If this were a morning at home, the sound-box would’ve woken us. Breakfast would be served on the veranda. Hana would be the last one out of her room and the first to complain about cold hotcakes and picked-over fruit. We would bathe, dress, then rush off for lessons, where Du Barry would have a list of assignments for us.
But this is the first day of my new life.
The Belle-apartment corridor buzzes with activity. Flower garlands droop from the ceiling like beautiful spiderwebs. Morning-lanterns drift overhead. Teapots cry out with steam. People move in and out, carrying parcels and linens and trays.
“What’s your name?” I ask the servant.
“It doesn’t matter.” She looks down and continues to move forward.
“Yes, it does. Please tell me.”
“Bree, my lady,” she whispers.
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you, too, my lady.”
We pause before the main salon doors. I shiver.
“She’s waiting,” Bree whispers.
I shift my weight from left to right, right to left, as she leads me forward. “How angry is she?”
“She’s eaten a whole tray of citron tarts.”
She opens the door. Du Barry sits in a high-backed chair, facing the fireplace. She clenches a jade cigarette holder between her fingernails. The end burns as bright as the flames in the hearth. She grunts, inspecting a tray of Belle-pots and rouge-sticks, and gives notes to Elisabeth.
Bree leads me forward and into the adjacent seat. She pats my shoulder before slipping out of the room.
“The testers are complete. The windy season’s colors are in: bright cobalt, misty mauve, cognac, purple-red wine, radiant orchid, cypress green, and storm gray. Madam Pompadour sent her daughters with new pomander beads to consider for the cold season. The scents will be lovely. Juniper berry, lavender, and snow-melons. They’ve used sky pearls from the Glass Isles to hold the perfume. Every woman in Orléans will want these for her toilette box,” Du Barry says. “Aren’t they gorgeous, Elisabeth?”
“Yes, Maman. Will fetch many leas,” Elisabeth says.
I ease into conversation with them. “When will the queen release her official announcement regarding toilette-box allotments?”
“Soon, and we shall be ready when she does.” She waves at the servants to take the tray from the side table. Then she faces me, her eyes full of disappointment. “You did not follow protocol last night, Camellia.”
Elisabeth gulps down her tea and starts to cough, then apologizes. I swallow and tell myself not to break eye contact with Du Barry. Her steely blue eyes burn into mine. I try not to be the little girl who always jumps as soon as she walks into a room. I try to be the girl who isn’t afraid of anything. Or anyone. But a twinge of fear grows inside me despite myself.
“Though your exhibition was quite enchanting and clever, I’m concerned. And I’ve spoken with the Beauty Minister.” The servants display a platter of sweets before her. She pops a raspberry cream puff in her mouth, chewing quickly, then takes three madeleine cookies. “You were told to use the second arcana to provide the look laid out in your carnaval dossier. Small changes that demonstrate you’re ready to serve the great land of Orléans. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Your blatant disregard for the rules, Camellia, in front of the entire population of Orléans, has put us in a compromised situation—do we disqualify you from being the favorite, or allow you to be considered despite this? In order to be a successful Belle, you must be able to follow instructions. It was reckless, and reminded me of all the low marks you received during your training because you simply ignored the rules. You just can’t—”
“The crowd loved it.” The words bubble up and brim over my lips. Elisabeth puts a hand over her mouth. Servants re-enter the room with tea carts. Bree serves me tea and almost drops the teacup in my lap. I gently take it from her. I worked so hard to get that response from the crowd. I won’t let her erase it like a picture wiped from a chalkboard.
Du Barry’s shoulders crumple like I’ve hit her. Her sharp eyes narrow, waiting for me to look away, but I don’t. Anger rises inside me. I thought she would be happy with the crowd’s response.
“Disrespect will not be tolerated,” she says. “Rule-breaking will be punished.”
The teacup in my hand wobbles. I drop my gaze. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“This isn’t a game to be won,” Du Barry says. “These traditions have been in place for hundreds of years. Time-honored and tested—they keep us all safe. You think you showed the world what you can do? You think they were amused? Really, what you did was let the queen know that you can’t follow directions. That you’re more interested in what you want than what your client might want.”
