The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  She reminds me of myself—wanting to be the best, researching and plotting and planning to make sure I am ahead of everyone.

  “But how can you tell who is more beautiful? They all look different,” I ask.

  “Do you understand what I want?” She raises her voice.

  I start to sweat. She steps closer to me. Her heavy breaths are coming out in pants.

  “You want to be the best,” I say, and somehow it’s too familiar— like I’m talking about myself. I might do the same thing if I was preparing to be queen. The dark realization sinks down inside me.

  Sophia grins. “I knew you’d understand.” She takes my hand and kisses it. “We must become friends. Best friends. After all, I wanted you. Always. From the first time I saw you in your Beauté Carnaval carriage.” She heads toward the door. “You will do whatever it takes to help me, right?”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I say as I curtsy, but I don’t know what it will cost me.

  28

  Ivy waits for me in the main salon the next morning, and rushes to me as soon as I step into the room.

  “I need to speak with you.” Her nervous energy radiates out like the rays of a too-strong sun.

  “And I have a question for you. Why didn’t Arabella return home?” I ask, before she can lecture me about whatever it is.

  Ivy bristles. “How do you know about her?”

  “Is she one of your sisters?” I say. “I saw her.”

  “No, she’s from the generation before me. She’s the queen’s favorite Belle. She kept her at court to work with Princess Charlotte.”

  “She’s been at court that long? Du Barry allowed it?”

  “The queen gets what the queen wants,” Ivy says.

  Servants push in breakfast carts overflowing with hard-boiled eggs, grilled-meat and fruit tarts, pastries, fried bacon, and sweet toast, but Ivy shoos them out, then races to Elisabeth’s office door. She knocks three times and presses her ear against the wall. The door doesn’t swing open.

  “Good, she’s gone.” Ivy hovers over me. “What happened last night?” she asks. “With Sophia?”

  “How did you know about that?” I pluck a cheese tart and plate from the cart and sit on a chaise.

  “I’m supposed to know all things when it comes to you and your transition to court.”

  “Like a spy?” I tease, trying to make her smile and relax a little.

  “Like an older sister.” She sweeps the plate from my hands and sets it on the table. “I need you to focus and tell me exactly what happened.” She furiously knits her lace-gloved hands.

  “Sophia brought me to her workshop. I saw her—”

  “The portraits.” She flattens her hands on her waist-sash as if she’s nursing a stomachache. “It’s starting again.”

  “What is?” I reach for my plate.

  She slams it to the table.

  I jump.

  “I need you to focus right now. Her issues. Her obsessions. I thought she’d gotten better. I thought I’d helped her,” she says.

  “You talk about her as if she’s ill.”

  “She is unhinged.”

  “A bit, yes. She’s pressured, anxious. She wants to be the most beautiful,” I say. “I think I can help her, too.”

  Ivy freezes. Her stare burns. “I thought that, too. Foolishly. You can’t tell? You don’t sense it?”

  “Sense what?”

  She squeezes down next to me on the chaise, so close I catch a scent of the lavender cream she wears. “I’m not supposed to poison your thoughts. Du Barry and the Beauty Minister gave me strict instructions not to tell you things.” Her voice quivers. She pauses as doors open and shut in other parts of the Belle apartments.

  “Tell me what?” My pulse flutters.

  Ivy glances over her shoulder. Breakfast attendants fill teapots with piping-hot water, and set down carafes of snowmelon juice. “Wait,” she whispers to me. “Leave us, please,” she tells them. “I’ll ring the bell when you can return.”

  They scurry out.

  “Sophia has dark impulses.” She is as still as stone. “When I was named the favorite, she had just turned thirteen. One of the queen’s ladies-of-honor gave her a teacup crocodile. It was a tiny little thing named Pascale, with sharp teeth and a long tail that dragged behind him like a train of pearls. But Sophia had had her heart set on a teacup dragon. Those had become increasingly rare a few years earlier. Royal breeders couldn’t get one to survive beyond a few hours after hatching.” Ivy takes a deep breath. “Sophia forced me to do beauty work on Pascale.”

