I climb the stairs. Madam Claire’s high-pitched voice rings out, so I hide in the nearest room and press my back to the wall.
“Is Ambrosia still resting?” she complains.
“Yes, my lady,” an attendant answers. “She always rests for an hour before tea.”
“I lose three possible appointments in that time. Who said she could continue to do so?”
“She’s slow to rebalance these days.”
Their voices taper off as they move farther into the house.
I inch forward and check the hall, then race up the last set of staircases to my old bedroom on the third floor.
I turn the knob and sneak inside. The room is outfitted in deep reds and oranges like a phoenix’s feathers. Ambrosia flowers wink and bloom from animated wallpaper. The bedcurtains are drawn.
I rush forward. “Amber?” I whisper.
No answer.
I say her name again and open the bedcurtains.
The bed is empty.
Disappointment floods every part of me. I’m near tears. On Amber’s nightstand sit little mortuary tablets for Maman Iris.
“What should I do, Maman?”
I wait for an answer. I run my finger over the mortuary tablets.
Search.
The word drums through me.
I go back to the bedroom door. The noise of the servants in the hallway sends me to the wall. I run my fingers over it, waiting to feel air. Then I push. Bree’s old servants’ quarters are empty. I slip out and up the servants’ staircase. I search every room on this floor, then go to the next and the next until I’m at the very top of the teahouse, the tenth floor.
Madam Claire’s apartments are on the right. Each door is locked but one.
As soon as I open the door, the sound of soft crying greets me. The room is pitch black, aside from one single day-lantern tied to a nearby door hook.
“Who’s there?” a sniffly voice calls out.
I untie the lantern and walk forward.
“Amber? Is that you?” I say.
Something metallic drops with a clatter.
“There’s no Amber here,” a second voice cries.
The soft light of the day-lantern spreads.
A girl leans forward. She has one eye and half a nose. I startle and fall backward with a thud. Another girl reaches for me. The light hits her. Hair grows down the left side of her head—only the left side.
“Help us,” she says.
I scurry away from her as more voices join hers like a chorus.
42
The day-lantern illuminates the faces of the women. Broken. Disfigured. Injured. Silver chains loop around their wrists like bracelets, and jeweled collars tether them to high-backed chairs.
“Who are you?” I say.
A parade of names hits me: Kata, Noelle, Ava, Charlotte, Violaine, Larue, Elle, Daruma, Ena. And Delphine.
Her face is seared into my memory. That night she fixed the woman mauled by a teacup bear.
“We’re Belles, too,” Delphine says. “Madam keeps us locked up here.” She leans into the light; her eyes are lined with dark shadows.
“What happened to you? How did you get here? I don’t remember you at home—”
“She works us all night.”
“The crying,” I say.
“We cry because they force us to take appointments until it hurts to use the arcana.”
Delphine jerks forward. The chains clatter against the floor. “Help us.”
“Please,” another one says.
“Wait!” Delphine puts her hands up. “Shh.”
They all go quiet. The melody of their tense breaths echoes.
I release the day-lantern. It putters to the middle of the room. We all hear the approaching footsteps.
“Hide,” Delphine says.
I tuck myself behind one of the high-backed chairs and burrow inside thick drapes. I press my back against the wall, as flat as can be.
The door opens.
“My little darlings,” Madam Claire coos. Her heels click against the floor as she approaches the floating day-lantern. “Hmm.”
The girls start to whimper and cry.
“It’s time to work.” She walks a lap slowly around the room. “Larue, I think I need you today.” Madam Claire unhooks one of the women. Larue’s wails and protests bounce off the walls. “Please don’t ruin my day,” Madam Claire says impatiently. “Just come, will you?”
Larue digs her feet into the ground, but Madam Claire drags her like a stubborn teacup dog. The door opens and shuts.
I take five deep breaths, then leave my hiding space. “How many of you are here?”