The possibility of being the favorite shrivels like a dying flower. Du Barry’s words dry out each and every petal, and snap the stem.
“You showed Her Majesty that you may not be trusted to carry on the work of the Belles in the way it should be carried out—that although you’re talented enough to be the favorite, maybe you’re not disciplined enough for such a grand title. Too risky to be picked. Too wild to take over such a hallowed responsibility. And all that pomp and circumstance lowered your Aura arcana level significantly.”
Her words link together into a chain that digs its way under my skin, all the way to my heart. I think of the little girl, Holly, standing on the platform. I think of the flower chrysalis and the banners flashing her new face. I think of the grinning crowd and remember the chants. The cleverness of that moment drains away. The stupidity of my feat replaces it all.
“Using your powers to manipulate fabric and plants pushes the arcana outside of its intended use. It weakens it.” She releases her deepest and longest sigh yet. “You’ve always had an excessive appetite—an ambitious soul.” She spits each word out at me. “But, Camellia, ambition leads to insanity. The God of Madness feeds on it.”
“I thought I was supposed to show them all what I could do. Isn’t that the point of the carnaval?” I say with caution.
Du Barry snaps back in her chair. “Have you been paying attention during your studies? Has all this been lost on you?”
“Of course not.” I ball up my fists. “I just don’t under—”
“That’s right. You don’t understand. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have done something so foolish. The point is to show them that you’re strong enough to complete your role. That you’re capable, confident, and proficient in the arcana. That you can serve this great world.” Du Barry sets her teacup down. “Your little exhibition could’ve set us back. There was a time when everyone wanted to be the same. Remember your history lessons? The reign of Queen Ann-Marie II of the Verdun Dynasty. People were indistinguishable from one another. Imagine if everyone went around wanting to look like you. What if they’d only pay if they could have your features? There’d be millions of your lookalikes walking around. We’d be better off being gray again. Beauty is variety. Beauty is change.”
I wouldn’t want the world to look like me. I wouldn’t want everyone to look the same. Shame and embarrassment ripple through my core, and my stomach threatens to empty. I avoid my reflection in the mirror over the fireplace mantel.
“We will not have any more displays like these again. You are to follow the rules and stay on the path. Understood?”
I nod.
“And if you can’t, we will be forced to take more drastic measures. Simply because you’re born a Belle doesn’t mean you’re entitled to be one,” Du Barry says.
Her words slam into me. I drop the teacup. Bree rushes to help me. We wipe at the streaks of brown on my day dress. My wrist is puffy and red from the burn of hot liquid. But nothing shocks me more than Du Barry’s words. What does she mean, I’m not entitled to be a Belle? I’m one of only six. What else could I be? Where would I live? What would I do? Would the Goddess of Beauty take away her blessing, my arcana? Would I become a Gris? The questions knock around in my
head.
“I bet, in all your vigorous plotting, you didn’t learn about Heather Beauregard.”
“I tried to tell her about that Belle once, but Camellia never likes to listen, Mother.” Elisabeth smiles at me.
I remain expressionless, even though I’d love to slap the smug grin off her face. I don’t want Du Barry to know the worries and questions humming inside me. I don’t want Elisabeth to see that she’s gotten to me.
“She was three generations before your mother. A very talented Belle, named the favorite. But she didn’t follow my instructions, or respect the honor that the Goddess of Beauty bestowed upon me. So I took her from court and kept her at La Maison Rouge. I never let her return to court. I will do that again if you can’t fall in line. There’s far too much passion in your blood, Camellia.”
She waves to Bree, and I’m dismissed. I stand and walk to the door with the servant at my side. Each beat of my heart echoes in my ears.
“Whether you’re chosen to be here or are assigned to one of the teahouses, I can bring you home at any time,” Du Barry says. “Elisabeth will be watching. I will be watching. Now, fetch Edel.”
