The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  I remove pots of ground graphite from my beauty caisse and embed the flakes in the shafts of hair, so now the strands almost shimmer.

  Her breathing quickens.

  “I’m finished, Your Highness.”

  Sophia opens her eyes and gazes into the mirror. A smile overtakes her face. Gabrielle’s mouth hangs open. Henrietta-Maria drops her book. Claudine freezes, pastry hovering right at her lips.

  “I’ve never seen . . .” Sophia starts to say, but stops to stand and admire herself. She twirls and lets her hair bloom all around her, then leans over to kiss my cheek. I jump back in surprise. Claudine, Gabrielle, and Henrietta-Maria rush forward.

  I fill with satisfaction. “Let me also adjust your makeup to match.”

  “You can change someone’s makeup?” Gabrielle asks.

  “Well, I’m not supposed to, but I don’t think any of you will tell Madam Du Barry.” I wink, trying to get them to laugh. They simply stare at me with eager eyes and pursed lips.

  I pull the head off a nearby rose. I stick it inside the soft belly of a cake of blush-crème on her vanity. The color drains from the rose as I add deeper red and white pigments to the makeup. I watch and wait for their reactions.

  The girls applaud my tiny beauty enhancement.

  “Splendid!”

  “How clever!”

  “That was beautiful.”

  I add the new powder to Princess Sophia’s cheeks with a brush. When I am done, her eyes shimmer with delight. “May you always find beauty, Your Highness,” I say.

  The royal attendant returns to escort us to the gardens. Sophia slips her hand in mine. “We’re going to be the closest of friends,” she whispers. “I just know it.”

  20

  Marble stairs lead down into the palace garden for Sophia’s birthday game. Lady courtiers hand out beautiful masks. Party guests trample ahead, fixing the masks to their faces, each determined to be the first to win the treasure hunt. Sophia and her ladies stop to pose for portraits and talk to newsies. Young men and women mingle, eager to enter the labyrinth of hedges and begin the game.

  I like watching how the people smile, touch, and laugh with one another. Garden-lanterns linger above the giant geometric hedges, and blimps carry small candles, gliding along the intricate maze. I put on my mask; the sunbird feathers protrude over my hair like ram horns. I gather up my dress and skip along. I need to find my sisters. I need to find Amber.

  “Stay close,” Rémy says.

  “No.” I duck into the nearest lane.

  He grabs for my arm, but I slip out of reach. I like how his face twists with annoyance and his eyes flash with irritation. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him.

  “This is not a time to play,” he grumbles. “Your safety—”

  “But it is the perfect time. It’s a game!”

  I head for the thickest pocket of people as Rémy struggles to politely navigate through the crowd. He’s big and broad and unable to slip through the small gaps in the crowd like I can. I make aimless turns until I can’t see him anymore. Dark garden passages fill with revelers and laughter. I join them. I ignore the dangers of being separated from my guard. I ignore the fact that Maman and Du Barry would be upset with me for breaking protocol.

  I imagine my sisters by my side: Edel, tasting the various treats offered in each pavilion and congratulating me on continuing to break the rules; Padma, collecting every interesting flower she comes across; Hana, talking to all the boys and interviewing the girls about falling in love; Valerie, dancing and singing until our ears can’t handle it any longer; and Amber and I, finding corners to whisper in. I’d ask her what happened. I’d apologize for our fight.

  Once I feel that I’ve thoroughly lost Rémy, I break from the crowd, heading in the opposite direction. Cool air finds its way into the fur bolero draped over my shoulders, and I squeeze it tightly closed. The promise of snowy months feels closer. I run my hands over orange and yellow leaves. They remind me of the color of Amber’s hair, and little-girl memories of weaving flower petals into each other’s braids. Twin feelings of anger and sadness flush through me.

  I meander through the passages, turning left and right, right and left. Statues stand at sharp corners, and fountains spray rainbow-colored water in the air. Laughing ladies stream past with gentlemen trailing behind them. They smile and point at me, and whisper my name alongside the words favorite and Belle and beauty. Even with the mask, they recognize me.

