The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  Sophia screams out and leaps up. Her sudden movement knocks me to the floor.

  “Are you in pain, Your Highness? Is everything all right?” I scramble to my feet.

  A servant hands her another vial of her elixir. She brushes it away. “I’m just . . .” Her eyes blink, and her head moves left and right as if she’s having some sort of conversation with someone who isn’t there. “I’m done for today. You can leave.” She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even ask for a mirror.

  “But—”

  “Good-bye, favorite.” Servants sweep me out of the room like dust. My pulse races with panic and worry and fear.

  She knows what I was trying to do.

  34

  The next day, the salon doors burst open with a flourish. I brace myself for the Beauty Minister, Du Barry, or even Sophia herself, with a reprimand for trying to soften Sophia’s manner without her consent.

  But the Fashion Minister barrels in, followed by his team of dandies and a wardrobe closet with massive carriagelike wheels. Its white birchwood sides remind me of my Belle-trunk, but its gilded edges and damask pattern allow it to blend in with the rest of the luxurious room.

  “My little doll,” the Fashion Minister cries out. He lifts me out of my chair and twirls me around and around, no doubt inspecting my day dress. His false hand presses into my back.

  “Not too fast,” I say.

  He chuckles. “Yes, no more losing your stomach. And, hmmm, looks like you’ve missed me. At least, your body and sense of fashion have.”

  I smile. “Where have you been?”

  “Locked in a tower. Forced to make dresses for the rest of my years.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ve been at the Dress Bazaar, trying to settle on the proper fabric for Princess Sophia’s wedding gown. I have to match your glorious feat from that day in the Receiving Hall somehow.” His team wheels the wardrobe closer.

  I blush at his compliment. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  He blows me a kiss. “Firstly, I have a few special gifts for you.”

  “For what occasion?”

  “No need for an occasion, doll. You are the favorite. It’s an honor to dress you.” The wardrobe doors open and the interior explodes with color. Dresses with full skirts, A-line cuts, empire waists, sheaths, long sleeves, cap sleeves, no sleeves, V-necks and scoop necks and plunging necklines. Dresses made of brocades, laces, velvets, glass beads, cashmeres, silks, and pastel satins in every color and pattern. Special carts follow the wardrobe, carrying vivant dresses inside large glass bell jars. These are dresses made of living things. Butterflies open and close their wings, exposing their dress’s inner rib cage. Honeybees buzz in and out of a honeycomb-shaped gown. Roses of every color wave their petals.

  Elisabeth slips from her office and approaches the wardrobe jars with widened eyes. She stretches out her fingers, mesmerized.

  “Don’t touch, little Du Barry,” the minister says, bopping her hand lightly. “Those are not for you.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her pinched expression.

  “Show some respect. Those are for the favorite. They are gowns and dresses befitting the most important person in the kingdom . . . aside from the king, queen, and princesses, of course.” He bows and then shows me each frock one by one, much to Elisabeth’s chagrin. She scowls as they’re presented like delectable pastry treats.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  His eyes light up. “I know.”

  We laugh.

  “You must wear one tonight.” He pulls an invitation from his pocket. A mix of gold and black calligraphy announces: SOPHIA’S CARD PARTY. Glittery stars gleam on the parchment, holding the promise of excitement. He takes my hand and twirls me once more. “You won’t get sick again, will you?”

  “No. I’ve learned my lesson,” I say, blushing.

  We dance, swaying back and forth to the noise of people moving in and out of the apartments. He leans close to my ear, whispering, “I’ve been hearing good things about you, favorite. You are loved by our princess. She believes you can do anything and everything. That you could possibly bring the Goddess of Beauty herself down from the heavens.”

  “I—”

  “Don’t give me any flowery excuses.” He smiles. “You’ve been giving the princess just what she wants. Wise plan, for now. But don’t let your flame burn out, little beauty. You’ll be in trouble.” He turns me once more, taps his cane on the ground, and then kisses me good-bye. “Time to go.”

  Rémy walks Elisabeth and me down the six flights of stairs and through the Grand Entry Hall to the south wing. I’m wearing one of the Fashion Minister’s latest creations—a honey-and-marigold bustle dress with a waffle texture and a waist-sash of striped fur. My Belle-bun is adorned with snow-white pearls to complement it.