  “We worked on our teacup dogs and the stray teacup cats at home,” I remind her.

  “Yes, but we only changed the color of their fur, for arcana practice.” She eyes the front salon doors. “Sophia made me break his back”—her voice cracks—“and refashion the bones into a pair of wings.”

  My hand goes to my mouth.

  “I had to snap his neck and stretch it out so he looked more like a dragon than a crocodile. Then she tried to make him fly.”

  I raise my hand. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

  “She dropped him off a balcony. She killed him.”

  “Ivy, I told you I didn’t want to know.” I leap up from the chaise.

  “You have to know.”

  “She was just a child.”

  “This was only a few years ago. What if those impulses have grown with her, rather than diminished?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I storm out of the main salon.

  “Camille,” Ivy calls out. “Camille.”

  Inside my bedroom, I slam the door, then step onto my terrace. A cool breeze carries leaves across the floor like a prism of windy-season makeup colors—marigold, chestnut, scarlet, apricot. I wish the breeze could sweep away what Ivy just told me. Whisk it off to some other place.

  A bright leaf gets caught on the abacus on my desk. I rescue it and rub it between my fingers. I smell it and I think of Maman. When the warm months turned windy, she would take me around the edges of the forest that surrounded Maison Rouge de la Beauté, and we’d hunt for leaves, collecting only the most beautiful, the brightest, still rich with color. Back in our room, she’d show me how to use them to make natural-looking pigments and mix hair shades, and we’d press them between tomes of fairy tales to keep them as records of our adventures.

  I open her Belle-book. A frayed scandal sheet called Madam Solaina’s Secrets is tucked between two pages. The headline:

  LADY SIMONE DU BERTRAND OF HOUSE EUGENE DIES WHILE HAVING HER SKIN COLOR RESTORED BY THE FAVORITE

  What?

  Maman’s frantic handwriting accompanies it.

  Date: Day 53 at court

  She wanted the whitest skin in the whole kingdom—pure as fresh milk and a newborn daisy, she kept saying. Her attendant held a mirror above her body the entire session. I would press the chalk-white color down into her skin, and it would sour, mixing with stubborn shades of radiant gray. She would sit up, slap me, and make me do it again.

  I got so angry, I couldn’t hold on to the picture of her in my mind. The arcana didn’t work properly. She kept slapping me harder and harder, and threatened to use a belt if I couldn’t deliver the right color. I felt a pinch inside me and couldn’t stop myself from imagining her flesh covered in wrinkles, her heart slowing. When I opened my eyes again, her eyes were bulging and her mouth was slack. Her heart had stopped. I didn’t understand what had happened at first, but then I realized—it was me. I’d done this. The Minister of Justice ruled the case accidental—her private doctor confirmed she’d had health challenges before having beauty work done.

  I suck in a sharp breath. Maman killed a client? The arcana betrayed her? How could she have kept this a secret? Could the same thing happen to me?

  I slam the book shut and tuck it back into its hiding place in my beauty caisse.

  Two post-balloons zip inside, trailed by more leaves.

  The first: a crimson
one, burning bright with Maison Rouge de la Beauté’s house emblem.

  The second: a silvery white one covered with a twinkling collage from the Glass Teahouse.

  I tie their ribbons to the balloon hook on my desk. I cut open the one from home first. I pluck out the parchment.

  Dear Camille,

  I haven’t heard from Edel. I asked Du Barry, but she just keeps saying everything is fine and to focus on my own work. Is everything all right? What have you heard?

  The babies have grown even more. Du Barry had us celebrate their sixth birthday two nights ago. I don’t quite understand how it all works. Did we grow this fast, too? The nurses hum them songs and call them rose babies. I’ve included a drawing of the one who looks like you. She could be your twin—dimple and all. I keep accidentally calling her Camille, but she doesn’t mind. She wants to be just like you when she comes to court. Her name is Belladonna. We call her “Donna.”