  Jeweled pavilions and gazebos dot garden lanes, serving different teas, coffees, and sweets. Music floats out of some, giggles burst from others, and the scent of sweet pastries mingles with the nectar of flowers. I scan pockets of people, looking for Belle-buns.

  The sun sinks fully below the horizon. The night-lanterns are lit. I trample over a wooden bridge that crosses a small garden river, an offshoot of the Golden Palace River that runs the perimeter of the palace grounds. I make another turn and spot Sophia’s dress. The jewels and feathers glow like fluorescent insects in the darkness, and her brilliant hair sparkles under the lanterns.

  I crane my neck to see around the hedge. She’s wrapped in the arms of a young man—legs, arms, and lips locked together. Their masks lie on the ground. The green trim of his jacket reveals he’s from the mercantile House of Clothiers, and as such is ineligible to be her fiancé. He claws at her dress like it’s a present he’s desperate to unwrap. She directs his hands, moves his head from left to right, in complete control of his every touch and kiss. My fingers fly up to cover my mouth.

  I’m careful to stay out of sight. Her ladies-of-honor fan out around her like a guard, surveying the area, running off people who wander by. Seeing his hands lifting her dress makes my body warm, like I’m preparing to use the arcana. The veins in my arms and legs rise. A curiosity inside me awakens.

  I shudder from the ridiculousness of my thoughts. I turn to leave, but step on a branch. It cracks.

  I freeze.

  Sophia stops kissing the young man. She looks over his shoulder and motions to one of her ladies.

  Gabrielle walks forward. “Who’s there?” Her beautiful skin blends into the dark corners of the garden.

  I take a deep breath, grab hold of my skirts, and run. I turn left and right and left again without a plan. I hear the girls shouting out behind me. I hope they can’t tell who I am. I don’t stop until my lungs threaten to give out. I might never catch my breath again.

  My foot catches on a branch and I topple over in a heap. My legs ache, and sweat collects beneath my mask. I half want to cry, wishing my sisters were with me, but then find myself laughing instead—laughing at the craziness of it all. I think of Sophia’s disheveled face, rouge-stick ringing her mouth and his; her hair, now a chaos of strands; of Gabrielle’s angry expression.

  “You’ve gotten yourself into a mess.” A young man peers around the hedge. Tall and stately, with wavy dark hair, his mask is feathered and makes me think of the swallow birds that sailors paint on their ships. He reaches to remove his mask.

  “Don’t! You’ll lose the game,” I say. But he doesn’t stop, and reveals his face.

  It’s Auguste Fabry. The boy from outside the gate.

  “I’m not likely to win it at this point.” He rubs along the beak of the mask and extends a hand to me.

  I hesitate. The image of Sophia and the boy wrapped in each other’s arms flashes in my head. I don’t take his hand.

  I remove my mask as well. He smiles with recognition, and his eyes pin me in place. A flush of nerves climbs from my stomach to my neck.

  “You’re looking at me like I did something wrong,” I say.

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be.” I try to get to my feet, further tangling myself in the bushes.

  “Why not?” He extends his hand again.

  “Do you always take such risks with your life?” I glance around for Rémy or any onlooker before reaching for it, feeling like I’m reaching across worlds
, oceans, skies, and realms. The warmth of his palm seeps through my lace gloves. My heart flutters like one of the nearby lantern candles. I will it to slow. Once on my feet, I drop his hand and wipe my palm on my dress as if I can be rid of that feeling.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” he says.

  “Neither am I,” I say, even though that’s starting to feel like a lie.

  I brush myself off, but the train of my dress snares in the hedge. I work to loosen it, and he rushes to help.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “You’re stuck. And you’ll rip your dress if you keep it up.” I tense and shiver as his hand presses against the small of my back.

  “Seems like you’re afraid of me,” he says, gently pulling at the folds.