  The halls hold decorations for the upcoming Declaration of Heirs Ceremony. Cameos of Sophia’s face mark night-lanterns. Her favorite flowers have been made into garlands. Vendors sell dolls in her likeness, fitted with a tiny version of the queen’s crown. Five days until the kingdom-wide celebration. Five days left to decide how to answer the queen.

  Newsies are swarming the halls, sending out black post-balloons full of gossip. Sparklers are bursting overhead. Night-lanterns oscillate with bright colors. Courtiers are wearing cold-themed headdresses and hats, adorned with snow-flecked branches and holly berries, owl feathers and foxtails. Everyone is eagerly anticipating the first snow. Bubbly, jewel-toned liquid fills their glass flutes and tumblers. Some lift up ear-trumpets to listen to the conversations happening in the halls. Men chase women down corridors, and laughter and spirited chaos ensue.

  Rémy grumbles and then guides us through the pockets of people. “This way.” He pushes aside an eager newsie wanting to sketch my picture. “Not now. You know the rules.”

  The newsie ignores his request. He moves one pen on his small pad, and three others sketch alongside it. The picture is complete before I can take two steps forward.

  The doors of the Royal Game Salon open for us. The ceiling arches in jutting curves and slopes. Night-lanterns rub along its surface, bathing the enameled décor in light. The room spills over with sounds of clinking glasses and tumbling dice and whooshing table-lanterns and hissing candles and laughter. So much laughter.

  Plush tabletops display porcelain boxes studded with gold and diamonds and precious gems. Game chips line a wall behind a kiosk labeled BANKER. Chaises and high-backed chairs and clawfooted sofas circle the game tables, which spill over with candles, desserts, and pastel-colored gambling chips. People stuff their mouths with treats, and blow onto game pieces for luck.

  “Keep up,” Rémy says over the din.

  Women smile and coo and wave their fans in my direction. “I guessed it would be you,” one calls out. “So happy to win, even if late.”

  “I made back my forty leas in the lottery now that you’re here. I picked you from the beginning,” another calls out.

  I smile and wave. Elisabeth giggles beside me. “We’re going to make a ton of spintria, Camille, and Mother will be proud of me.” She grabs for my hand, and I jerk away.

  “ I will make a ton of spintria,” I say.

  A cold wind follows courtiers through the doors leading from the Royal Game Salon dock. The moon winks light across the golden pier. Canal boats float like jewels on the dark water. Men and women from merchant houses enter, displaying their families’ wares on their clothes, in their hair, or even embedded in their skin. Women wearing House of Spice dresses leave tiny trails of cinnamon and anise and saffron, and those from the House of Inventors are outfitted in gowns covered with silkscreen pictures of their newest products. Men are donning House of Bijoux top hats, indented with chambers to display pearls and rubies and sapphires.

  Princess Sophia’s game table sits dead center in the room. Hand-painted plates boast a kaleidoscope of patisserie and petit-cakes pierced with flaming sparklers. Champagne bubble
s over a tower of stacked glasses into a small golden well. Courtiers dip their flutes into it. Sophia bounces up and down in a high-backed chair, sipping from two goblets while a woman fans her. Her teacup elephant, Zo, sits in her lap, stealing sips from her glass and nibbling the strawberry on her petit-cake. Sophia laughs and directs her teacup monkey, Singe, to roll the die for her on the circular board that hooks around the champagne-flute tower. Hand-drawn boxes circle the center of the board and hold brilliantly colored numbers, one through seventy.

  “Your Highness,” Elisabeth says, bowing. “I have the favorite, Camellia Beauregard, here as requested.” Elisabeth pulls me forward. I lower my head.

  “You look well,” Sophia says.

  “As do you.” She’s changed her look from the one I gave her. A halo of tiny blond corkscrew curls bounces up and down on her shoulders. I push down worries that she knows what I tried to do in our last beauty session.

  Her ladies-of-honor stare. Sophia waves for a chair to be brought for me. “Sit, sit. And watch. I’m on my second official date with suitor number one—Alexander Dubois from House Berry.”

