The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  “If that is what you wish,” the queen says.

  Her answer takes me by surprise. “It is.”

  “Very well, then.” The queen motions to the Minister of Law. “William, see to it that the first few days of Alfred’s banishment to the Gold Isles are spent in a starvation box. Make it a little too snug for him. I’m tired of his antics.” She gives me a grim look.

  “But, Your Majesty, don’t you think it’s a bit harsh?” the Minister of Law says.

  “Not at all. Belles are not toys to be played with or abused,” she says.

  The Minister of Law opens his mouth to protest further.

  “I’d like time with Camellia alone.” She turns to the Beauty Minister and the Minister of Law. “If you would excuse us for a few moments.”

  The Beauty Minister squeezes my shoulder before leaving the room.

  “Have you made a decision about my request, Camellia?” the queen asks as soon as the door closes.

  I fuss with the rim of the teacup. The bruise on my cheek still throbs.

  “I believe you’ve had an opportunity to witness just how wild Sophia can be. I saw her handiwork with one of the Pompadour twins. And I take it she’s shown you her portraits? Her obsessions.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I take full responsibility for her actions.” The queen reaches to her side and lifts an album. She shows me sketches of Sophia as a child with Charlotte. “She misses her sister. The illness has taken a toll on all of us.” The queen circles their faces with her fingers. “I apologize for anything she might have done to hurt you. She’s just broken.” She takes my hand and looks me in the eye. Her fingers feel frail and bony, like Maman’s did. The wrinkles around her eyes have deepened.

  “She cannot be queen. What is your answer? Will you help Charlotte now? The Declaration Ceremony is coming swiftly in three days’ time.” She coughs. Attendants rush to bring her chafing dish closer. They hold it near her until her coughing subsides.

  I don’t want to disappoint the queen. I don’t want to tell her no. I don’t want to admit that I may not be able to help Princess Charlotte. I haven’t found the answer yet.

  “I still have three days to decide, right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. I figured since you saw for yourself why Sophia is unfit, you’d be ready to help.”

  “I did, but . . . I need more time.”

  “That is fair,” she replies. “Camellia, would you do me a favor before you go?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Freshen my face up a bit so I don’t look so sick. The world will soon find out, but I’d like a little more time. Just as you do.”

  “Should we go to your treatment salon?”

  “No, no. Do it here.” She pats my arm. “I don’t have the strength.”

  I wonder if I can add youth to the queen’s organs, so she can live forever and Sophia will never have to become regent queen. “I could help you reverse some of this. Maybe you could rule for years more—then Sophia won’t have to be queen at all. Or at least we could give her time to grow into it.”

  The queen’s mouth pulls upward. “Yes, you could, but I don’t want it. Plus, one could have young organs, but still be sick. Illness cares nothing of age. One of my newest beauty laws will forbid the practice entirely. When my sunset comes, I’ll be at peace with it. We all should be.”

  “But—”

  “And I don’t think Sophia will ever grow into it. Some people can change, while others can’t. They’re just insects stuck in amber.” She touches my cheek. “Just take a few of the wrinkles away. Make my skin a little darker and richer. Like molasses. The sicker I get, the more the gray seeps to the surface and spoils the color, it seems.” An attendant serves her a cup of Belle-rose tea in the most beautiful garnet-red porcelain cup.

  “Is there bei powder available?” I ask one of the servants.

  A lovely caisse is placed on the table between us.

  “Leave us,” the queen tells the attendants. She finishes the cup of tea and sinks back along her chaise. Her eyes close, and her breath is soft. We are alone again.

  I close my eyes and picture her face. My pulse accelerates to the beat of her unsteady heart rhythm and the slow chugging of her blood moving through her veins. I use the Age arcana to smooth the deep crevices around her eyes, like rubbing a wet finger across dried-out dough. I deepen the brown of her skin. The queen’s light snores and wheezes fill the room.

  While she rests, I slip my mirror from inside my dress. I take a pin from the caisse and stick my finger. The seed of blood climbs through the mirror’s ridges. The roses twist and reveal their message: BLOOD FOR TRUTH.