The doors close behind me.
9
Through breakfast and then bathing in the onsen, Du Barry’s words drum through me like a vibration whose ripple won’t stop. I’m floating outside of everything around me, unable to stay anchored. After lunch, I stand on a seamstress block in a slip and hooped petticoat in the Royal Dress Salon. Servants drape tape-ribbons along our waists and arms and legs, and scribble numbers on parchment pages.
Elisabeth watches us. The memory of the morning conversation creeps over me again.
“What happened with Du Barry?” Padma asks me. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I try to smile. Everything will be fine.
“You don’t look it.” Hana reaches over to rub my shoulder.
“She threatened me,” Edel says proudly.
Elisabeth clears her throat, and Edel speaks even louder. “She got so mad, I thought a vein would pop right out of her neck.”
“Do you take anything seriously?” Amber asks.
“You do enough of that for all of us,” Edel replies. “Du Barry told me she’d have the Beauty Minister speak with me. Like I’m supposed to be afraid or something.” She laughs, but I can’t stop being scared. I don’t want this to slip away.
“I can’t tell if the Beauty Minister is mean or nice,” Hana says. “I haven’t decided what I think of her yet.”
“Who cares if she’s nice?” Edel fusses with the servant attempting to measure her arms. “I don’t plan on talking with her about my behavior.”
“She’s been elected twice,” Valerie says, then touches her stomach. “Why can’t one of you give me a smaller waist? My numbers are bigger than yours.”
“It would make us sick, Valerie,” Amber snaps.
“I know . . . I was just—” Valerie’s tawny brown skin pinkens, and she frowns.
“Still upset, Amber?” Edel’s pale eyebrow lifts. “Because there’s no excuse for your annoying temperament after we’ve had such a delicious lunch.”
Padma tsks her tongue like Du Barry.
Hana shakes her head.
“Just stating the truth,” Amber says.
“Well, your body is a pole,” Edel says. “Nobody would want you, even if you were interested in experiencing it.”
“You don’t have to be rude. I swear, you’re the most unmannered of us all,” Amber says. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Valerie. The Goddess of Beauty made you just the way she wanted you. At least you have breasts.”
“Yes, and you’re flat as a crepe, Amber.” Edel leaps off her block, shoving away another servant. “Hourglass figures and beautiful round bodies will always be coveted if I’m the favorite.” She grabs Valerie and pulls her down as well. She hooks her arms around her waist, nuzzling her face into Valerie’s neck. “I’d give anything to be shaped like you.”
Valerie giggles. Edel reaches for me, yanking me down with them. She spins us around and around. We laugh and screech and skip away from the servants.
“Don’t be so sad, or let Du Barry get to you, little fox,” Edel whispers. “Who cares what she says?”
Elisabeth tugs at us. “Get back to your places.”
“No.” Edel blows her a kiss.
I wish I could be more like Edel—want this life a little less.
“Back to your dress blocks,” the servants say.
We keep spinning.
“Girls!” Elisabeth shouts.
We turn again and again. We don’t stop. Hana joins us. Amber sighs. Padma laughs hysterically.
“There will be order,” Elisabeth hollers.
“There will be order,” Edel parrots, and we all giggle.
“Ladies, please. We must proceed,” one of the seamstresses says.
The doors snap open.
Edel, Valerie, Hana, and I freeze. Amber and Padma scream and try to cover themselves.
“Royal Fashion Minister Gustave du Polignac,” an attendant announces.
“Why, hello!” A purple-suited man saunters in, followed by a train of powdered and prim-looking men carrying notebooks, and a set of tailors and seamstresses who wheel in massive spinning looms. “I see we have quite the festivities going on in here. And not to worry, girls, there’s nothing I haven’t seen.” The man has beautiful features, with a deep-brown face freckled like a chocolate chip cookie. He presses a hand to his chest, drumming jeweled fingernails.
The Beauty Minister trails behind him. Her dark hair is fashioned into a bird’s nest, complete with a pair of live blue jays in it. They chirp out at us. She smiles at me, and her teeth look stark white like the keys of a piano.