  He nods. He is feeding Singe grapes, and grins at Sophia with a gap-toothed smile. His hair almost matches hers tonight—long and blond, with a hint of a curl. But his skin is the same warm brown as mine, and Sophia is as pale white as the porcelain die she clasps in her hand.

  Gossip swirls around me: Lady Hortense Bellaire is rumored to have fleas and mice living in her dreadful wig, while Countess Isabelle Favro has no beauty tokens, so she’s taken to kissing Fabian, a well-known dandy, for spintria. Gabrielle lifts a smelling box to her nose when a courtier woman comes to say hello to Princess Sophia. She shakes it to release some of its lavender and lemon scent. The woman scampers off, near tears.

  Princess Sophia claps her hands to gather the attention of her game table. “Singe is the banker. Place your bets.”

  Courtiers slam colorful gambling tokens on various numbers. The teacup monkey stamps his tiny feet and points at the velvet bag beneath them. Hands move even more quickly, tossing chips on the game board.

  “Singe, all bets are placed.” Sophia sits back with a smile. Singe unclasps the bag’s strings and disappears inside of it. The players await his return. The woman to my left holds her breath. The bag rustles; then Singe’s head reappears. He flashes all of his teeth and leaps forward onto the ledge in front of Sophia.

  “Zo, take the ticket,” Sophia commands the teacup elephant in her lap. Zo drops her strawberry and trundles forward to the edge of Sophia’s voluminous gown. She reaches out her tiny gray trunk. Singe hands her the ticket. “Good girl, Zo. Such a good petit,” Sophia says. “You follow directions so well.”

  She smiles at me as she takes the ticket.

  “Number twenty-six,” she announces. “Whoever bet on twenty-six receives sixty-four times their stake.”

  “That’s my number,” a young woman shouts from the far end of the table.

  Singe dances along the table’s edge.

  The young woman barrels through the thick crowd. “Excuse me. Pardon me.”

  “It’s one of Madam Pompadour’s triplets. I should’ve been able to smell her coming,” Sophia says to Gabrielle and others nearby. Courtiers chuckle. The young woman bounds forward with an eager smile. A perfume atomizer sits atop her brunette head like a grand hat. It spits perfume every few moments. A person behind her sneezes. Pomander perfume beads coil around her corset like interlaced chains, and her waist-sash is swallowed by a stitched advertisement: VIVA LA POMPADOUR. She’s from the mercantile House of Perfumers, affectionately called Le Nez.

  Sophia fans her nose, and Singe covers his. “My, my, Astrid, aren’t we smelling lovely this evening.”

  The group laughs.

  “Mother says she wanted the whole court to preview our new line of scents, just in time for the queen’s presentation of toilette-box allotments for the new year.” Astrid blushes and jumps with excitement, seemingly ignorant of Sophia’s jokes. “She will be so pleased to hear your compliment and to hear about my winnings. How much? How much?”

  Nearby ladies cup their hands to each other’s ears and whisper and giggle and frown at Astrid Pompadour. My stomach squeezes.

  “A question first,” Sophia says.

  “Anything, Your Highness,” Astrid replies with a bow.

  Sophia turns to me, then touches my hand. The unexpected touch makes me leap. “Do I frighten you, Camellia?” Sophia smiles—a slow, teacup-tiger reveal of teeth.

  “No, Your Highness. I just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  Everyone listens and watches.

  “You startled me.”

  Her lady-of-honor Gabrielle whispers something in her ear. Her gaze fixes on me once more. “My favorite, I have a question. What do you think of Astrid? Her looks, that is?”

  I turn my head like it’s on a slow swivel.

  Astrid grins at me. Bright pink rouge-stick stains her teeth, and the face powder she has used doesn’t mask the tiny gray tint in her skin. Gray strands streak her hair, though she’s cleverly tried to cover them with beeswax and pomatum.

  “She’s lovely,” I say.

  Astrid squeals with delight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, favorite. Blessings to you. I do try very hard with limited—”

  “Silence!” Sophia commands.

  Astrid swallows the last bit of her sentence and her happy giggle. Laughing courtiers button their lips. A hush falls over the entire game room. Hands freeze over tables, mouths are afraid to chew their contents, dice and game chips dig into palms instead of being placed on lucky bets.