  “I’m not. It’s just—”

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you. I know. We’ve established that fact.” He frees the train of the gown from the hedge. “There’s only a tiny tear. I don’t know why you all wear these dresses. Too much fabric. Isn’t it heavy?”

  “You should try one on.”

  He laughs and tosses his mask into the hedge. Pieces of his hair fall along his face, and he tucks them behind his ear.

  “I’ve seen a million articles about you in the papers. The new favorite. Your name is everywhere.”

  “You mean they have papers where you’re from? Where was it again, the Lost?”

  “It’s the Lynx. Get it right, please. Do not insult her. She’s sensitive.”

  I laugh.

  “I just finished working on her. She’s my first ship. Well, I don’t count the little rowboat my father made for me when I was a child learning to sail. I was saying that the whole kingdom is in a silly frenzy over you.”

  “Silly frenzy?” I say.

  He rubs his hand along the stubble on his face. “I meant, everyone adores you.”

  “Should they not?”

  “You must love it.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about it yet. Have they said anything about my sister?”

  “Aren’t you reading the papers?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I was.”

  He smiles back at me. “They’re calling her the disgraced favorite.”

  The word “disgraced” thuds into my stomach. The pain of it shouts out in all directions. A determination swells inside me. I have to find her. She must be here.

  “But the newsies don’t know which way is up. They just want to sell papers.” He pulls over a night-lantern and ties its tail ribbons to the hedge behind us.

  “Afraid of the dark?”

  “It’s so I can see you better,” he says.

  “Oh,” is all I can manage to say, and I look away from him.

  He stares at me. I feel his eyes drift from my hair to my eyes to my mouth. I turn, ready to walk off and resume the search for my sisters.

  “Does it bother you to be the runner-up, now that you’re here?” he asks.

  His question feels like a slap.

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” he quickly adds.

  “Then what exactly did you mean to say?”

  He plucks a few leaves from my hair. The graze of his fingers sends a ripple through me, along with the realization that I’ve never been touched like this before. It softens the hard edges and fluttery nerves. “Is it difficult to be picked second?”

  “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

  He grins, as if what I’ve said is funny. “That doesn’t answer the question, now does it?”

  “Your question didn’t deserve a response.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “I never said I was nice.”

  “Women are supposed to be sweet. Belles even more so.”

  I make a gagging sound.

  He laughs. “That’s what my mother told me.”

  “And what do you know about Belles?”

  “That they’re magical.”

  I scoff. “Try again.”

  “That they have magical abilities.”

  “Try blessed blood.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That our arcana—not magical abilities, since there’s nothing magical about them—lie within our blood.”

  “Oh,” he says.

  “Do they teach you about us?”

  “A little . . . and if I were you, I’d outlaw that horrible trend of mosaic skin tones. It’s all the rage in the Gold Isles. People are walking around looking like kaleidoscopes.”

  “Good thing you aren’t a Belle.”

  He grins. “Do you have a hard time taking advice?”

  “Do you always like to give your unsolicited opinion?” I try to sound exasperated, but the truth is, I like going back and forth with him.

  “My mother would say so. I guess my father, too. My two older brothers tried to keep me quiet my whole life. I guess it didn’t work. And are you saying that you don’t like my opinions?”

  “I—”

  “Camellia!” Rémy races over. His brow is soaked with sweat. He stares at Auguste and brings his hand to the sword at his hip. “What’s going on here?”

  Auguste laughs. “An imperial guard to your rescue. You are quite important.” He buttons the front of his jacket so Rémy can see his naval emblems. He puts his hands in front of him. “I’m without my dagger. No need to arrest me. I’m off.”

  He saunters away, leaving a trail of heavy laughter. Rémy waits until Auguste is out of sight, then turns to me with fire in his eyes.

  “What were you thinking?” he says. “Running off like that.”

  “I just wanted to explore.”

  “Court isn’t for fun. Not for people like you or me. You’re here to do a service.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t seem to.”

  “I’ve never seen anything.”

