Her secret message reads: I’M GOING TO LEAVE. I HAVE A PLAN.
I press the page to my chest and take a deep breath.
“Is everything all right?” Rémy asks.
“Yes.” I don’t look up from Edel’s note. I need to see her before she does something rash. I need to know what’s going on.
“I should let you get ready for bed.” Rémy steps back. “I’ve done too much talking.”
“You didn’t.” I pull a string on a nearby wall. A bell sounds, and a nurse appears from behind a side door.
“The sangsues, please,” I say. “At least seven. And tell Bree I want to see her.”
“Yes, Lady Camellia,” she answers.
Du Barry would be proud. Maman would give me a nod of approval. I’m protecting my arcana. I’m making sure I get rid of unnecessary excitement and stress. I’m following their rules.
Bree appears. “What happened?”
“I ate too much and the Fashion Minister spun me around too many times.” I shrug. “I need cold water and a new dress. Can you bring me parchment and pastels, too, please?”
She nods and exits.
“I’ll be right outside the door if you need me,” Rémy says.
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I say, and immediately want to take it back. “I only mean . . . that I’ll be busy.”
“I understand,” he says.
The nurse returns, holding a porcelain jug.
“I’ll be there just in case you do,” Rémy says, and bows slightly before striding out.
As soon as he disappears, I use the pastels to write Edel a note in our secret code.
DON’T DO ANYTHING UNTIL WE SPEAK.
I slip it into a privacy case, tuck it into the balloon’s interior compartment, adjust the tiny golden compass, and send the palace-official post-balloon off the balcony. I watch until its lilac body disappears in the darkness.
22
An early sun pushes its way through the gauzy canopy over the bed. I roll over, reaching for the bed warmer’s rubber handle to pull it closer, but it’s cold. I sit up. Sounds of the tide drift in through the terrace doors. I’m careful not to make noise and alert the morning nurses, who are waiting for me to wake. I don’t mind following this advice from Ivy.
An edge of the bedcurtain lifts. “You awake?” Bree whispers.
“Barely,” I reply.
“I have something for you.” She fans out a spread of the latest newspapers, magazines, and pamphlets. “Look at the news,” she says, climbing onto the bed.
My heart thuds. “Is it bad?”
She flips through the papers. Headlines scatter and reassemble—the animated ink scrambling—as she turns the pages too quickly.
She opens a tattler and points.
* * *
NEW FAVORITE A FRAGILE FLOWER,
MAYBE NOT STRONG ENOUGH
QUEEN RUMORED TO REPLACE NEW
FAVORITE WITH ANOTHER, AGAIN
My heart sinks. Last night’s vomiting episode rushes back. The embarrassment feels like a fresh burn.
“By tomorrow, these will all be gone,” Bree says. “But there’s another one—about one of your sisters—that I thought you’d want to see.”
“Where?” I perch on my knees now, hovering over the spread of papers and tattlers.
She opens the Trianon Tribune, the kingdom’s most popular paper.
I scan.
She smoothes the page. “Here.”
FIRE TEAHOUSE BELLE RUMORED TO
HAVE RUN AWAY IN THE NIGHT
I touch the words. She left already? “No, Edel, no.”
Bree blinks at me. “I don’t know, miss. It might not even be true, but I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thank you. There’s only one way to find out.” I put on my robe, take the paper, and burst into the main salon. Morning servants wheel in breakfast carts and set out tea and plates. I press my ear to the wall panel that hides Elisabeth’s office. The tinny sound of circuit-phones echoes from the other side, and I can feel small vibrations against my cheek.
I knock. When there’s no answer, I knock louder.
The door creaks open. A sleepy Elisabeth, still in her nightgown, stares back at me. “I’m barely out of bed and haven’t had breakfast,” she whines. “What is it?”
“Is this true?” I push the paper in her face.
She squints, then snatches it from me to have a closer look. She laughs. “Edel has always been so dramatic.”
“Call the Fire Teahouse,” I say.
“No. You sound ridiculous.”