“They’re a spirited bunch,” he says to the Beauty Minister. He kisses both of her cheeks, careful not to leave behind the bright purple rouge-stick he wears.
Du Barry enters last, starting a round of applause. The rest of us join in.
The Fashion Minister bows, then smiles up at us. I’ve seen him in newspapers, demonstrating the proper way to wear a corset according to imperial beauty laws—tight enough to fit within the desirable measurements for a proper citizen of Orléans, but fashionable enough to create the perfect silhouette, like an hourglass. He’s the fashion tastemaker of the kingdom, and is in charge of all garment production. “At your service.”
“He’s here to work his magic,” the Beauty Minister says, “with his team.”
The other well-dressed men smile at her, and a few blush.
“Yes, my dandies and I are here to the rescue. A Belle needs an elegant wardrobe, just like an artist needs a variety of ink and paint.” He waves a gold-tipped cane in the air. His heels click and clack as he circles us, his gaze like a strong beam of light. He leans in and whispers, “Welcome to court.”
We jump, and then laugh.
“Stop frightening them, Gustave. You know they’re not used to men lurking about,” the Beauty Minister says.
“No need to be afraid of me, little dolls. I’m so uninterested in female comfort. I’m here to make sure you always have the proper dress to wear. I would dare say—upon penalty of death—that fashion is the most important element of beauty.”
The Beauty Minister gives him a light push. They kiss each other’s cheeks again.
“You are looking well,” he purrs.
One of the Fashion Minister’s attendants slides his ermine-lined robe from his shoulders, exposing a gold medallion with his royal minister emblem. Another attendant fluffs his hair with a wide-tooth comb. He waves a flash hand made of diamonds around, thanking his team.
He inspects Elisabeth. “Is this the little Du Barry, here at court to learn the ropes?”
She curtsies. “I’m Elisabeth Amie Lange Du Barry, daughter of the Gardien de la Belle-Rose, and I know plenty about court.”
“But do you know the slightest thing about beauty?” he asks. “By the look of you, I’d
say not.”
Edel chuckles, but a look from Du Barry silences her.
“Of course she does, Gustave; she is my daughter,” Du Barry says with pride.
He does a lap around Elisabeth, then returns to Du Barry’s side. “There’s much work to be done, Ana, for her to fill your shoes.” He kisses the reluctant cheek offered up by Du Barry. “But for now, it’s time to dress the Belles, and for the whole world to find out who has been chosen.”
Servants put up privacy screens and unpack trunks. Silks, woolens, crinolines, cottons, satins, taffetas, tulles, and velvets are stretched over long tables by teams of people. Tiered trays hold buttons, lace, ribbons, gems, jewels, and hundreds of other baubles. A servant rushes me behind a screen and helps me up on a dress block. She unties the sash around my slip, undoes the petticoat ribbons, and removes my crinoline. A seamstress joins us, towing a kit.
“What kind of dress will you make?” I ask.
“The kind the Fashion Minister told me to. He picked out colors for you based on your complexion.” She sits at a massive machine that boasts three spindle wheels and two looms. Her thick hands lace the string through a series of loops and pegs. She presses her foot on a paddle. The machine roars to life, creaking like a rickety carriage on a cobblestone street. Red, black, and white threads zip in and around a set of dowels.
Even though I’ve been dressed and measured and primped so many times, I still hate the feeling in these moments that my body doesn’t belong to me. I become a doll—an object to be embellished. I wonder if this is how women feel on our treatment tables. I wish I could pick out my own dress. I’d choose something simple—a shade of red to match Maman’s hair, a high waist with a cream waist-sash, and a sweeping skirt that flows out like a silk river behind me.
Another servant helps me into a robe and leads me to the bathing chamber for our second bath of the day. Beauty-lanterns cast a warm light on pink-tiled walls and gilded mirrors. A series of claw-footed tubs lines one side.
The Belles Page 6