The Belles

by Dhonielle Clayton

  I comb over the portraits. I want to show her that I belong here.

  The sound of whispers and the whoosh of newsie post-balloons echo. My brain struggles to puzzle out which one would be best. In our lessons, Du Barry gave us beauty templates to work with— skin and hair colors that complement each other, the most balanced shades and pigments, symmetrical facial structures, dresses for specific body types, Belle-makeup colors for every color palette. But I never wanted to use them, always preferring to create my own looks from scratch. My mind is a well of doubt.

  I glance up at Sophia. Our eyes meet. Deep-green eyes stare into mine. Her hair falls into her lap, swirling into a pile of ringlets, and her tiny teacup monkey plays hide-and-seek within the strands. I wonder if she wants to pick her own look. I wonder if she has an opinion or was given a choice. Her dress begins to rustle.

  The crowd snickers. Out pops a tiny teacup elephant, its trunk longer than half a peppermint stick. The monkey jumps from her lap and chases the elephant around the throne. Sophia leaps forward and scoops both of her teacup pets into her arms, giving them a flurry of kisses.

  The queen waves her hand at one of the imperial guards. He wrenches the creatures from Sophia’s hands. The animals cry out.

  “Zo! Singe!” she says. “It’s all right. It’s just for now.”

  “My daughter has an unnatural fondness for animals,” the queen says.

  The crowd laughs. The distraction buys me some time to think.

  The queen turns her attention back to me. “Now, shall we begin?” She walks back to her throne.

  I circle the pictures. All eyes are on me. I chew on the inside of my cheek. Du Barry would want me to do something simple. Pick a portrait. Make a few suggestions. The Beauty Minister would say to discuss what I like about each one. The Fashion Minister would want me to highlight which dresses best match each particular look.

  I snuff out their voices like candles.

  I want the queen to see what I can do, to see that I can be the person she needs, to know that I can help her daughter.

  Sophia has patterns—always returning to blond hair, no matter if her skin is a warm hazelnut or paper white or a deep inky black, or if her hair texture is a frizzy cloud or deeply wavy or shaved to the scalp.

  I run my fingers over one of the portraits, feeling the lumpy paint beneath my fingertips. These pre-approved looks aren’t enough. I can’t tell what she would look like from the back, or whether her profile would suit.

  I turn to the queen. “Your Majesty, would you indulge me if I experimented a bit?”

  Her mouth is a straight line. “As you wish.”

  I close my eyes. The room dissolves around me: the women and their flapping fans and raspy whispers, the queen’s strong gaze, Sophia’s frustrated sighs, the noise of the newsies’ pens, the gentle flutter of post-balloons and lanterns, the roiling boil of anticipation.

  I think about what I’d do if Du Barry had assigned us this task. I return home to the lesson rooms. I’m with Maman at a worktable. Her hands on my shoulders. Her laugh ringing in my ears. Her voice drifting over me: You know what to do. Make beauty mean something.

  There are no grades. There is no commentary from Du Barry. There is no competition from my sisters. Just me. And the arcana.

  I can see the princess in my head.

  My body warms.

  Beads of sweat dot my neck.

  My heart pounds.

  My blood races through me.

  The arcana awaken.

  I fix my gaze on the portraits. I pull the paint from the canvases. It circles around me like a colorful tornado.

  The court erupts in oohs and ahhs.

  I push myself further. I want to show them that I am unforgettable. So unforgettable that the queen realizes she should’ve chosen me first, that she won’t ever let me go.

  I rip the canvases into shreds, breaking them into parts— cotton, linen, glue, and aged hemp. They add to the windstorm. I use the Age arcana to smooth the hemp, bringing life and moisture back to the material, then form it into legs, arms, a torso, and a head, like I’m a little girl playing with papier-mâché. I give her my sister Valerie’s gorgeous voluptuous shape.