“Thirteen, I think,” Delphine says. “But I can’t always be sure. The numbers change. Girls go missing.”
Where did these girls come from? How can I help them? Only one answer comes to mind.
“I have to get you out of here.” We can figure out the rest later.
“You’ll need to get the keys,” Delphine says. “From her waist-sash.”
“You won’t be getting anything.” Madam Claire’s voice booms through the room from another entrance. She releases four day-lanterns, the light so bright it’s blinding.
The girls scream, the sound cold and sharp.
Madam Claire tsks. “I knew something was wrong when I came in here. The day-lantern wasn’t tied to the hook, and I could smell you.”
Smell me?
“They always put lavender in your soap. It’s the queen’s preferred scent.”
“You must let these girls go,” I tell her. “You can’t keep them chained up like this.”
Madam Claire laughs. “Oh, but I can. They are in the employ of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse.” She turns her back to me. “Guards!”
Madam Claire’s guard tails me up each flight of palace steps. I wouldn’t be able to run again if I wanted to. The Belle apartments whirr with activity as palace guards swarm the halls, and post-balloons whiz in and out. Inside, Rémy is pacing. Du Barry is wringing her prayer beads, and Elisabeth has bitten her lips raw. The Beauty Minister is tapping her foot to an erratic beat but freezes when I enter.
“There you are!” Du Barry hollers.
Rémy lets out a deep sigh.
“I’ve returned her safely,” Madam Claire tells her sister.
Du Barry clutches my shoulders, her red-tipped nails digging into skin and bone. “Where have you been?”
“Are you all right, little darling?” The Beauty Minister rescues me from Du Barry’s grip and inspects me. “All in one piece?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I got lost in all the chaos after what happened with Sophia,” I lie. “How is she?” I add a thick layer of concern.
“She’s on the mend,” the Beauty Minister says. “Quite scary. You must be rattled.” She lays a hand on my cheek, then motions for a servant.
Rémy clears his throat. The rumble is deep and cuts through the room. “Madam Minister, let me express my sincerest apologies. Protecting Camellia is my responsibility. I failed you and my queen.” He bows.
The Beauty Minister puts a hand on his shoulder. “You secured the princess. You did what was needed. Plus, it seems our favorite knows just where to go when lost. She ended up in the right hands.” She smiles at Madam Claire. “Now that you’re home safe and sound, I take my leave. I need to report this to the queen and check on Sophia.” She kisses my forehead, leaving behind her deep plum rouge-stick color.
Once the doors close, Madam Claire says, “Ana, you’ve lost control of the favorite. She’s been snooping around in my teahouse. She found the others.”
Du Barry turns to me. “You saw them?”
“Yes, I saw them. The other Belles you keep in the attic.”
Du Barry flashes her sister a look of annoyance and purses her lips. With a tilt of her head, she dismisses Elisabeth, who for once goes without an argument.
“What’s wrong with them? Why does no one know about them?”
“You should be g
rateful to them, and to us for raising them, and to the other teahouse madams for caring for them,” Du Barry says.
“Grateful?”
She takes a slow sip of tea. “You’d all expire much sooner if it weren’t for those girls.”
Expire? “You lied to us.”
“Lie? No. I did not tell you things that aren’t your business. This is gardien territory. My duty. But yes, since you’ve seen them, I suppose there’s no use in trying to keep the secret any longer—there are more Belles in this world than you knew of. I didn’t want you to find out this way. Actually, I never wanted you to find out at all.” She glares at Madam Claire. “They aren’t as strong as you, but they are necessary to address the growing needs of the kingdom.”
“Why didn’t you tell us? What did you do to them?”
“Caring for Belles is an imprecise art, Camellia. You will one day see, when you return home and raise a daughter of your own. Some turn out whole, beautiful, and obedient. While others are broken and rebellious.”
“Were they born that way? Or did you work them so much that their arcana couldn’t function anymore?”
“Both,” she says.
