The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

She eyes me. Zo rubs her tiny trunk along my dress ribbons. I catch the warm little trunk like a worm, and it wraps around my finger. Her gray color is beautiful, unlike the Gris. Rich and deep, like ocean stones. The teacup elephant scratches her blue-painted nails on my dress, and flashes me the chrysanthemum flower on her belly. I rub it, and she makes a happy sound.

  “Zo,” Sophia calls, and the little pet turns away from me, stretching her trunk in the opposite direction. “Leave Camellia alone. She has to join the glorious conversation.”

  The little creature flops down on a nearby cushion, her legs splaying in all directions.

  A strong wind whooshes against the canopy. The heatlanterns hiss and crackle and send the scent of woody charcoal through the pavilion. Gabrielle steals Claudine’s pastry, poking at her waist. Henrietta-Marie sits in the far corner with her nose in a book. Singe bats the heat-lantern ribbons.

  “We were just arguing about whether I should have you change Auguste’s dreadful manner if I decide to choose him,” Sophia says.

  He laughs, then looks at me, trying to make eye contact. I stare into my lap.

  “You could do that, right?” she asks.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I say, keeping my answers clipped.

  “Could you make him into a bumbling fool?”

  “I gather you already think I am that,” he teases.

  “Maybe.” Sophia turns back to me. “Could you make him obey my every command?”

  “Our aim is to enhance, Your Highness. The first arcana is meant to refine one’s natural disposition, or help one develop his or her talents, so that he or she may meet their goals.” I sound exactly how Du Barry wants me to. A parrot. A tool, ready to be used. “Sometimes one’s demeanor can become an obstacle for them.”

  Our eyes meet. Hers grow wide with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. Maybe if I had been successful in changing her manner, her mother would trust her to be queen.

  “What type of disposition should I choose for him? Definitely get rid of the ego. The arrogance—though cute at times—must be lessened.” She ticks off each thing on her fingers. “Girls, what do you think?”

  “Camellia could make him humbler,” Gabrielle says.

  “Sweeter,” Henrietta-Marie offers, barely glancing up from her book.

  He wiggles his cravat as if it’s too tight around his neck, then smiles at each girl.

  “Claudine?” Sophia says.

  She glances up from a tray of tarts. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. “No opinion.”

  Sophia scoffs.

  “She’s in a bad mood,” Gabrielle says, rolling her eyes.

  “Shut up, Gabrielle,” Claudine snaps.

  Gabrielle continues: “The second suitor you set her up with has refused to go on a date with her. She’s been eating her feelings all morning.”

  “I will outlaw bad moods—especially for my official ladies-ofhonor—when I am queen.” Sophia picks over the trays of cherry puffs, honey tarts, macarons, and petit-cakes.

  I glare at her. You’ll never be queen.

  “Regent queen,” Claudine corrects.

  Sophia’s hand freezes before her mouth. A peach macaron falls into her lap.

  “Completely unnecessary,” Gabrielle says. “And rude.”

  “Well, won’t you just be a regent queen? Will you get to change laws?” Claudine softens her voice. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was just saying . . . Ignore me. I’m having a bad day. . . . I misspoke.”

  The tent goes silent, the kind of quiet that’s laced with lightning and heat and thunder.

  “Thank you for reminding me that I will never be queen on account of my sister,” Sophia snaps, her voice booming.

  “I’m—I’m—” Claudine stammers out, a deep blush climbing through her entire body.

  “Why don’t you leave, Claudine?” Gabrielle says.

  “Fine.” Claudine stumbles to her feet. “Sophia, I didn’t mean to be . . .”

  Gabrielle puts a hand in the air. “You’re making it worse.”

  Claudine storms out. I wish I could leave with her. Gabrielle reaches over to Sophia and strokes her hair. “Now that she’s gone, maybe we can all actually have some fun.”

  Sophia’s frown softens. Singe kisses her cheek and feeds her a grape. Zo lets out a little trumpet noise.

  “Could you make someone ugly?” Gabrielle asks me, which brings a sick smile to Sophia’s face.

  “That was my next question,” Sophia says.