  “Not all things are worth seeing,” he says.

  I let Rémy lead me forward. He takes sharp turns, navigating the maze with expert precision. Guests whiz past, their laughter a faint, distant echo. The white marble stairs glow through the darkness as we approach. A girl’s giggle cuts through the garden. Her hair is piled on top of her head with ribbons and jewels that sparkle in the darkness.

  “Wait—” I touch Rémy’s arm. “It’s Hana!” My pulse quickens with excitement.

  I chase after the woman, swelling with happiness by the second.

  “Excuse me.”

  I duck past courtiers.

  “Pardon me.”

  I call out, “Hana.”

  She doesn’t turn.

  I reach for her arm. She swings around.

  “Yes, my lady, can I help you?” the woman says, her facial expression marked with confusion.

  It’s not her.

  The disappointment makes me almost lose my balance.

  Rémy puts a hand on my waist. “Your sisters declined their invitations tonight.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s not my place to speak for others,” he says, ushering me away.

  21

  I soak in the Grand Banquet Hall: candelabras and centerpieces dripping with white and gold, animated ceiling frescoes of the royal family’s bloodline, roses opening and closing to release their scents. The table is set for thousands, and enormous ballroom-lanterns flash so much light overhead that everything glitters. The snowmelons and strawberries in their bowls. The macaron towers draped with nets of sugar syrup and golden honey. The silver terrines filled with spiced soups. The ladies’ hair-towers and hats. The men’s cravats and suit jackets.

  Du Barry and Elisabeth watch me cross the room as royal attendants ply the guests with wine and savory hors d’oeuvres. I lift my head and stand up straight, knowing I must impress.

  Gossip flows faster than the water circulating through the room’s centerpiece fountain.

  “One of the king’s mistresses is in attendance tonight. She wears the emblem. Look!”

  “I wonder if the new favorite is better than the old one. I
liked the original.”

  “House Kent is falling apart, going bankrupt. Did you see Lady Kent’s dress—frayed at the hem.”

  “I heard the princess ran the old favorite out of the palace.”

  “I was told Princess Charlotte will wake up any day now. The queen will announce it at the Declaration of Heirs Ceremony, you’ll see.”

  “The queen doesn’t really like the new favorite. If she did, she would’ve picked her from the start.”

  I try to ignore the bits about Amber and me, and plaster a stiff smile on my face.

  Guests are coaxed into their seats. Little handwritten labels tell us where to sit. Royal relatives, ministers, and titled courtiers from high houses and merchant houses crowd the table. I scan the names, looking for my sisters, hoping Rémy lied, but I don’t see them.

  An attendant approaches. “Lady Camellia, may I escort you to your seat?”

  I nod, happy to be taken from Rémy’s watchful presence and deposited between the Beauty Minister and the Fashion Minister.

  Auguste enters the room. He looks up and catches me watching him. He winks. I laugh and look away, willing the flush rising in my cheeks to vanish. I find him absolutely ridiculous, and a little interesting, if I’m honest with myself. I glance around, worried that someone might’ve seen, and pretend to participate in the conversation at my end of the table. It’s full of speculation about the queen’s toilette-box allotments and new beauty laws. I need to be careful. I need to be perfect. Especially if any of that gossip about Amber is true.

  “I heard the queen wants to extend royal beauty restrictions to high-house courtiers. All of us might have to settle for a single definitive look,” one woman says.

  “I think that’s all newsie trash and gossip,” another one replies.

  “I’m just ready for her to announce the new toilette allotments. I’m excited to shop. The Pomanders will be releasing their new scents soon—and I don’t want anything that’s been picked over,” a third adds.

  The doors open, and the royal family emerges: the king, queen, and princess. The guests fall silent.

  “We’re so elated that you could join us in celebrating the birthday of our beloved daughter.” The king speaks into a voice-trumpet, and his words echo from a sound-box peeking out of the flower arrangement on our table. It feels like he’s standing right beside me. “My little girl is all grown up.”