The faces of those Belles flicker before my eyes. The faces of my sisters follow. We’re all going to wither like flowers on a vine if we work the way they want us to.
“She chains them.” I point at Madam Claire.
Madam Claire trembles. “Ana, you must understand—”
“Claire, you will not be entrusted with them if you cannot care for them properly,” Du Barry barks.
“But they get unruly.”
“Find a better way to maintain control and order. Otherwise, I will replace you at that teahouse and appoint another. Mother always said you didn’t have what it takes.” Du Barry wags a finger at Madam Claire, then sighs. “I’m sorry you saw that, Camille. It’s not customary. But you must understand—”
“I will never understand,” I spit.
“One day, with wisdom and age, you’ll see that I’ve done what was necessary for the survival of the art form. For the goddess. For all of us.”
I let out a guttural scream.
Du Barry laughs. She snaps an order at a servant, who produces a stack of newspapers. Du Barry reads aloud:
PRINCESS SOPHIA ALMOST KILLED WITH A POISONED GOWN
BEAUTY WORK SURGING TO A NEW HIGH—RUMORED TO
BE A BIGGER EXPENSE FOR HOUSEHOLDS THAN FOOD
OWNER OF GERALD’S GOWNS NOT COOPERATING
WITH THE QUEEN’S GUARD
A PLOT AGAINST THE PRINCESS FOILED—
THE REGENT HEIR STILL LIVES
THE FAVORITE CHOOSES A NEW WEDDING
LOOK FOR THE PRINCESS
“Do you know which of these headlines I care about? Rumored to be a bigger expense for households than food! Can you imagine?” She tosses the papers aside. “Spintria and leas and the longevity of Maison Rouge de la Beauté and Orléans. That is what I care about. To do my mothers’ and grandmothers’ and great-grandmothers’ work. The teahouses will continue to run as they always have: with order, grace, and dignity. There will be a favored set of Belles, and a secondary set to ensure that the needs of the kingdom are met. Basic supply and demand. That is the way it’s always been. And I hope I will be able to have even more Belles. In my mother’s time, there were a hundred per generation. I haven’t gotten as lucky, but I will change that soon. The God of Luck will bless me as I do this divine work.”
I seethe with anger.
“And if you or anyone else gets in the way of that, you will be repurposed,” she threatens haughtily. “Now, go to your bedroom. The nurses are waiting with the leeches. You’ve had enough excitement for a week. The toxins in your blood must be high. It’s what makes you behave this way.”
And with that, I am dismissed with the wave of a hand.
43
The next morning, I dress to see the queen. There are no beauty appointments this week. The Declaration festivities start today, and I sent word to Her Majesty that I’ve made my decision two days early.
The queen’s gold-and-white post-balloon sits tied to my vanity. The note is pressed flat on the lid of my beauty caisse.
Dearest Camellia,
I look forward to your decision.
Sincerely,
HRM
Fireworks illuminate the snowy clouds outside the windows. The kingdom of Orléans will learn of the queen’s illness and will have an heir announced this week, either Sophia or an awakened Charlotte. My stomach erupts just like the sparklers in the skies. My angry thoughts hiss and pop like lightning. My heart thunders in my chest. My hands tremble with rage. Every thought of Du Barry and Madam Claire and the other Belles and my mother’s Belle-book sends another surge through me.
“Tighter,” I tell Bree as she ties my waist-sash. I have to keep it all in.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Elisabeth strides through my bedroom entry with her arms crossed and her signature pinched expression.
“Ivy and I have an important meeting with the queen.”
“Ivy has been sent home.”
My heart plummets. “Why?”
“My mother doesn’t like the influence she has over you. And I agree. I never really liked Ivy either. She wasn’t very nice.”
“Where is she?” I rush out to the hall and head off in the direction of Ivy’s bedroom.
“She’s already gone.”
I pivot to face her. Elisabeth has a smug grin on her face.
“Why wouldn’t you let me say good-bye to her?”