  “Have a closer look, Camellia. You must be too far away to judge her beauty accurately,” Sophia says.

  I search Sophia’s eyes, trying to understand why she’s making me embarrass Astrid in front of all these people. Is this retribution for attempting to change her manner during our session?

  She waves her hand, pushing me to scrutinize the poor girl.

  A servant lifts the seat under me. I almost topple forward. Her ladies-of-honor Gabrielle and Claudine snicker at the mishap. My feet fill with lead, and moving each one forward feels like it takes an hourglass’s worth of time. The mirror hidden deep in my corset warms against my skin. I’m face-to-face with Astrid. She smiles again. My own smile in response is weak.

  “What do you see, Camellia?” Sophia says. “It can’t be anything lovely. Not in the least.”

  Astrid’s face crumples. Her mouth pulls down with sadness. Her eyes dart around. Courtiers whisper their agreement with Sophia’s statement. “Your Highness, I hope I have done nothing to offend you, but if I have, my sincerest apologies,” Astrid stammers out. A deep sweat rushes down her brow, taking her face powder with it. The tinge of gray in her skin is more visible now.

  “You have offended me,” Sophia declares.

  Gabrielle hands Astrid a scandal sheet called Sir Daniel’s Dastardly Delights. The vulgar words race along the page as if they’re afraid of all the candlelight in the room. The pictures morph into a dozen lurid scenes, and capture the salacious rumors circulating the kingdom this week.

  “Extinguish a few of the candles so the ink will settle,” Sophia says.

  Servants reach long-handled douters overhead and snuff out a few flames. Others herd night-lanterns into faraway corners. A candle is brought right beside Sophia. She places it on the game-table ledge. It illuminates her face but casts shadows in her eyes. She clears her throat. She’s terrifying. “Your offenses, Astrid Pompadour, are enormous. There’s the slovenly way you—and your sisters, I might add—carry yourselves, and embarrass Orléans, and your merchant house, Le Nez. And there’s the fact that your mother is rumored to be my father’s latest mistress.”

  A roaring gasp rushes through the room. My hand cups my mouth.

  Astrid shakes her head. “She is not.”

  “Your mother is quite glamorous. I don’t know why she lets you parade around court looking a me
ss. Maybe all the family spintria are spent on her.”

  “She isn’t—”

  “Your assurances and promises mean nothing to me. I’ve heard it on good authority that she is.” She reaches for a platter of strawberries and dips one into the bubbly liquid in her flute. “Camellia, she must have a new look. To match her harlot of a mother.”

  She waits for my response. Fear flashes in Astrid’s eyes. The words stick in my throat.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  I want to walk away. I will my legs to move. They shake instead, remaining fixed in place like deep roots. Astrid stares at me, her pupils dilated, tears brimming over at the edges.

  “I’m waiting,” Sophia says. “I demand an answer.”

  “Of course she does,” Elisabeth blurts out. I glare at her, and her eyes plead with me. Astrid’s breathing accelerates.

  “If you say so, Your Highness,” I say.

  Her mouth curves into a grin. “Yes, I do say so. I do.” She pops up from her chair and hands Claudine her teacup elephant. Claudine keeps her gaze low. Singe leaps from the game table and onto her shoulder. Sophia circles Astrid and waves the scandal sheet in the air.

  I spot a few words and phrases:

  MADAM POMPADOUR

  MISTRESSES OF THE KING

  SHAMEFUL

  DISGRACE ON LE NEZ

  Sophia takes a deep breath and beckons for us all to mimic her. The room sucks in a collective breath. She exhales. The whole room sighs.

  “I smell a . . . PIG! That’s what.” She touches my shoulder. “Give her a face befitting one.”

  Astrid cries out. “Oh, please don’t,” she begs, cowering. “Please, Your Highness.” Guards lift her arms and force her upright.

  “Your Highness, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t have my caisse, the Belle-rose tea, my accoutrements,” I say in a panic.

  “She’s right, Princess Sophia, Your Highness,” Elisabeth adds. “Beauty work must never be done without those items.”

  Sophia whips around. “It can, and it will.”