  A fog appears in the glass, and then clears. I study her true reflection. The deeply wrinkled face of a sleeping woman looks back at me, alongside her grace, fragility, and her sadness. Tears streak her cheeks, following the deep creases in her skin. The queen’s image holds all the weight of her title and the worries she carries. I feel them all like heavy bags.

  I slip the necklace back down the front of my dress.

  Her eyes snap open. “Please help Charlotte,” she says. “You have three days until I need an answer. Until it’s too late.” She squeezes my hand. “I felt like the answer you were about to give me wasn’t what I wanted to hear.”

  “I—”

  “Please, Camille. Don’t make me replace you, too.”

  My hands freeze.

  Her eyes close before I can answer her.

  “It’s time to leave, Lady Camellia,” her attendant says.

  I stand and leave the room, quiet as a mouse, the queen’s threat stinging like a fresh cut.

  41

  The next day, the Fashion Minister waits in the main salon for me after my first beauty appointment. “Well, good morning, little doll.”

  “What are you doing here? Have more dresses for me?” I kiss both of his powdered cheeks.

  “No, and aren’t you spoiled.” He takes my hand. “Today, you are coming with me and the princess to the Dress Bazaar.”

  “But I have more appointments.” I point to the wall ledger.

  “And this is your most important one. We have yet to find a suitable fabric for her wedding gown. Nothing compares to the look you created. She says she needs you there, and future queens get what they want. Or have you not learned?” He waves the latest scandal sheet at me. “Come along,” he says, sensing my hesitation. “You never know what mischief one can get into. You might have fun. The Trianon Dress Bazaar is the largest in all of Orléans.”

  Hearing the full name strikes something in my memory. A sign from the carriage ride on my first night as an official Belle. “The Trianon Dress Bazaar. Isn’t that near the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?”

  “Why, yes, it is,” the minister says, and winks as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  Amber.

  I race to get dressed.

  The minister smiles. “Now that’s more like it.”

  After lunch, we ride in a procession past the royal hourglass. It wears a coat of ice and snow, its diamond-like sand swirling inside like an impending storm.

  “More tea,” the Fashion Minister orders the carriage servants. Bree stokes the small fire and places more pots of tea on the iron rack. This is the largest carriage I’ve ever been in—like three regular-size ones put together.

  I press my nose to the window. Sophia’s royal carriage glitters like a sun ahead of us. My breath makes tiny flat clouds across the glass. A plan to slip away and see my sister buzzes through me, alongside my ever-present fear and panic. Rémy sits beside me on high alert, as if he can sense I’m up to something.

  I laugh and join the conversation, hoping to quell his suspicions.

  We pass through the Market Quartier. Blue lanterns fight the wind, clutching the hooks above their stalls. Vendors stand before their pavilions and shops, hawking their wares.

  “Silkworms—finest quality!”

  “Cravats that change color!” />
  “Best brocades in the kingdom!”

  “Glass beads from Savoy—this color is made for you.”

  “Dresses that light up the night!”

  Shoppers carry heat-lanterns over their heads like parasols to keep warm. They drift over high hair-towers and hats like tiny stars tied to ribbons.

  The carriages snake through the narrow passageways as they enter the Garden Quartier. The stores are piled on top of each other, like gift boxes in all the colors of the rainbow. Emerald lanterns shine above doors and inside windows. Golden lifts and spiral staircases take passengers up to the highest stores—some are hidden by the thickening white clouds. I spot the Chrysanthemum Teahouse in the distance, its turrets shining like the wings of bright bayou fireflies in the dark of night.

  The carriages park. We step out onto the street. Sophia’s ladies ooh and ahh at the sights.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Sophia says to me.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” I paint on a smile.

  She hands me a heat-lantern. Its warmth heats my Belle-bun. Part of me wishes it could lift me away into the clouds.