“Then I will.” I try to brush past her and into the office.
She blocks me. “It’s just a rumor. Clearly, you can’t handle reading these”—she waves the paper in my face—“and take them too seriously.” Elisabeth calls all the servants into the main salon. “Lady Camellia is not to have any newspapers or tattlers or scandal sheets brought to the apartments. Beauty pamphlets and beauty-scopes only.”
“Don’t listen to her,” I say.
“Oh, but they will.” Elisabeth grabs a luna pastry from a nearby breakfast cart and pops it into her mouth. “I am in charge here. And once I tell my mother, it will be as good as law.” She turns back to the staff. “If any of you are caught bringing these contraband items”—she taps the paper—“you will be beaten or put in the starvation boxes. I will see to it myself.”
“Elisabeth—”
“You, Camellia, should focus on being perfect so you don’t lose the title of favorite,” Elisabeth snaps before disappearing back into her office.
Hot, angry tears well up in my eyes. I bang the door again, but she doesn’t answer.
* * *
I furiously write letters. Five lilac post-balloons float to my left, waiting for messages, and to be set free off the balcony.
Valerie,
Have you heard from Edel?
I hate Elisabeth Du Barry even worse these days. I didn’t know that was possible.
I miss you and hearing you laugh. How big are the Belle-babies now?
Love,
Camille
Hana,
I haven’t heard from you. Is everything all right? Have you found out about the noises? Or asked your mistress if there are other Belles at the teahouse?
Did you see that headline in the paper about Edel? Have you spoken to her?
I miss you. And you won’t believe how Elisabeth Du Barry is behaving at court. It’s worse than when we were at home.
Love,
Camille
Padma,
Has Edel written you? Or Amber, even? I can’t get in contact with either of them.
Do you know if everything is okay?
Love,
Camille
Amber,
Please write me.
Did you see the headline about Edel?
I hope you’re all right.
I’m sorry.
Love,
Camille
Edel,
There’s a headline about you in the Trianon Tribune. Is it just a rumor?
Don’t leave. Come here to see me first. I can help you.
Love,
Camille
I roll up all the tiny parchments and slip them into privacy casings no larger than my forefinger. I tuck them into the compartments inside the balloons, light the post-charcoal, then close them again and tug the balloons out to the balcony by their ribbons. Below, ships dot the coastline. Waves crash against them.
I think about the lists my sisters and I made in our playroom as little girls, noting all the things we wanted to see when we grew up and left home: the spinning looms in the dress markets, cinema-graphs and avenue boards of famed courtier socialites along Trianon’s promenade, the pet shops with teacup elephants and teacup tigers lined up in the windows like treats for sale, the patisseries full of tarts, cakes, and cookies, the royal beach with its grains of pink sand and white-sailed ships. I still wish we could do these things together.
<
br /> I send the balloons off the terrace. They drift out over the royal sea, then turn in different directions, obeying the tiny compasses on their noses—southwest for the Bay of Silk to Padma, north to home and Valerie, across the Royal Square to Amber, west to the Fire Isles and Edel, and out to Hana in the Glass Isles near the barrier of Orléans. The sun lights a path for my balloons as they hover above the dark ocean, careful not to get swept into the masts of large imperial ships. Air-postmen glide about in open-top dirigibles with hooks and paddles to help guide the balloons along.
I watch until I can’t see them anymore.
I unlatch my beauty caisse. The tiered compartments fan open, exposing a medley of beauty instruments tucked into nooks and crannies. I search for a place to store the pastels. I run my fingers along the ruby-red interior and discover a hidden drawer at the very bottom. A shiver of excitement rushes through my hands. How have I never seen this before?
I gently pull. It inches forward, and I wiggle it until the whole section is out. The tiny cubby holds a lace-wrapped book. I remove the fabric to find a portrait of my mother, who stares up at me from the center of the leather.