  “You made me give Astrid Pompadour a pig nose. I think that was rather ugly.”

  The table bursts with laughter. Except for Auguste. He tenses.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Sophia says. “And I hear that she’s had it corrected.”

  “Oh, has she?” I ask.

  “Yes, even though I gave instructions to all the teahouses to refuse treatment to her. Someone has disobeyed me.”

  “Maybe she went to La Maison Rouge,” Henrietta-Marie suggests tentatively. Servants rush in to clear plates and refresh drinks and set down more savory bites and sweet treats. Sophia grabs the arm of the nearest servant. The woman is startled and drops a glass. It shatters on the ground.

  “Leave it,” Sophia says. “It’s fine.” She turns back to me. “What if I wanted to test it? See if you can land this woman in the tattler Ugly Papers at the end of the year.”

  The servant squawks with fear.

  “Wouldn’t that be wrong, Your Highness?” I say.

  Sophia lets the servant’s hand go, and the woman races from the tent. “You must be very tired, Camellia. Maybe that’s why you’re not in a pleasant mood either.” She glares at me. “We should all retire to our rooms.”

  I stand, more than happy to make my escape.

  “Not you, Camellia, not yet. Linger behind a moment.”

  I freeze mid-step.

  Auguste hovers in the tent’s doorway. His eyes find mine, finally. They hold questions and concerns. I glance away.

  “Will you walk with me, Your Highness? Another snowstorm is coming in a few hours. I’d love to catch the first flakes,” Auguste says.

  “No,” she snaps.

  He looks crestfallen.

  “Leave. Camellia and I have business to attend to.”

  “As you wish.” He bows, looks at me one last time, then ducks out of the tent.

  The table clears, and her ladies-of-honor kiss her and exit. Sophia rises from her seat and plucks one of the cream tarts from a tiered dessert platter. She takes small nibbles. Just like her teacup monkey, Singe. The cherries stain her lips red.

  Sweat slicks my skin. I gnaw at my bottom lip. Anger bubbles up inside me, threatening to boil over.

  “I am a princess,” she says. “I will be a regent queen.” She fixes her gaze on me. “Did they teach that to you?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t look at her. I stare straight ahead.

  She walks over and stands so close to me that with each breath I take, I inhale a mix of her flowery perfume and the tart she just consumed. “You are to answer my questions,” she spits.

  “Yes, Your Highness. I know you will be queen.”

  “Did they teach you what queens do?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “What did they say?”

  “The kingdom of Orléans is ruled by queens; the crown is passed down through the women of your family. Queens ensure the proper governance of the kingdom and maintenance of its well-being.”

  She leans in so close she could kiss me if she wanted to. “Wrong!” The word pelts my face. I refuse to move a muscle. “Queens do whatever they please.”

  Singe dances along the ground, then climbs up her skirts and perches on her shoulder. He pets her now-flushed cheeks and kisses her several times. She blows him a kiss in return.

  A servant enters the tent toting a clearing-tray. “Leave at once,” Sophia barks. “And do not come in again until you’re sent for.”

  The servant cowers away.

  I maintain
a blank expression.

  I’m not afraid of you.

  Singe covers his face with his hands.

  “Did you see how quickly she followed orders? How she didn’t question me? They were supposed to teach you that. Du Barry was supposed to teach you to have reverence and respect for your queen.”

  “But you aren’t the queen,” I say. “Not yet.”

  And you won’t be if I have anything to do with it.

  Sophia rushes close again. “What did you say?”

  I crane my face away from hers. She takes hold of my chin, forcing me to look her in the eyes. Her pupils flash with rage. Singe peeks out at me from behind her towering hair. She runs her fingers over my face.

  I clench my teeth and scowl.

  “Don’t move.” She continues over my lips, down my neck, my chest and arms. She lifts my right hand in the air. “You really should have a moon manicure. I’ll have my nail attendant do one for you. When I am regent queen, I will mandate it. Even for Belles. Everything about a person should be beautiful.” Her grip tightens around my hand, and her jewel-tipped nails dig into the skin.

  I cry out and try to pull away.

