say, and realize that it is untrue.

  “I’m sorry I make you so angry. My sisters say the same thing, and also complain about the smell of my feet.” His face droops a bit, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “W
hy are you telling me this?”

  He shrugs. “To distract you from what happened.”

  I want to thank him, but the words won’t form. “I’d wager nothing like this has ever happened to you.”

  “I’ve never thrown up all over my dress before, no.”

  I smile. “You know what I mean.”

  “The first time I met the Minister of War, I fainted,” he says. “I was thirteen, and that morning I couldn’t eat. The nerves made my stomach a mess. So when I marched into his office, I took one look at him and passed out.”

  I chuckle.

  “I thought the minister would kick me out of the academy. That I’d be sent back home. Dishonored. But he gave me hot chocolate and asked me to train under him—only if I promised to eat.”

  The more he shares, the more questions I have about his life before coming to the palace. Where did he grow up? How many sisters does he have? Does he have someone he loves? Someone he might marry? Did he always want to be a soldier?

  I don’t ask any of them.

  “Now I have a piece of chocolate every day. To remember. He could’ve sent me home—called me too weak—but he didn’t.”

  For a moment, the sword at his hip and the armor across his broad chest and the deep scar carved into his brown skin dissolve, and he’s just a young man, trying to do his job.

  A sunset-orange post-balloon putters into the main salon, glowing bright with the Fire Teahouse emblem. Its tails whip and snap. I rush to it, open the back, and remove the note. Edel’s rushed handwriting races across the page.

  Camille,

  Everything is terrible. I work from sunup to sundown. There’s crying and screaming in the night. I can’t sleep.

  There are too many women. Too many men. Too many children. Too many appointments. I am exhausted all the time.

  I can’t do this.

  Turn this over. You’ll know what to do. Then burn it.

  Love,

  Edel

  I flip over the parchment and see rows of color smudges. It’s the secret alphabet we made up as children, to communicate without Du Barry and our mamans knowing. We’d slide notes under each other’s doors or leave them in our desks, full of the colorful promise of mischief in the night.