Her smile brings tears to my eyes. It’s her Belle-book. I press it to my chest and wish that somehow I could bring her back, like she could be remade from parchment and sinew and ink and memory. The binding is frayed, and the rope around its center barely holds in the contents. Her signature flowers, linneas, are embossed in gold along its spine; the paired blooms curve upside down.
I used to catch her thumbing through the book late at night when I was supposed to be asleep. I remember finally getting the courage to ask her about it. “It’s my beauty book.” She’d rubbed her weak fingers across the rope. “It has all the notes I kept while at court. You’ll start one as soon as you leave here. Never tell anyone you’ve seen mine.”
The memory brings tears to my eyes. I set her mortuary tablets on the desk.
She’s been gone for the entire warm season, and now the windy season is settling over us. We didn’t get to take the rowboats out to see the dragonflies, or walk the perimeter of the dark forest as the Belle-roses bloomed for the last time before the cold crested over them, or taste the mint from our chef’s kitchen garden, or wait for the noses of imperial ships to show up in the bayou.
Don’t cry, she’d said when the other mothers started to get sick and when a few of them died. Everything will be fine. This is the way it has always been.
I put my Belle-book beside hers. I rub my fingers across the etching of her face, then open her book. As I touch her scribbled handwriting, I imagine she’s not really gone—that she’s just out for a few days, visiting an old client that moved from court to the Gold Isles.
I close my eyes and see her before she got sick: rich, flame-colored hair; skin like dove feathers; bright emerald eyes; a tiny, mischievous smile.
I turn the page and discover a folded piece of paper marked with my name. I open it.
Camellia—
My darling, if you’re reading this letter then I know you’ve just started the most remarkable time in your life, and I am gone. Inside this book you’ll find things to help you adjust to the new challenges. Guard it. You’re not supposed to have another Belle’s beauty book. Du Barry forbids it. This was supposed to be burned along with my body. But I need you to have it. I wish my mother had given me hers. I would’ve known more. I want you to be prepared.
I have left you un miroir métaphysique, made from the magnificent crystal of the Glass Isles. It’s a mirror that always tells the truth. At court and in the teahouses, you will find that what you see and feel and hear isn’t always real. People aren’t always who they say they are. This mirror reflects the soul. Use it when you feel lost. Prick your beautiful little finger and drop the blood onto the handle, and it will show you what you need to see.
I love you, ma petit. I’m with you always. The best part of my life was the time I had with you.
With all my love,
Your maman
I wipe away a tear and take the tiny gilded mirror from the inside crease of the book. I look at the glass, but it’s blank, without a reflection. “Strange,” I say.
Miniature roses are etched into the molding, and it fits in the palm of my hand. A thin chain loops through an opening in the handle. Grooved pathways and indentations travel up and around the glass like a series of streams and rivers.
I remove a needle from my beauty caisse, but hesitate to feel the sting. I brace myself for the prick of pain as I poke the needle into my forefinger. A small bead of blood oozes out. I push my finger against the very tip of the mirror’s handle, and the blood pools inside an indentation. The liquid stretches into a long line, as if it’s a rope being tugged forward. The streak courses through the gilded grooves, headed for the glass. It snakes along, climbing higher and higher. The red stream circles the glass and bathes the little roses. They redden, and their thorny stems lengthen and twist into words: BLOOD FOR TRUTH.
The glass fills with an image of me—perfectly applied makeup, Belle-bun without a single hair out of place, eyes that smile. The mirror fogs and empties again before a new image shows. Red-rimmed eyes full of tears gaze back at me. My mouth quivers like it’s about to release a deep sob. Puffy brown cheeks are smeared with rouge and powder. My loneliness feels like a dark cloud that could be trapped and put in a jar.
I go to the vanity in my room and look in the mirror there. My makeup is intact. I gaze back down at the tiny glass and stick out my tongue, but the sad image of me doesn’t change. I cover it with my palm, trying to get rid of this heartsick feeling. I read Maman’s letter again, tracing my fingers along her words: This mirror reflects the soul.
I clean the blood from the mirror, and drape the chain over my head. The cool metal grazes my skin.