  “I told you not to move.” She grits her teeth. “Don’t move, Belle, or I’ll break your hand. A Belle with a broken hand won’t be a very good Belle. Certainly not the favorite Belle. Perhaps I’ll tell my mother that we need to name a new favorite again. Just like I did with Ambrosia. I bet one of your other sisters would gladly take your place. Hana, perhaps? Or Valeria? She cried after the Belle assignments were announced. Maybe I’ll choose Ambrosia again. Bring her back for another round.” She tightens her grip on my hand.

  I double over in pain. The pressure. Heat. Swelling. A popping sensation. My other fist balls up. I try to shove at her. She’s a solid block in front of me and just squeezes harder.

  Sophia turns her head but doesn’t loosen her grip. “Zo, dear.”

  The little teacup elephant peeks out from beneath the thick tablecloth. Only her trunk shows.

  “Zo, my sweet dear, come out.”

  She inches forward, eyes down and little feet twitching. Even she’s afraid.

  “Please leave. I don’t want you to see this. Wait for me near the tent.”

  The elephant turns and trots off.

  “Singe.” Sophia looks up at him. “You too. Stay with Zo.” Singe leaps down from Sophia’s shoulder and scampers off. Sophia smiles at me with soft lips, the corner of her mouth lifting. It’s the smile from every single portrait, painting, newspaper, tattler, and scandal sheet. “See, even they know how to obey.”

  I seethe.

  “Don’t ever disobey me.”

  I clench my teeth.

  “Did you hear me?”

  I press my lips together. She clamps down harder until I cry out again.

  “Yes, I heard you.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  She twists my wrist even tighter. “You owe me an apology. Princesses aren’t treated in this way.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I swear, Your Highness. I’m sorry.”

  Finally, she releases me. I stumble back, cradling my hand. Sophia leans in and kisses my nose, then calls for servants.

  “Summon her personal guard. Tell him there’s been a small accident. That poor Camille must be taken to the Palace Infirmary at once. Alert the royal doctor.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the woman says and disappears.

  Another servant drapes Sophia’s shoulders with a white floor-length coat, and she’s led from the tent. I cradle my hand. The pain is unbearable. Rémy appears, and I’ve never been so glad to see him. Behind him, a servant wheels in a rolling chair.

  “I can walk,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t,” Rémy replies, surveying my hand. “We’ll get there faster.”

  He lifts me up and deposits me gently in the chair.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  A hood lifts above my head: a privacy canopy, shielding me from view. Unruly tears fall down my cheeks. I’m too upset to answer. I don’t want him to know I’m crying. Rémy walks beside the chair as it tramples over lightly frosted ground.

  “They said you lifted your caisse by yourself and hurt your hand, but you didn’t have it with you. I brought you there empty-handed.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say.

  “I can’t protect you if you don’t start telling me the truth.”

  You can’t protect me from her. I have to protect myself.

  We reenter the palace. Whispers follow us. Rémy shoos away trailing newsies trying to figure out how the favorite landed herself in a rolling chair. We take one of the golden lifts to a higher floor.

  The journey to the Palace Infirmary feels long. I’m pushed along winding corridors and balconies. The doors of the Palace Infirmary glow bright with lanterns, the royal apothecary emblem burned into their sides. Their light pushes through the privacy curtain.

  Rémy shoves the doors open. I’m wheeled inside. The attending nurse lifts the hooded veil and helps me up.

  “My goodness, what happened?” She shepherds me into a private area. “We must also check your levels. The doctor will be in soon.” She fills a tray with needles and takes out the arcana meter from her pocket. “It looks like you’ve broken those fingers. The last two. Treacherous work, being a Belle at court, isn’t it? Fixing up spoiled little girls and boys.”

  She tries to make me laugh.

  I can’t. My thoughts storm and the pain throbs.

  “Her Royal Highness sent word that you were trying to lift your beauty caisse. Du Barry warned that you were stubborn and a bit unruly. But doing the servants’ work, young lady?” She pats my arm. “You shouldn’t have. Rest now, and the doctor will have these bones reset in no time. Your arcana will help them heal quickly.”

