The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

“Did you get the post-balloon I sent?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes.” That memory is still warm.

  “Well, aren’t you going to say thank you? Or send me one in return?”

  I snort and immediately feel my cheeks redden. “You sent it yesterday morning, so you haven’t given me much time.”

  “Take a walk with me.”

  I fight back a smile and try to frown. “Why should I?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “You’re a stranger. And—”

  “You know my name. I’m Auguste Fabry, dreadful son of the Minister of the Seas. We’ve met before. We’re best friends, even though I suspect you don’t like me much. Plus, I sent you a post-balloon.”

  “I’ve received many post-balloons. Am I supposed to walk with every single sender?”

  “Aren’t you popular?”

  “I am. Didn’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  I lean in and whisper, “I’m the favorite.”

  “Is that so?” His mouth breaks into a dimpled smile. “I hadn’t heard. I must be living at the very edge of the world.”

  “You must be,” I say, “at the kingdom’s rock barrier, for sure.”

  He laughs. I laugh. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and then I look away. Excitement bubbles up in my chest like I’m an overflowing champagne flute. My mouth, once tired, now can’t stop moving.

  Rémy clears his throat. The bubble pops. Well-dressed courtiers step out of the glittering chariots that lift people from one palace floor to another. Imperial servants carry trays in and out of rooms. Newsies send their black gossip post-balloons and navy story post-balloons through the halls, hoping to catch a snippet of something for the newsreels and tattlers and scandal sheets. People lift spyglasses to their eyes and slide ear-trumpets from their pockets.

  “Take a walk with me,” Auguste asks again.

  And even with the world come to life around us once more, I nod. I can’t seem to help myself.

  “You’re easy to convince.”

  “I can just as easily return to my apartments.”

  “No, come.” He offers his arm, but I shake my head. “Right. Those rules again. I thought you said you didn’t follow them.”

  “I don’t, but just because I don’t want to take your arm doesn’t mean I’m following protocol. Maybe I’m worried you’re carrying sickness. Or maybe you don’t smell very nice.”

  He sniffs himself. “I’ll be sure to wear cologne next time so I won’t smell like sea and the pier market.”

  “You don’t smell like—”

  “I didn’t want to take your arm anyway.” He smirks.

  I roll my eyes, and we walk out of a smaller palace exit. Rémy trails us. The burn of his gaze on my back is like the warmth of a candle too close to your skin.

  One of the topiary arcades that leads to the palace gardens holds peek-a-boo flowers that wink light. Night-lanterns shine bright as the watching moon; the glow clings to the curved hedges arched over us, and skims the surface of the palace river ahead. Gem-bright birds perch in dangling cages and lend their sweet songs to silent garden nooks.

  “How does it feel to be back at court?” His questions always feel like challenges.

  “It’s great,” I say, but Amber’s face flashes in my head.

  “I’ve never liked court much. I was lucky to be at sea with my father most of the time. He’s grooming me for a boring life on a boat.”

  “Is that not what you want?”

  “It’s what my father wants,” he says. “Did you always want to be a Belle?”

  “Yes. I don’t know what it would mean to be anything else.”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder?”

  “No.”

  He frowns, as if that’s an incorrect answer to his question.

  “What else is there?” I say.

  “Ordinary life.”

  “What is that?” I say with a laugh. “And who would want that?”

  “You could be a famed courtier. Only having to worry about dresses and gossip and landing in the scopes and papers.”

  “I’d rather have the responsibilities that I have,” I say. “The duty.”

  “What if someone found a way to cure us?” he asked. “An elixir that could be bottled and could make everyone beautiful. Wouldn’t your life be easier?”

  A searing anger fills every part of me. “What I do—what my sisters do—could never be bottled!”

  “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just, I like to lead a carefree life. I suppose being on the water fosters that sort of temperament. The God of the Sea has no allegiances.”

  “You shouldn’t assume everyone wants that,” I snap.

  “You’re right.”

  Then his eyes narrow and he leans toward me. “There’s something on your neck.” Auguste touches a forgotten leech. He jumps back with a shout. “What is that disgusting thing?”