  I use the Aura arcana to extract the paint and coat the new body-shaped canvas, coloring it the same shade as the sand that lines the royal beach. I make her eyes the color of a stormy gray sky to honor the people of Orléans, but add tiny golden sunflowers around the middles to mirror the royal chrysanthemum. I tug the silk threads from a nearby tapestry. They crawl along the floor like golden and white snakes. I fashion them into a blond halo of tight curls, and create a cream wedding dress.

  The final product stands like a life-size doll beside me. Women cover their mouths with gloved hands or lace fans, and the men’s eyes bulge. Many stand motionless.

  No one speaks.

  My legs threaten to give out. My eyelids droop. I inch down into a bow, waiting for the queen’s reaction, and to hide my utter exhaustion. I try to stop panting.

  Sophia claps furiously and races down the throne platform. She pulls me up to my feet, hugs me tightly, and whispers, “I knew you were the best.” She links her hand in mine. “Together we’re going to be more powerful than any queen and favorite.”

  The queen starts to clap, followed by the rest of the court. Sophia releases me. I bow again, but struggle to push up from the floor. Rémy’s hands find their way around my waist, lifting me like a baby that’s fallen from a chair. The words thank you catch in my throat.

  The queen leaves her throne. She descends the stairs and admires the statue I’ve created.

  “Camellia, very lovely,” the queen says, giving me an appraising look. My heart races. Another wave of exhaustion hits me. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The court gives me a standing ovation.

  “It’s more than lovely, Mother,” Sophia says. “It’s spectacular.” The princess turns me away from the queen. She hugs me again and whispers close to my ear, “I made this happen, you know. I got you back here. And now you’ve proven I was right all along.”

  Sweat drips down my back.

  “What do you mean?” I stutter out.

  She flashes me a smile, and the world spins—chairs stretch into colorful putty, laughter crescendos in peaks, and the floor beneath my feet wobbles like the land is melting out from under me.

  30

  After Sophia’s wedding-dress presentation, the newsies go wild with their headlines:

  NEW FAVORITE TOPPLES QUEEN’S CONCERNS WITH HER SKILL

  PRINCESS SOPHIA ECSTATIC ABOUT THE NEW FAVORITE

  SOPHIA’S WEDDING LOOK TO BE THE

  MOST COVETED IN THE KINGDOM

  CAMELLIA IS RUMORED TO BE THE MOST

  POWERFUL FAVORITE THAT EVER EXISTED

  THE BELLES’ ARCANA MAY BE ABLE TO DO MORE

  THAN THE GARDIENS HAVE REPORTED

  My days settle into an ebb and flow like the crystal-blue waters of La Mer du Roi crashing onto the beach below the Belle apartments. I become stronger, pacing myself and using the sangsues to keep from fainting. Sophia doesn’t invite me to her workshop again.

  The morning appointment ledger is usually only filled with lady courtiers from all over Orléans.

  But today it shows:

  Auguste Fabry, House Rouen (son of Minister of the Seas) 09:00

  Duchess Midori Babineaux, House Helie 10:00

  Countess Anzu Charron, House of Bowyers (Favored Bowmaker) 11:00

  Lady Daruma Archambault, House of Spice 11:30

  I run my finger across Auguste’s name, believing Elisabeth’s handwriting might disappear. I count the letters in Auguste. Seven. A number loved by the God of the Sea. Did his parents do that on purpose? I can feel his sly smile, almost as if he’s in the room with me. A tiny flutter flits in my chest.

  Bree opens my bedroom door. “Treatment salon four is ready.”

  I gaze down at my teal work dress and apron. “Bring me a day dr
ess instead. The lavender one. No, the buttercup yellow with the ruffled sleeves.”

  “But it’s against trad—”

  “Please, Bree.” I add a smile. She leaves for the wardrobe room.

  I pace in front of my desk. I think about sending my sisters post-balloons. I think about telling them more about Auguste. I think about asking for their advice: Is there anything wrong with being nice to him? Is there anything wrong with being friendly?

  Edel’s face flashes in my mind. She would tell me to flirt and let myself laugh.