“So she can tell you to escape again? Or so you two can attempt to go together? Oh, yes, my mother knows Ivy told you to run, and the fact that you did—to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse—disappointed her even more. She thought you wanted to be the favorite so badly.”
I open my mouth to lie. The sense of dread wraps itself around me. There isn’t a private place in these apartments. They could know everything I’ve ever discussed with Ivy or Bree.
“Don’t even try it. ”She waves her hand at me. “But Ivy will be punished for it. As she should be. Meddling in our business and making things more difficult.”
“She didn’t meddle. She warned me.”
“That was not her purpose. That’s not what big sisters are supposed to do. She was supposed to prepare you.”
“She did,” I yell.
“Soiled you, is more like it. And you better get back to work, before Mother sends you home, too.”
Rémy and I walk to the queen’s chambers. His strides are heavy blows against the floor.
“Are you still angry with me?” I ask.
He steps ahead of me. His jaw clenches. “This way.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He turns a sharp left.
“I needed to see my sister. Surely you understand that.”
“I don’t understand many things about you. Or your choices,” he says.
Two guards and an attendant step into our path.
“Lady Camellia.” The attendant bows and presents a rose-petal-pink post-balloon.
Sophia.
“You’ve been requested by Her Highness, the princess.”
“I am headed to see the queen.”
She thrusts the post-balloon’s tails into my hands. I open the back of the balloon and remove the letter from its compartment. I open the privacy casing.
Your presence is requested by Her Royal Highness Princess Sophia in her tea pavilion immediately. My mother says you can come see her afterward.
I glance at Rémy. He glares straight ahead.
Does she know the reason I’m meeting with the queen?
“You are to come now.”
In the gardens, a tea pavilion shimmers: a thick white-fur canopy draped over a beautiful low table, set with flowers, pastel teacups, and flickering candles. A cold wind loosens the curls from my Belle-bun as Rémy and I follow the attendant, weaving through the maze of winter shrubbery. A shiver race
s across my skin, and I’m not sure if it’s a reminder that more snow is to come, or if it’s because anger rattles every part of me.
Sophia’s ladies-of-honor sit on plush cushions and feast on petit-foods. Heat-lanterns float overhead, casting a copper glow and warming the inside of the tent.
The attendant announces me. “May I present Lady Camellia, the favorite,” she says with a curtsy.
I bow my head, then look up and spot Auguste sitting to the left of the princess, feeding her grapes one by one.
The sight of him makes my breath catch. He winks.
“How are you feeling, Your Highness?” I pretend to show concern.
“Much better. The rash is gone. The poison is out of me. I’m back to feeling like myself.”
“And now you’re ready to play,” Auguste adds, which makes her giggle.
“I am.” She feeds her teacup elephant, Zo, a carrot and pets her head. “Come sit. We’re having a debate.” If it weren’t for the royal Orléans emblem hanging around her neck, she’d be unrecognizable. Her hair is like Hana’s—bone straight, black with golden streaks, and soaring down her back.
I stare for a second too long.
“Don’t be jealous, Camellia,” she coos. “I had to get one final look out of Ivy before she was sent home.”
“And she knew I preferred brunettes,” Auguste adds. “Curlyhaired, but—”
“No one cares what you prefer, Auguste Fabry,” she says with a laugh. “A newsie challenged me to do something different—to not have blond hair for once. I rise to every challenge given to me.” She fixates on me, waiting for me to meet her gaze. “But don’t be jealous, you’re still my favorite.” She blows me a kiss. “For now.” She pats a nearby cushion. “Come, sit beside me.”
I ease down beside her like I’m getting used to hot water in a bathtub.
She gives me a playful shove, and I topple over.
Gabrielle and Sophia laugh. My cheeks flush, and I worry my anger will explode out of me any minute.
“Be careful. You almost sat on Zo.” Her teacup elephant peeks above the cushion.
“My apologies,” I say.
The Belles Page 29