  “Hah. It’s just a leech. Are you afraid?” I tuck it back into its hiding place beneath a neck ruffle on my dress.

  “Why do you have that?” He looks a tad green.

  “Another secret of the Belles.”

  “A horrifying secret.”

  “They help reset our arcana and purify our blood. And don’t insult the sangsues.”

  His eyebrows lift with curiosity. I realize I’ve said too much. Du Barry’s voice thunders inside me: Don’t reveal the secrets of the Belles. The heat of my mistake lingers in my stomach.

  “Clear the way,” an attendant calls out. Four imperial servants carry a windowed palanquin. Its golden edges shine like a trapped sun in the early evening darkness. Inside rests the sleeping Princess Charlotte on an embroidered pillow. A veiled woman wearing a crown walks alongside the palanquin with her hand resting on the glass. A group of newsies trails closely behind.

  “Where are they taking her?” I ask. “And who is that woman with her?”

  “The princess is—” Auguste starts to say.

  “Princess Charlotte takes the air every evening around this time. That’s her Belle, Arabella,” Rémy interrupts. “We should be going, Lady Camellia. I’ve received word that dinner has been served in your apartments, and Madam Du Barry awaits.”

  Reality crashes back in like a heavy ocean wave.

  “Thank you for the walk,” I say to Auguste.

  “I’m sad it’s over so soon.” He smiles handsomely.

  My cheeks flame again. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” he says, “and don’t forget to write me back. I’m waiting. I expect a response.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  I follow Rémy back inside. His footsteps clomp. I start to thank him for not insisting I return immediately to the Belle apartments. I know it can’t be exciting to follow me around all day. Not when you’re used to defending a kingdom or training for battles. But the words get stuck, and by the time we’re back and he’s taken his stance outside the doors, the moment seems lost.

  Dinner carts sit in the main salon, chock-full of steaming hot food.

  Bree greets me. “Where have you been?”

  “I went for a walk.” She removes the leech from my neck and helps undo my waist-sash.

  “You’re blushing, and your skin is all warm.” She smiles. “Also, a post-balloon arrived for you several hours ago from the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. I tied it to your desk.”

  I leap toward my bedroom.

  “Your dress is half unbuttoned,” she yells out with a laugh.

  A magenta post-balloon floats over my desk. The Chrysanthemum Teahouse emblem glimmers on its side. I open the back and fish for the letter inside the compartments. My fingers fuss with the fold. My heart thuds. I drop the note, then scoop it back up.

  Camille,

  I’m sorry, too. And I’m all right.

  I miss you.

  Be careful.

  Amber

  I turn the letter over. Pastel colors make a series of lines.

  Another message reads:<
br />
  I THINK EDEL HAS ESCAPED. AN IMPERIAL INVESTIGATOR CAME TO THE TEAHOUSE LOOKING FOR HER. BUT SOME OF MY CLIENTS TOLD ME THAT BEAUTY WORK CONTINUES THERE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS HAPPENING?

  27

  The bedcurtains snap open. Night-lanterns float in, their light glaring down on me. I cover my face. After tossing and turning, worrying about Edel, I feel as though I’ve just now fallen asleep and it couldn’t possibly be morning.

  “What is it?”

  A sleepy-eyed Bree stares back. “You’ve been summoned.”

  “By whom?” I rub my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Her Highness, Princess Sophia.” She pulls back the blankets. “And it’s two hours after the midnight star.”

  “Why?”

  “Her first servant, Cherise, didn’t say.” Bree drapes a fur-lined robe over my shoulders, and I step into slippers. “She said the princess wants you to come as you are.”

  I fuss with my hair, removing the silk scarf and trying to pull the mess of frizzy curls up into a Belle-bun.

  “Come, quickly. She’s in a foul mood and does not like to wait.” Bree rushes me out of the Belle apartments, where Rémy awaits me.

  “Good evening,” I say.

  “Actually, it’s good morning,” he corrects.

  I sigh. “Do you know how annoying you are?”