  Love,

  Valerie

  I unfold the second page and see a portrait of a smaller version of myself. Bright eyes. Warm brown skin. Dimple in the left cheek. Curly hair with a pile of frizz. Why would the Goddess of Beauty create another Belle who looked like me? Du Barry gave us pamphlets about our births. She told us Beauty had sent each one of us to our mothers. That we’d fallen from the skies like shooting stars. That she’d handpicked all of our features. That we were all flushed and warm with blessed blood. What isn’t Du Barry telling us? And what about the Belle at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse with the deformed face? Did Beauty send her, too?

  I open the second post-balloon—from Hana.

  Camille,

  I’ve been staying up late at night, trying to find whoever keeps crying. My Madam, Juliette Bendon, says it’s just overly drunk courtiers at her late-night parties. But I don’t believe her. I think there are other women here. But I can never search for long. I’m so tired these days. I don’t have a moment’s rest.

  I haven’t heard from Edel, but I saw the headline, too. She won’t answer my post-balloons.

  Hana

  I pace the room. Where are you, Edel? Why haven’t you written back? Amber might be right. Maybe she did escape. But if so, how is she surviving? Where did she go? How is the teahouse continuing to operate without raising alarm?

  “Lady Camellia.” Bree interrupts my thoughts.

  I tuck the letters away and join her in the main salon.

  “What is it?”

  “Come, have a look.” She waves me to the Belle-apartment doors. “Rémy is with his sisters.”

  We peek through a space in the door. Rémy holds the hand of a little girl a quarter of his size while two others fuss over him. The little one’s hair is a dark cloud of coils and glitter, complete with metallic threads reminiscent of lightning streaks. They all share his rich midnight coloring, and standing together they look like a bouquet of black calla lilies.

  “What’s she like?” the little one asks. “You promised to tell me everything about the favorite, and you’ve only sent two post-balloons. How can you fit everything in only two letters?”

  He smiles down at her with an easy demeanor that I’ve never seen.

  “You haven’t told us anything,” the tallest one says. The silver color of her gown makes her skin glow and hugs her curves like silk around an hourglass. “Even Maman’s been asking.”

  “She’s nice,” he says.

  His compliment warms me.

  “That’s it?” the third one replies with a stamp of her foot. She shoves his shoulder and pouts, her lips a brilliant shade of coral.

  “She’s a little stubborn.”

  I smile.

  “Can be a bit impulsive or reckless,” he adds.

  I scoff. Bree chuckles.

  “That’s why I like her,” the tallest one says. “She does what she wants. Or that’s what it seems like.”

  “I bet you just love that, Rémy,” the third one replies. “She’s probably not listening to you at all.”

  They all laugh together, their voices at a similar pitch. A set of warm-toned pavilion bells. A family. It makes me miss my sisters.

  “Have you rescued her? Protected her from evil?” the little one asks, like this is all some fairy-tale adventure.

  “More like escorted her places and followed her around,” he says, picking the girl up. “Mirabelle, you are missing nothing. I promise you.” He presses his forehead to hers and they rub their noses together.

  “I’m missing everything.” Her bottom lip quivers, and tears well up in her eyes.

  “Shall we sing our song?” he says.

  “Yes,” she whimpers.

  He hums, the deep baritone of his voice rippling through the hallway, resonating inside me. She sings a little tune about a yellow frog and its lily pad and pond. He kisses her cheeks and she bursts into laughter. It makes me wonder about his life before the palace. It makes me wonder about how he might be, if he wasn’t my guard.

  “Can we meet her?” the tall one asks.

  “No,” he says with a frown, and now I recognize him again.

  “But please,” little Mirabelle begs.

  “Soldiers of the Minister of War aren’t supposed to use their positions to seek special treatment or favor. It’s against the code.”

  “Everything is about rules with you,” the middle one says.

  “Always has been,” the tallest one adds.