  Imperial guards clear the shops Sophia chooses to visit—Prima’s Petticoat Palace, Gascon and Duhart’s Fichu Forge, Lady Cromer’s Brocade Bonanza. The Fashion Minister guides her through the complex vertical network of stores. Gabrielle, Claudine, and Henrietta-Marie saunter behind her. People bow and shout wedding blessings. Newsies sketch pictures and swarm us with gossip post-balloons.

  The Fashion Minister’s dandies comment on the best shops to visit: where to get the richest silk, which shopkeeper gives customers the best-quality champagne, what dressmakers have the keenest eye, which of the owners are favored by the queen and the Fashion Minister himself.

  We take one of the golden lifts up. The glass windows boast advertisements: vivant dresses that shift color every ten seconds, cravats that release cologne so a man always smells his best, matching outfits for teacup pets and their owners, hats and headdresses as tall as the ceiling, lace shoes that jingle pleasant tunes.

  I try to imagine when I will be able to slip away. With seven guards around us and Rémy behind me, it’s going to be difficult. My head rattles with possible escapes. Maybe I can accompany Sophia into a dressing room and slip out a back exit? Maybe I can use the commode and sneak out through a window?

  I try to keep track of the staircases, lifts, and shop names, but the corridors twist and turn with no orderly pattern. It’s a maze.

  Sophia volleys in and out of several shops. Tailors, dressmakers, and merchants try to woo her with free gifts for her ladies, or offer pastries and champagne. The princess’s voice drifts down the passageways as she speaks with the Fashion Minister and her ladies.

  “What do you think of this fabric?”

  “I can’t decide, Gustave.”

  “Beadwork or not?”

  “Sleeves or no?”

  “I haven’t liked anything you’ve showed me, Gustave. You’re the Fashion Minister. Find me something the world hasn’t seen yet.”

  I slow my pace between the sets of guards and glance into a nearby shop called Shurette and Soie before we’re rushed along. It’s lined with shelves of twinkling apothecary bottles, and smaller tables hold even more. They contain animated dyes for vivant fabrics. The jewel tones shift from ocean blues to cobalts and magentas, from crimson reds to sunflower yellows. Others change from pastel pinks to sky blues to lemony creams.

  It would take several days to examine each one, to watch for each color. There are thousands of them.

  “Finest silkworms in the whole bazaar,” the owner says, motioning at the opposite wall. Live silkworms stretch across gently turning rods. Silk eases from their bodies onto a spoke-wheel. “Perfect for any dress. Can be dyed with animated ink.”

  I nod my appreciation as I glance around for an exit.

  “Camellia.” Rémy rushes me along to rejoin the tail end of the royal group, and I lose my chance. In the next shop, I stand alongside Sophia and her ladies while vendors parade around her with fabrics and dress samples. Again, I search for exits. There are two: the entrance we came through, and a door in the back.

  “I don’t know about this dress.” Sophia examines a gown Gabrielle holds out for her. “But it could be the start of something. It would have to be altered, of course.”

  “Try it on,” Gabrielle urges. “Let’s just see the cut to find a starting place.”

  “Yes,” Claudine adds. “You won’t know until you see how it fits.”

  “Wait, wait, I want Camellia’s opinion on all of this. She’s been awfully quiet,” Sophia says. Her ladies chuckle and hide whispers behind fans.

  “What would you choose if you were getting married?” she asks me.

  “I can’t even conceive of the thought, Your Highness,” I reply.

  “Of course you can. Weren’t you with one of my suitors the other day?” The left side of her mouth curls up.

  A cold stone drops into my stomach.

  “He interrupted me. I did not welcome his company,” I lie. “I find him to be insufferable and cocky.”

  “Is that so?” she says.

  “Yes—I’m grateful I never have to marry.”

  My answer seems sufficient.

  “Well, if you did, what kind of dress would you wear?” She stares straight into my eyes, as if she’s searching for the answer somewhere deep down inside me.

  I don’t think of my preferences, but of Sophia’s. How she changes her look almost daily—how she detests the idea of choosing one royal appearance for life.

  “I would consider a dress that would change throughout the ceremony and reception. Not just in color, but in shape. Something that will morph into all your favorite dress cuts. A ball gown for the ceremony, a slim silhouette for the receiving line, a flounced skirt for dancing—but without you ever having to leave the party.”