  “My older sister told me often.” He walks ahead. I’ve memorized the way to Sophia’s apartments, but we go in the opposite direction, toward the south wing of the palace. We pass grand ballrooms and glass solariums and ornate parlors.

  “Where are we going?” I ask Rémy.

  “Where I’ve been instructed to take you.”

  “And you wonder why I don’t like having you around.”

  He stops, and faces me. “I was trying to joke with you.”

  “Well, you’re terrible at it.”

  “I’ll try harder next time.” He stalks ahead again. “The princess requested you come to her private workshop.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “They don’t pay me to know, just to follow orders.”

  Thick black doors shine bright with the House of Inventors emblem—a chrysanthemum growing out of a stacked tower of cogs and gears. A trio of imperial guards block the entrance. Rémy salutes, they step aside, and he takes his place beside them.

  The doors open. Enormous shelves scale the walls and split into hundreds of balconies. Books choke every spare place. Silver-gray work-lanterns dangle over long tables. Their surfaces are scattered with beakers, tubes, droppers, spoons, a set of mortars and pestles, and graters. A caged catlike animal with blond fur and black spots purrs. There are baskets full of flower petals, and a monstrous stove in the corner releases tiny clouds of steam. The shelves are lined with apothecary bottles that twinkle like jewels, as well as clear jars and magnificent flasks containing resins, balms, waxes, and oils made from flowers, plant secretions, and extracts. Powder puffs, brushes, and pots of rouge sit like macarons on a sweets tray.

  Sophia is peering into two flower terrariums, tapping her fingers against the glass. One contains bloodroot, a flower with white petals and a yellow center. The other holds pale pink and white blooms in starry clusters—mountain laurel. She coos at the flowers as if they’re teacup pets. Her hair is a static-filled cloud around her shoulders. Her pale skin is flushed pink with anxiety. She still looks like my mother, and I regret the decision. It turns my stomach.

  “Camellia.” Sophia rushes forward. Her nightgown sweeps behind her like a tail. “I want to show you something special.” She smells like sweat and salt. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot. “My favorite.” She takes my hand and drags me merrily forward, like she’s one of my sisters and we’re headed to lessons, or breakfast, or to sneak off someplace we aren’t supposed to go. “I need your help again.”

  A part of me is thrilled to be the one to help her. This is what I wanted.

  We pass the terrariums. “Do you know much about plants?” she asks.

  “Yes. We mostly study them for shading, pigment work, and for Belle-products.”

  “Flowers are so underrated.” She gazes up at the ceiling. “Only coveted for their beauty, when they can help solve so many problems.” She tugs me forward to a large table overflowing with piles of tattlers, beauty pamphlets, and scandal sheets. Torn-out pictures are pinned to boards. Eyes, legs, breasts, hair, body shapes, faces. Beauty caisses sit in rows, their contents on display.

  Sophia leads me to a beauty board on an easel. Two identical women stare back—white-blond hair, pear-green eyes, dark brown skin, and sweetheart mouths. “These are my cousins—Anouk and Anastasia.” She runs her fingers over their faces. “They only allow themselves to have tiny differences between each other. You have to search for them.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I say.

  “Exactly the problem.”

  I bristle.

  “I’ve been watching them these last few days. Tracking their beauty work. They’ve just come from a vacation in the Silk Islands, and from seeing your sister Padma.”

  “Tracking their beauty work?”

  “Oh, I haven’t shown you my masterpiece.” She tugs a series of braided cords that dangle along the wall, and a tapestry lifts back, revealing a complete wall of rose-porcelain portraits set in a curling network of brass tubing. Every spot and corner is filled. Each one is labeled with a titled name and royal emblem.

  The gentle whoosh of liquid snakes through the tubes. A few of the portraits change—hair grows shorter or longer, noses shrink, skin tones flush over with enhanced or brand-new colors, hair textures morph, mouths plump up.

  I reach for one.

  “Don’t touch,” Sophia warns. “They’re very sensitive.”

  “What are they?”

  “It’s how I see everybody.” She admires them. “How beautiful my court is.”