  “The arcana don’t heal,” I grumble.

  “Aye, but their proteins can refresh, and that speeds the healing.”

  The arcana refresh.

  The arcana rejuvenate.

  The blood proteins.

  Princess Charlotte.

  “Where is my personal servant, Bree?” I ask.

  “I will send for her.”

  I sink back into the chair. I’m leeched, stuffed with food and two pots of Belle-rose tea, and my fingers are set and wrapped in a splint. Rémy takes his place outside the doors, and I close my eyes to drift in and out of a fitful sleep.

  “Camellia.”

  “Camellia.”

  I wake to whispers, then Bree’s concerned face.

  “What happened?”

  “Sophia.”

  She runs gentle fingers over my hand.

  “I need you to find the queen’s Belle, Arabella. Tell her to come to me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “As quickly as you can.”

  Bree nods, then scurries off. I watch an hourglass on a shelf. It expires before Arabella arrives.

  She rushes to the bed. Her veil blends into the darkness of the room.

  “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “As well as I can be.”

  She examines my hand, then scrunches back the ruffled sleeves on her dress to expose a series of scars that look like quill scratches and bite marks. “Sophia’s anger can bite.”

  “Tell the queen I’m ready to help Charlotte. I’ll do whatever I can.” I lift my cast. “Broken hand and all.”

  “Thank the goddess,” she whispers.

  44

  I pace my bedroom, waiting for Arabella or the queen’s post or her guards. I cradle my splinted hand. The day dims into evening, and evening fades into night, and an open window carries the symphony of laughter and cheerful voices into my room. I step onto the balcony and look out on the imperial carriages clustered down below. The moon burns dull white and winks light over their gilded frames. Sophia must be having another par
ty.

  Bree opens the door.

  “Is she here?”

  “Who, my lady?”

  “Arabella?”

  “No, my lady, just the dinner cart.” A flurry of post-balloons trail her.

  “What are all of those?” I ask.

  “The newsies found out about your hand,” she says. “And thus, the entire kingdom.”

  The main salon is filled wall to wall with post-balloons. Currant red. Emerald. Dark plum. Onyx. Cerulean. Saffron. Primrose. Jade. Quicksilver. Elisabeth complains and grumbles, smacking them left and right. They dodge her angry swings and drift higher toward the ceiling.

  One catches my eye. It’s shaped like a black ship in the Royal Harbor. I reach for it. My heart is starting to beat faster. I remove the note from the back.

  Camille,

  Lifting heavy objects doesn’t seem like it suits you. Please stop.

  Feel better. Write me. But most likely, you won’t, because you’re very important and will receive a dozen of these or more. Nonetheless, I challenge you to write me back.

  Yours,

  Auguste

  A smile warms my entire body. The only bright moment of today.

  The Belle-apartment doors snap open. I fill with sudden relief.

  Arabella.

  I rush forward.

  “Her Royal Highness, Princess Sophia, House of Orléans,” an attendant announces. “Followed by her ladies-of-honor and the Royal Fashion Minister, Gustave du Polignac.”

  I freeze, then slip the note down the front of my dress.

  Does Sophia know about my message to the queen? Has something happened to Arabella?

  Sophia runs over to me. “How are you, my little love?” She bats her long eyelashes and purses her lips. Her mouth is like a miniature pink sweetheart pastry from one of the patisserie windows in Trianon. There isn’t a single trace of our earlier fight.

  I step back, shielding my hand. “I’m fine.”

  She smiles. “I’ve brought you dinner. It’s the least I can do. I was angry earlier. Claudine provoked me. Forgive me, will you?” She turns to Claudine. “Apologize for provoking me, Claudine,” she hollers.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Claudine curtsies. “I take full responsibility. I’m sorry, Camellia. It’s all my fault.”

  Servants flood through the doors, pushing steaming carts and carrying heavy trays. An entire feast is laid out before me in seconds. Beautiful flowers adorn the platters—roses, edelweiss, bloodroot, violets, laurels, and tulips. Her ladies-of-honor find seats, eyeing the army of post-balloons overhead.