  Sophia’s eyes widen. “Do you think it’s possible?”

  “It could be. We could work with animated ink, and experiment with silkworms,” I say.

  Sophia winks at me. “You know how much I love to test things. I knew I wanted you around for a reason.” She steps behind a screen.

  Her attendant prepares to dress Sophia by removing her coat and gloves. Gabrielle lifts the hanger and carries the dress back to her. For a moment there is nothing but bustling and murmured compliments—and then Sophia screams. The sound pierces through me.

  Guards rush forward. Rémy moves me aside as he helps to remove the screen. Sophia is crouched on the floor. Attendants flock to her. They rip the gown from her body. Ugly hives and burns mark her arms and chest. Tears course down her face, taking her makeup with them. Her body is racked with sobs. She suddenly seems so small and vulnerable.

  “It’s poisoned,” someone says.

  “I didn’t do it,” the shopkeeper says. “I swear.”

  The guards turn to arrest her. She runs off. A few chase her out of the store. Bodies swarm inside—newsies with post-balloons, nosy courtiers, passersby. Rémy and the remaining guards work to establish order and clear out inquisitive onlookers. Voices ping like sparklers around me. Flurries of hands reach for the princess, trying to comfort her.

  More guards flood the space. In the chaos, I let my heat-lantern get too close to one of the hanging dresses and it ignites. Adding fire to the chaos only draws a greater crowd. Rémy whisks me out of the shop.

  “Stay here,” he says.

  “I will,” I lie.

  The moment he turns to put out the fire, I flee down the winding corridor. I fight through the crowd to get to a set of staircases. I jump down three at a time and almost fall.

  “Is this the way out?” I ask someone.

  “Yes, three flights down. Or the lift is faster, miss. Oh, wait, aren’t you . . .”

  I don’t wait for her to finish. I’m spurred on by fear, trying to apologize as I knock into shoulders and purses and small children. I make my way out of the maze and onto the stree
t. I step out into the path of an approaching rickshaw and wave my hands.

  The man halts. His fur hat flies forward. A woman snatches the privacy curtain back and screeches at the man and then at me. The woman sitting next to her joins in the barrage of insults until she sees me.

  “Viola!” She slaps the woman’s arm.

  “Oww,” Viola says.

  “That’s the favorite.” She points.

  “No, it isn’t. Couldn’t possibly be.” She leans forward. Her nose scrunches as she inspects me. “Oh my!” She clutches her large bosom.

  “Are you going to the teahouse?” I ask. “Can I have a ride? I promise to give you both a beauty token for your troubles.”

  “We aren’t, but we’ll take you there. Get in.” She waves me forward. “Help her,” she hollers at the driver.

  “I can get in myself.” I gather up my long skirts, step up on the footstep, and slide between the two women.

  The squeeze is tight. The man races forward.

  “What were you doing, Lady Camellia?” one asks.

  “Yes, where is your carriage, my lady?” the other adds.

  “I got lost inside the Garden Quartier,” I lie.

  “Well, that’s easy to do. It’s quite a mess. All those stores scattered here and there and on top of one another like a messy closet of hat boxes.”

  “Yes, it was my first time,” I say.

  “Not to worry,” one says. “We’ve rescued you, the loveliest of favorites.”

  The women tell me all about the card game they’re about to attend in the city of Verre. They kiss my cheeks and hold my hand and tell me how they won money in the kingdom’s lotteries by betting on me to be named the favorite.

  The rickshaw pulls up to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. I press two beauty tokens into their hands and thank them as they whiz away, full of laughter.

  My heart thuds.

  I pull my jacket closed to block the wind. I avoid the entrance and walk around the side of the teahouse to the gardens near the veranda. I take off my coat and throw it up over the small railing, then lift my skirts to climb up. A buzz hums under my skin like the arcana.

  I duck as servants set the veranda for afternoon tea. I wait until they disappear into the kitchen before darting into the hall. Day-lanterns putter overhead.