  “But how?” My stomach clenches.

  “It’s a secret.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Can I trust you?”

  “Yes.” My heart gallops.

  Sophia returns to the table and opens one of the beauty caisses. Velvet boxes hold ornate bracelets and teardrop earrings and necklaces dripping with gold and gems. “One of my royal inventors made these for me. Remember when you first came to my toilette ritual—on my birthday—and I handed out jewelry?”

  I nod, recalling how her court ladies had clamored over the jewels.

  “They draw the tiniest bits of blood. I only need a little. And when mixed with your blood, Belle blood, remarkable things happen.”

  “My blood?”

  “Yes. I have your leeches drained, and sometimes the ones from your sisters at the teahouses, too.”

  I try to keep my disgust from showing on my face. “Why?”

  “Oh, don’t let it bother you.” She pats my shoulder. “I discovered it long ago, when I was a child and my mother’s favorite, Arabella, used to change my hair and eye color in the playroom. She’s still my favorite Belle, too. Though you might be able to continue to win me over.” She bats her eyes at me. “I used to bite Arabella playfully, and tiny drops of her blood stained my little day dresses and pinafores. I’d have my nursemaid cut out pieces of the bloodstained fabric and save it. A strange keepsake, I know. But I was fascinated by what you all can do.”

  I step back from her. I search her face and eyes, and wonder if she’s serious. She beams at me. Pride oozes out of every corner of her. Does she want me to be honored that she’s fascinated by Belles?

  “That’s when I made the discovery. That’s when I began to understand the power of it. If Arabella’s blood touched my skin, it would restore the color momentarily. Imagine! I thought Belles had more power than queens. I wanted to be like that.” She runs her fingers over the jewelry, tracing her fingertip across the tiny places where needles poke out, and the hidden chambers tucked inside the crested jewels. “I sucked the fabric and sometimes stole Arabella’s leeches to eat. I thought if I ingested the blood
, I’d become like you. Like Arabella. Like the Belles I saw in the teahouses. But it didn’t work. It just made me sick.”

  Discomfort settles into my stomach.

  She returns to her wall. “As I got older, my sister, cousins, and friends became prettier and prettier than me. My mother wouldn’t let me do deep body work. She started enacting laws and shying away from radical changes. I felt ordinary. Forgotten. Plain. My sister made it seem so easy to be beautiful. The colors she chose and her subtle changes made her look extraordinary—more lovely after each appointment with Arabella. I needed people to pay attention to me like that. I needed to be better than everyone. I needed to have the same style and beauty instincts.”

  She leans close to one of the morphing portraits. “Look!” She pulls me forward. “Lady Christiana just had her hair color changed from brown to a plum purple. Hideous color. And at this hour. I wonder which teahouse she’s patronizing.”

  We watch the image change. The nose transforms from a slender-tipped point to more of a cute button. Her cheekbones lift higher and her jawline smoothes out. Her skin darkens from ivory to honey brown. It’s like watching a télétrope reel of minute-byminute changes.

  “Your powerful arcana connect them to my wall,” she says. “It’s more immediate with yours than your sisters’, or even Arabella’s. Even with only a few drops of their blood mixed with yours, I can see what they do.”

  “I don’t understand.” And I don’t know if I want to.

  “I change the jewelry every week to always have a fresh supply of their blood. And for some reason—it even evades my scientists—your blood allows me to watch them.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Be excited. You are strong.” She clasps my wrist. “And you will be the one to help me achieve my goals—finally. I want to be the most gorgeous woman in all of Orléans, and the world.”

  “But you are already stunning.”

  “You lie so easily, it makes me wonder what else you aren’t telling me.” The pitch of her voice sends a skitter of nerves through me. Her eyes burn into mine.

  “I’m not ly—”

  “I know that I’m not the most beautiful. I come here twice a day. And I’m reminded when I see pictures of my sister in the royal halls. When I see the looks your sisters create. When I see my mother. I know I’m average at best. I wasn’t blessed by the Goddess of Beauty with a superior natural template. I don’t have a good base to work with.”