The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  “Please,” Astrid cries out again.

  “SHUT your mouth!” Sophia says.

  Astrid bites her bottom lip, desperate to hold in the sobs. Rouge-stick is smeared over her mouth.

  “Now, Camellia, my favorite, do it,” Sophia says, returning to her seat to watch. “And not in an hourglass’s worth of time, but now.”

  I purse my mouth to keep it from quivering. I take deep breaths. I search Sophia’s face, waiting for her to shout out that this is all a big joke.

  “Do it,” Sophia hollers. “I order you to. Now.”

  The conversation in the room halts. Eyes settle on me. No one dares to move or talk or take a breath. Sophia’s eager stare burns.

  I close my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “Don’t, favorite. I beg of you, don’t,” Astrid pleads.

  Astrid’s face appears in my head: her close-set eyes and graying skin and too-small lips and beaky nose. The arcana awaken. A rush of heat flashes through me. The veins in my hands swell. I open my eyes.

  I stretch out the hump on the bridge of her nose like it’s a clay model. I dig out more space in her nostrils. I force her bones to twist and the cartilage to fill in.

  Astrid screams.

  I stop. I can’t do this. I can’t.

  The guards hold Astrid still.

  “Keep going,” Sophia snaps. “Do as I say, Camille.”

  I shape Astrid’s flesh into a snout. Tears fill my eyes as she wails.

  “Add hair. Add hair,” Gabrielle shouts.

  “Yes,” Sophia demands. “Bristly hair.”

  Some in the crowd laugh. Others grimace, no doubt thankful that this isn’t happening to them. A few look away. I thicken Astrid’s nose hair, and lengthen it so it pokes from each nostril like the stubble on a man’s chin.

  Astrid screeches and drops to the ground, slipping from the guard’s grasp like a piece of silk. She’s a pile of sobs and moans. The guards hustle her back up onto her feet. She presses her hands to her face. A favored lady courtier yanks them away to reveal her new nose. The snout glistens with snot.

  “Well done, Camellia. Beautiful. May you always find beauty, Astrid.” Sophia waves the guards forward. “Let’s go see what the newsies think. Give them something for their late-night papers.” She leads Astrid, her ladies-of-honor, and a train of eager courtiers out of the room and into the Grand Entry Hall. She announces that everyone should follow and head for the Receiving Hall for a night-parade.

  “You must go with them,” Rémy says, unsticking my feet.

  “I didn’t want to do it,” I say.

  He is silent, but disappointment is reflected in his eyes.

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “None of it is my business,” he says, escorting me at the tail end of the group.

  In the Receiving Hall, Sophia marches Astrid up and down the long entryway from the door to the throne platform and back. She commands the musicians to play and that Geneviève Gareau, the most beloved opera singer in the kingdom, be brought in to sing. Geneviève is taken from bed, and shows up in her nightgown. Misen players pluck their instruments, and Astrid is forced to perform peasant dances. Sophia drags in Astrid’s two sisters to watch. After three hourglasses pass, Sophia’s ladies-of-honor are splayed out on plush kneeling-pillows at the base of the throne, and their snores add to the misen players’ song. My stomach is twisted into a knot that might never uncoil.

  Can this be real? Is this how Sophia treats people? Is this how she will lead? Will she force me to torture her people for the rest of my life?

  The queen’s words echo in my head again—Sophia cannot be queen.

  I have to stop her.

  35

  Rémy deposits me in my apartments and takes his nightly seat outside the door. He doesn’t say good night. He doesn’t offer to have tea with me, which I was hoping would become a habit. He won’t even look at me. I pace the perimeter, circling all six apartments at least twelve times with my hands on my head, squashing the top of my Belle-bun. Flower petals and jewels tumble out. I yank the ornamental combs from the top and unpin the curls. The nest of hair grows around me like a frizzy cloud.

  I step out on the windy terrace. The cold nips at my shoulders. The scent of snow is in the air.

  Bree pokes her head out. “It is time for bed, my lady.”