I continue to turn the pages of my mother’s beauty book, devouring everything: ink drawings, rouge-stick color smudges, flower petals, and collaged petit-paintings; beauty pamphlets, spintria prices, diagrams of women’s bodies. Well-organized handwriting blocks note lady courtiers’ names, their beauty services and secrets, and tips to tackling unforeseen treatment challenges, like stubborn moles and missing bones.
The pages make a lovely crackling sound as I study the treatment price list from her generation.
SURFACE MODIFICATIONS:
HAIR COLOR45
HAIR TEXTURE62
EYE COLOR RESTORATION30
EYE SHAPE ADJUSTMENT45
SKIN COLOR RESTORATION 40
ANTI-AGING SKIN TIGHTENING 55
DEEP MODIFICATIONS:
FACE:
CHEEKBONE SCULPTING3,000
MOUTH PLACEMENT AND SHAPE 2,275
EAR PLACEMENT AND SHAPE 2,275
BODY:
LEG AND ARM SCULPTING 3,250
STOMACH, BREAST, TORSO SCULPTING 5,100
HIPS AND REAR SHAPING 5,000
NECK AND SHOULDER SMOOTHING 2,107
HANDS AND FEET ADJUSTMENT 1,200
Du Barry will release her pricing for the season soon. It will be printed in every newspaper, plastered all over every newspaper, tattler, and pamphlet. My nail circles the little spintria symbol, and I wonder how Du Barry and the Beauty Minister quantify the price of beauty. I remember eavesdropping as a little girl while the Beauty Minister and Du Barry spoke in her office about beauty trends and body parts, and how much the masses should pay to be beautiful.
My bedroom door opens. “Lady Camellia,” a servant says.
I put the book back in the base of the beauty caisse. “Yes?”
“It’s time for your first beauty session.”
23
The morning appointment ledger shows:
Princess Sabine Rotenberg, House of Orléans (du sang) 09:00
Lady Marcella Le Brun, House of Millinery 10:15
Baroness Juliette Aubertin, House of Rouen 11:15
I pin my hair up into a Belle-bun and dress in a dark cotton work dress and apron. Br
ee ties my waist-sash on.
“Tighter,” I whisper, wanting it to subdue the flutters inside my stomach. I drape the necklace holding the mirror around my neck, and tuck it inside my dress.
“What is that?” Bree asks.
The metal cools my too-hot skin. “Just something for luck.”
“The God of Luck has already blessed you.” She squeezes my arm. A pair of faded blue eyes stare at me. Dry curls peek out from under her hat. A gray tinge lingers just under the whiteness of her skin, and tiny patches of whiskers crop up along her cheeks.
I smile back at her, then touch her face. “I’m going to give you a few beauty touch-ups.”
“I couldn’t allow that, my lady. I don’t have a beauty token. Plus, I have an appointment at the Silk Teahouse for late Saturday night. That’s when they do servants.”
“It can be our little secret.”
Her eyes brighten. “I couldn’t—”
“I insist. And you must do as I say,” I tease. “Right?”
Her mouth fights away a smile. “Well, yes.”
“So that’s that. If there’s any trouble about it, say I let you off early to go to the teahouse. Tell them I’m a tyrant about beauty.”
She giggles. “I’ll make sure you get the tattlers and newspapers.”
“No. Don’t risk the punishment. ”
“I will. It’s the least I can do.” She hugs me, then pulls back. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I don’t know what came over me.”
I wrap my arms around her and hug even tighter. She lets go and still has the biggest grin on her face. “I’ll see that the final preparations are complete.” She curtsies and slips from the room.
I take one last look at Maman’s Belle-book, reviewing her notes about her very first beauty session. Be gentle and be quick. I take a deep breath and put it in the hidden space at the base of my beauty caisse.
Ivy walks into the bedroom with an ocean-blue post-balloon. “This came for you.”
I take the tail ribbons from her. I’ve never seen a post-balloon like this. Up close it’s covered in tiny waves, and makes a sound like the tide.
The Belles Page 16