  “It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he says. “You three shouldn’t even be up here, and I’ve indulged you already too long.”

  “We were just passing through,” the tallest one says.

  “No one just passes through the residential parts of the palace.”

  “We were invited to court to see the princess’s wedding dress,” Mirabelle says. “I saw the invitation.”

  He pinches her cheeks. “I don’t doubt you. But I suppose your sisters invited themselves up here?”

  “Why would you—” the middle one starts to say.

  “I admit, we did,” the tallest one says. “We just missed you.”

  “That’s a lie,” he says.

  “Fine. We just wanted to know more about her. The papers say she’s stronger than the other favorite. And the Trianon Tribune said she might have a fourth arcana.”

  I glance at Bree and mouth, Really? She nods with a smile on her lips.

  “You know how I feel about tattlers, scandal sheets, and newspapers. And you can’t just use my name to come up here. It’s not—”

  “Appropriate,” the three of them say in unison.

  Bree and I exchange a mischievous grin. I smooth the front of my dress and make sure all the curls in my Belle-bun are neatly in place. I yank open the door.

  The girls gasp.

  “Rémy?” I call out, as if annoyed.

  He steps forward at attention.

  “Oh, there you are. I was looking for you.”

  Mirabelle has her hand cupped over her gaping mouth. The other two are statues, frozen in place.

  “Hello,” I say. “Did I interrupt?”

  “No, Lady Camellia, they were just leaving,” Rémy says.

  “Not without a proper introduction. Rémy, where are your manners?” I say, loving the twist of horror present on his face. “Who are these beautiful girls?”

  “My sister, Adaliz.”

  The tall one curtsies.

  “Odette.”

  The middle girl bows.

  “And Mirabelle.”

  The little one barrels into me, wrapping her pudgy arms around my waist.

  “Mira—” Rémy reaches for her.

  I sweep her out of his reach and kiss her. “It’s fine.”

  I talk to them about court, and their home in the Spice Isles, and how insufferable Rémy can be. Their eyes grow wide, and smiles spread across their faces. His mouth finally softens again. They wave good-bye and disappear down the long staircase. I watch Rémy watching them, and think, Maybe he isn’t so terrible.

  29

&
nbsp; In the Receiving Hall, the queen’s court is called together for a presentation of Sophia’s possible wedding looks. Chrysanthemums and Belle-roses adorn the welcoming foyer, creating garlands around marble pillars. The din of gossiping voices fills the room. I sit with the Beauty and Fashion Ministers in chairs near the throne platform. Rémy stands behind me.

  The queen raises her scepter. Imperial guards labor to bring out massive gold-framed portraits of the princess the size of wall tapestries. The frames are numbered and labeled PRINCESS SOPHIA’S WEDDING LOOKS. In each one, Sophia is painted with a different look. Hair textures range from loose curls to needle-straight to corkscrew curls to waves to zigzag coils, and the styles showcase each new hair-tower trend. A smiling version of her face is presented in an array of skin tones. Her dresses vary—from gold brocade with cream lace ruffles, to a pink bustle gown with silk rosebuds and beige lace, to a dark peacock blue–colored silk embroidered with a sequined trim, to an all-white A-line covered in seed pearls.

  Sophia squirms on her throne.

  The queen stands. “My wise and loyal court. Please join me in helping to decide the princess’s wedding look. Besides becoming a wife, my daughter will also step into her ‘forever’ look, as tradition demands of the royal family.”

  The crowd applauds.

  “But first, I want to hear from the favorite. Camellia, please join me,” she says.

  I jump at the sound of my name.

  The queen leaves her throne. Her fur robe trails her as she points at the portraits.

  I proudly stand and walk over to join her.

  “These were put together by my cabinet, but you and your sisters hold the secrets to the art of beauty. I want to know what you think.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I say.

  “What look would you give my daughter? Which would you choose?”

  My hands knit in front of me. The questions she asked me at Sophia’s birthday banquet compete with her latest challenge: Can you do this? Can you be who I need you to be?