  “In a few minutes.” I slip past her, down the hall to the very last apartment. I knock on Ivy’s door. I wiggle the door handle. It’s locked. I knock again.

  “Ivy,” I whisper hard, hoping it will somehow travel all the way inside. There is no reply.

  I go back to my room to a waiting Bree. “Can you wake Ivy?”

  Bree looks startled. “But it’s time—”

  “Please,” I say softly.

  “Wait in your room, and at least dress for bed. Also, there’s a post-balloon hooked to your vanity.”

  “Thank you.” I undress and put on my sleeping gown. An orange post-balloon floats above my caisse like a flame. It’s from the Fire Teahouse.

  Edel.

  I rip the back open and grab the note.

  Dear favorite, Lady Camellia Beauregard,

  Your sister Edel Beauregard is not presently at the Fire Teahouse. If you have any knowledge of where she might be, please send me a personal correspondence. I have been able to keep the ledgers full and the customers happy, but if Edel doesn’t return soon, I’m afraid everything will unravel.

  If you hear from her, tell her she should return to the teahouse immediately; otherwise, she will be treated as a fugitive, subject to punishment in accordance with the laws of our great queen and country, and held in contempt by the Minister of Law.

  I do not want this to happen. I just want her back.

  A Goddess-of-Beauty blessing to you. May you always find beauty.

  Sincerely,

  Madam Alieas Saint Georges, House Maille, Mistress of the Fire Teahouse

  My heartbeat quickens.

  How is Madam Alieas keeping the newsies from finding out? How is she keeping business going?

  Where are you, Edel?

  I write Amber a letter. My handwriting is a frantic scribble across the page:

  Amber,

  I need to talk to you. It’s about Edel and something Sophia made me do. Can you come to the palace? Or I’ll try to come to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse.

  Edel’s in trouble. I think I might be in trouble, too.

  Camille

  I send the post-balloon off my balcony edge.

  “Camille.” Ivy stands in the doorway. Her voice is thick with sleep.

  I rush to her. “Sophia made me do the most awful thing, and I . . .” My voice trails off.

  Ivy closes the bedroom doors and sends the servants away, suddenly alert.

  “What happened?”

  “She made me give a courtier a pig nose! In front of everyone in the game room.” I can’t stop pacing.

  Ivy gasps. “It’s starting all over again. She did this with Amber, too. Oh, this is all my fault.”

  “Did what?” I ask. “What’s your fault?”

  “I told Ambrosia to do everything Sophia said,” Ivy says. “I told her it was her job to please Sophia. And Sophia began asking her to do unreasonable and ridiculous things.”

  I remember what Elisabeth said—that Amber gave one of Sophia’s ladies-of-honor translucent skin, covered another in feathers, and gave Sophia the smallest waist possible. I hadn’t believed it at the time—couldn’t believe Amber would do such things. And now I had ruined a girl’s face.

  “It’s going to get worse. She’s going to ask you to do more. She’s testing your loyalty.” She takes my hand. “I already tried to tell you. Nothing will stop this. It’s just the beginning. We have to go.”

  “If we run, Sophia will just drag Valerie, Hana, Padma, or even Edel here to be the favorite. It will never end.”

  “None of this is supposed to end. We are supposed to do as we’re told and go a
long with it. I can’t any longer.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “There’s nothing—”

  “I’m going to help the queen,” I almost shout.

  “But you could die.”

  “Yes, but maybe I won’t.” I take a deep breath. “And we don’t have any other choice.”

  36

  The next morning, I pack a small satchel with bei powder, two smoothing instruments, and a few color pots. I tuck it into my fur waist-sash, then go to treatment room four.

  Servants are tidying the room. I pay them each a pouch of spintria and leas coins and ask them to help me mess up the room. I put leeches into the Belle-products. They stare at me with puzzled expressions, but aid in the destruction. I add one beauty token to each palm, with an instruction to keep their mouths shut.

  I hustle back to the main salon and knock so hard on Elisabeth’s door that it rattles.

  She snatches it open. “Who the—” She swallows the curse on the other side of her sentence. “What is it? I’m busy. The phones won’t give me a moment’s rest since the card party.”