  Answer a post-balloon, Edel. My worry for her piles on top of itself. She has to be at the Fire Teahouse still. There would be more headlines if she wasn’t. Maybe Du Barry sent one of our older sisters back there? But Du Barry wouldn’t do that. When a Belle leaves court, she is to return home and remain there. Or what about the Belle from the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?

  I lift my pen from its inkpot, but my hands feel too light to hold anything. I shake them out.

  Bree returns with the day dress. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine.” I change, then drape my mirror around my neck. Its cold glass presses against my too-hot skin.

  “Your client is in the salon with Ivy.” Bree opens the bedroom doors.

  “He’s here already?”

  “Yes, my lady. It’s almost time to begin his treatment.”

  I walk down the hall. I try not to break into a run. I pass the wall of favorites and stop in front of Maman’s portrait before entering the main salon. Her eyes twinkle. I hear a memory of her voice: Don’t be silly about meeting boys and girls at court. Keep focus on your arcana, your strength, and your sisters.

  “Camellia.” Bree touches my shoulder.

  I startle.

  “He’s waiting,” she says.

  I take a deep breath before stepping through the entryway. I let it out slowly, like the air in a post-balloon. Auguste stands beside the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the tapestry above it. Elisabeth fires questions at him, but he doesn’t answer. Attendants buzz in and out of the room, and servants carry supplies and push golden carts. Ivy sits in a nearby chair.

  Bree announces me.

  Auguste whips around with a smile.

  “Have a great session,” Elisabeth says, trying to attract his attention. He glances around her. She pouts, then retreats into her office, closing the door behind her.

  I fight with my lips, trying to press them into a serious and professional frown rather than the grin that threatens to overtake them. “Hello, Mr. Fabry.”

  “So formal now? Are we not friends?” He steps forward.

  “Friends?” I say with a laugh, then swallow it. Standing with him feels like we’re exchanging a secret in front of everyone.

  Ivy clears her throat.

  “Have you had tea?” I ask.

  “Yes, and it’s awful.” He lifts off a teapot lid. Hot vapors drift up like smoke. “Couldn’t you slip honey or sugar into it? To make it more pleasant?”

  “That dulls the Belle-rose effects, unfortunately,” I say.

  “Or fortunately, if you like pain.”

  “Who enjoys pain?”

  He starts to push his finger into the teapot, as if he’s going to plunge it into the hot liquid.

  “No, don’t.” I reach for his hand.

  “Are you worried about me?” he asks.

  I pull back. “If you want to burn yourself, go ahead.”

  He does, and I try not to gasp. “I don’t mind it. Sometimes it reminds me that I’m awake.” He flashes the now-red finger at me.

  “You are odd,” I say.

  “The good kind or the bad kind?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Ivy taps her hourglass. “It’s time,” she whispers to me.

  “Are you ready to begin, Mr. Fabry?”

  “Only if you stop calling me that. I’m not my father,” he says with a smile.

  “Are you ready, Auguste?”

  “Yes, now that you’ve asked me nicely.” He winks before his attendant leads him to the bathing chambers.

  I return to the hall that leads to the treatment salon.

  Ivy rushes behind me. “Camellia”—she grabs my arm—“how do you know him?”

  “We’ve met before,” I say.

  “When?” Her voice turns serious. “Where?”

  I’m overwhelmed with the need to lie and withhold the details of how I know Auguste, like hiding a rare and expensive gem in a secret pocket. “Just around—at court.”

  “You aren’t supposed to be friendly with young men.”

  “What about old ones?”

  I feel her scowl beneath her veil. “You need to be careful.”

  “I know. I am.”

  “It is forbidden.” She clicks her teeth. “And besides, he is one of Sophia’s suitors!”

  “I know.”

  “The passion between two people can ruin the arcana. Poison the blood with toxins.”

  I touch her shoulder. “I’ll be sure to use more leeches. On the hour.”

  “Camellia.”

  “I’m only teasing. I was just being nice to him.”

  “Too nice,” she warns.

  “I’ll work on being mean.” I leave her standing there, and walk to treatment salon four. Roses sprout out of jeweled vases. Beauty-lanterns drift overhead like small suns, shining perfect beams of light across the treatment bed. Auguste steps from behind an ivory screen in a silk robe. I blush at the sight of him.