  “Leeches got into the Belle-products in the fourth treatment salon, and the room is in shambles. Maybe someone broke in?”

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know. You need to hurry. It’s a mess,” I say. “I would hate for word to get to Madam Du Barry. We’ll both be in trouble.”

  Her mouth goes slack and her face pales. She races off, leaving her office door ajar.

  After she disappears, I slip in. Circuit-phones line every inch of the walls like floating candlesticks. Cone-shaped receivers rattle left and right on top of each one. Their ringing pierces the room. I don’t know how Elisabeth can tolerate it. A rolling ladder scales the wall, giving access to the phones that nearly kiss the ceiling. Iron spintria safes sit like a stack of blocks beside the door.

  I bolt to the corner desk. It’s covered with beauty-scopes, spyglasses, appointment ledgers, spintria pouches, post-balloon letters, and beauty pamphlets. I open each drawer, searching for an address book. One is cluttered with newspapers and tattlers and scandal sheets, another with petit-hourglasses and abaci. The last one is packed with unused post-balloons and parchment. I dig under them and discover a royal address ledger.

  Thank you, Goddess.

  I scour it for the address of the Pompadours from Le Nez, House of Perfumers. I use Elisabeth’s quill to write the information on my hand, and step out from the office just in time to hear her angry voice echo from the hallway. I race back to the bedroom and pull the string for Bree.

  She steps out from behind the wall. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Bree, pack the bed with pillows, tightly, and draw the bedcurtains as if I’m in there. If Elisabeth asks, say I’m not feeling well and went to rest. Tell no one I’m out. Will you do that?”

  Her brown eyes grow big. “But my—”

  I press a few leas coins in her hand. She shakes her head and pushes them back at me. “Go, and hurry back.”

  I hug her. She helps me into my traveling cloak and gives me a veil; I tiptoe back through the main salon and out the front apartment doors. Rémy stands at attention as soon as he sees me.

  “I need to go to the Rose Quartier,” I say.

  “Has the travel been arranged ahead of time?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I lie confidently.

  Rémy marches forward. I’m careful to keep my head down as courtiers pass by. I search for signs of the Beauty Minister or Du Barry. We leave through the northern gate. The sky is a snow white, with the promise of ice-flakes and wind at any moment. A line of rickshaws sits, ready to carry important passengers into Trianon or beyond. Glamorous courtiers climb in and out of private carriages. Imperial canal boats load and unload people onto gilded docks beside the Golden Palace River. Heat-lanterns trail behind pedestrians to add warmth.

  He pauses and looks around. “Where’s your official carriage?”

  I scurry to the nearest rickshaw and tell the man the address. He helps me up into the seat.

  Rémy runs behind me. “What are you doing?”

  The man holds up the canopy’s thick brocade curtain so I can speak to Rémy.

  “Get in,” I say. “I’ll tell you.”

  He looks pained. “This isn’t protocol.”

  “You can either come with me or stay.”

  “Or I can take you back to the palace.”

  “Please. I need your help.” I pat the place beside me. He stalks forward and climbs inside.

  I peek through a small window that gives me a view of the front of the rickshaw. Two imperial runners take their places. Their graying hands stand out in contrast to the black lacquered finish of the rickshaw handles.

  “Where are we going?” Rémy asks.

  “To fix the mess I created last night.”

  He doesn’t respond. The rickshaw bumbles forward. The runners’ braids slap their backs as we race across several Golden Palace River bridges. The wheels thunder over the cobblestones. I clench my teeth until the palace gates open, and we zip through the Royal Square and past the giant Orléans hourglass, waiting for the Beauty Minister or Elisabeth or Du Barry to appear and stop me. My heart races to the rhythm of the rickshaw’s movement.

  Rémy drums his hands against his thighs. I steal glances at him. The silver streak in his closely shaven head glows in the subtle darkness, and the crescent-shaped scar under his right eye looks deeper. He even has a freckle on his left eyelid. The Belle who created his look paid attention to small details, made him unique. I want to ask him if he chose his look. I want to know if he cares about his physical appearance, or only about his duty. I can hear him saying, I have no need for beauty.

  I laugh to myself.

  “What’s so amusing?” he asks.

  “You seem nervous,” I say.

  “I don’t like breaking protocol.”

  “I know.”

  “But you do,” he replies.

  “Guilty.” The pink brick of the Royal Square gives way to white limestone mansions and townhouses adorned with quartz roses and blush-pink lanterns above their entryways.

  “Number thirteen is on the right,” the rickshaw driver hollers back. He brings the foot-carriage to a stop. I hand him a few coins.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We climb out. The House of Perfumers’ Le Nez emblem shines brightly on the door—a bouquet of flowers tickling the underside of a nose.

  I lift the heavy brass knocker. Its echo booms. A stout woman answers. “Can I help you?”

  “Is Astrid Pompadour available?” I ask.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No, but—”

  “She’s not seeing anyone today.” She starts to close the door. I put my hand on it and wedge myself into the doorway.

  “Tell her it’s Camellia Beauregard. Please. And if she still doesn’t want any company, I will leave.”

  “This is highly inappropriate and irregular. Just who are you?”

  I lift my veil. She gasps when she sees my face. “My lady. I’m so sorry, le favori. I did not recognize you,” she says, giving a little bow. “Come into the foyer and out of the cold.”

  I wave away her formal apology. She disappears farther into the house. The foyer spreads out like the base of an hourglass—open and round—and a gilded balcony juts out overhead. Countless vases sit on every surface, holding snow-season flowers—tangerine calendulas and creamy candytufts and crimson cyclamens.

  “Camellia!” My name is screamed from the balcony. Astrid races down a plush spiral staircase. She wears a jeweled veil over her face. Two sad brown eyes stare out of it. She swallows me in a thick hug. I almost topple over. “I can’t believe you’re here.” She pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I’m a mess. I’m suffocating you.”

  “It’s all right.” I remove my veil. Her house servant takes my coat from my shoulders. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

  “It wasn’t you
r fault.” I spot tears brimming in her eyes through her veil. “Sophia forced you.”

  “I’m here to fix it.” I take her hand and squeeze it. Rémy smiles at me, but it’s so quick it could’ve been imaginary.

  “Really?” Astrid squeals. “But what about—”

  “It will be fine,” I tell her, sounding much surer than I feel. “Where can we be alone?”

  Astrid squeezes my hand in return. “We’ll go to my bedroom.” She turns to her house servant. “Carina, bring me Belle-rose tea. We have a few leaves in the tea closet. Top row. Left-hand corner.”

  “I’ll wait here.” Rémy stations himself beside the front door.

  Astrid’s bedroom feels like a gigantic flower. Heather walls wrap around us. A domed ceiling holds golden lanterns that drip with light like raindrops made from the sun.

  Astrid sits at her vanity. “I went to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse early this morning, but Madam Claire turned me away. Princess Sophia alerted all the teahouses to refuse service to me.”

  “It’s going to be fine.” Sophia will be furious with me if she finds out.

  Her house servant knocks, then enters the room with a tea tray. She pours a hot cup for Astrid. “Thank you. Thank you, Carina.”

  “You must still wear this veil, and you can’t let the princess know you’ve changed your nose. Nor can you tell her it was me who did it.”

  “Or course not, Lady Camellia. I wouldn’t dare. I’m so grateful.”

  “It should’ve never happened.”

  I pull the satchel of tools from my waist-sash. I examine her nose. The snout juts out of her face. My shame and disappointment overwhelm me.

  I cover her nose with bei powder and dip one of my metal instruments into the pot of steaming water.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.” Astrid nods and closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath.

  The arcana ignite inside me. I feel the warm hiss of their movement through my veins. I sweep the broad-sided metal instrument across the bridge of her nose. The excess skin melts away. I sculpt it back to its original shape—high bridge, long slope. I shrink the nose hairs. The former snout now curves into a slight upturn at the tip. I touch up the gray in her hair and skin as a bonus.