  “You sure know how to take your time,” he says. “Are you trying to run up my bill?”

  “I’m certain you can be patient,” I say, just before Ivy enters the room behind me like a dark cloud. I move a cart of bei-powder bundles, just to pretend to have something to do.

  His eyes are on me. It sends a warm flush across my skin. “I did a lot to get onto your schedule. After your latest feat at court, my attendant said you were booked for ten months straight.”

  “What did you have to do?” I find his gaze.

  “Kiss three different women, plus send them flowers and love-themed post-balloons. The expensive kind, from Marchand’s shop.”

  “Can’t you get in trouble for that? You’re one of Princess Sophia’s suitors.”

  “I swore them to secrecy. I could be the future king, and they think all kings need mistresses. It’s made me more popular.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “I try not to disappoint.”

  “Aren’t you humble.” I laugh, then turn my back to him. I light tiny tea candles beneath a chafing dish to start melting a skin-color pastille.

  “I went to a lot of trouble to get here.”

  “It sounds exhausting.”

  “It was. Backbreaking work.”

  I stifle a laugh. Ivy groans.

  “What services would you like?” I ask.

  “Make me look as handsome as I already am.”

  “Who said you were handsome?”

  “The women I had to kiss in order to take their appointments. Also, I was featured in last season’s male beauty-scope.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Are you not amused?”

  Ivy clears her throat again.

  Auguste turns to her. “Are you sick, miss? Because I cannot afford to catch a cold.”

  “No, sir, I’m not—”

  “Well, then, perhaps you should leave us anyway. I’m feeling a bit shy with all these people in the room,” he says.

  I feel Ivy’s stares through her veil, no doubt waiting for me to ask her to stay. I press my lips together until she rises from her seat.

  “If that’s what you wish,” Ivy says.

  “It is,” he replies.

  She curtsies and saunters out. The air in the room thickens like pudding now that she’s gone.

  “You lied. You aren’t shy,” I say.

  “Not in the least,” he says. “I just wanted to be alone with you. Or as alone as is possible, within the rules.”

/>   My cheeks warm. I glance away. “So, what services do you want?”

  “I hate that I even have to do this.”

  I frown.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, I dislike”—he waves his hand around—“the fact that I need to be altered. The ship had to dock every month for us to have this maintenance done. It always felt so ridiculous. Unnecessary.”

  I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to process his distaste. I thought everyone loved changing the way they looked. I thought they all coveted it. “Then let yourself be gray.”

  “Then no one would want to look at me.”

  “You’d be rid of all of this.” I wave my arms around.

  “But now I think I’ll like these treatments more, because I can have them done with you.” He stares at me.

  I fiddle with metal instruments on a nearby cart. “I might not be available next time.”

  “I’ll do what it takes. I’ll find a way.”

  “Why would you go to this trouble?”

  “I don’t know, really,” he says. “I went to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse two days ago and didn’t like—”

  “You saw my sister?” My heart skips.

  “I did.”

  “How is she?”

  “A little grumpy. She wasn’t amused by my charm.”

  “I don’t think many people are.”

  His mouth drops open. “Ouch.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “After I tried to flirt with her, lighten the mood, she refused to speak to me.”

  I imagine Auguste on Amber’s treatment table and almost laugh. His antics definitely would have gotten under her skin.

  “We should begin,” I say.

  “Yes.” He starts to disrobe, and servants rush forward to help.

  I whip around.

  “Are you shy?” he asks.

  “No, but it is not customary for me to see you nude. You should’ve waited until I left the room.”

  “I don’t care much for customs.” The bed groans as he climbs onto it. “Plus, I’m not naked. Not to worry. You don’t have to be afraid.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not afraid?”

  “A thousand.”

  “You’re harmless.”

  “I’m quite dangerous, actually.” He playfully grazes my arm. The touch of his fingers sends a warm ripple through me. I slip out of his grasp.