“Is that what you’re going to tell the Minister of Justice? When you’re arrested, don’t come crying to me for help.” I hide my smile by looking at another gardien’s journal. In the silence I hear him lick his lips and take small breaths and swallow. I try to focus on the words. They blur on the page.
“If someone wanted to change every single part of themselves—including the shape of their fingernails—could you?”
“Tired of the way you look?” I tease.
“No,” he says, and toys with a beauty-scope.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Some women find it charming.” His gaze is so intense it sends a shiver through me. “I guess not you.”
I laugh.
“I just like to know things,” he says, and puts the scope down with a thud. “And I know a lot about you.”
“Like what?”
He moves beside me. “That you have three gifts from the Goddess of Beauty.”
I nod, unimpressed. This is something widely advertised.
“That you, obviously, can change a person’s outward appearances, their manner, and age.”
Also, make someone ugly. Also, stop someone’s heart.
“Did I lose you?” He fishes for eye contact.
“No, I was just thinking about the other night. The card game.”
“I heard about that. But you shouldn’t feel bad. Sophia is . . .”
“Frightening,” I whisper.
His eyebrows leap up in surprise. “She’s misguided.”
“That’s what you call it?”
He shrugs and runs his hands through his hair. Its brown waves tumble right back to his shoulders.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I say.
“You aren’t shy.”
“I’m not afraid, either,” I say, thinking about the person I was before I was named the favorite—before I came to court, before I met Sophia.
“And she’s my future wife.”
I flinch. The words unexpectedly sting. “Has she made her choice? I hadn’t heard.”
“It’s inevitable,” he says cockily.
“Is that so?”
“Wouldn’t you choose me?”
I laugh.
“I’ll take that as a yes. But I don’t know if I want to be married to her. We’re just so . . .”
“Different.”
“You could say that.” His eyes drift over me. “I guess I’m looking for something else.”
I reach for a newspaper to distract myself. He intercepts my arm. “You know what else I know about Belles?”
I should yank my arm away, but I let him hold it. His warm fingers press into my wrist. He turns it over, tracing his fingers along the path of my veins. An urgent knot ties in my stomach, and it only uncoils as I realize that I wanted him to touch me. I wanted to know what that felt like. “Your power lives inside your blood.”
He shouldn’t know these things. I shouldn’t talk about what Belles can do. It breaks all the rules Du Barry taught us. But his curiosity about me, about Belles, is flattering.
His thumb makes its way to the puffed cuff of my dress, then back to my palm. My heart races and I’m worried he can hear it. I swallow. A deep flush snakes through me like the arcana. He twirls his fingers in mine. The pad of his finger traces shapes along my wrist and palm. A star. A square. A circle. A triangle.
“Would you ever give up your arcana?” Auguste whispers.
“No,” I say, pulling my wrist back.
“I meant no offense.”
“You never do.” I return to my search, and hope this buzzy feeling dissipates.
“What are you looking for?”
“None of your business.” I don’t look up at him, for fear I might smile.
“Maybe I can help—”
“Help my favorite with what?” Sophia’s voice cuts through his. My heart all but stops. Her teacup pets bound into the alcove with a series of noisy squeaks.
“It’s nothing, Your Highness,” I say with a deep bow, trying to hide my panic. Alone with one of her suitors. What will she do to me for this offense?
“It can’t possibly be nothing if you’re here in the Imperial Library and surrounded by so many books. I dropped by your apartments, and your staff said I could find you here. They said nothing of my suitor Auguste being with you, though.” She bats her eyelashes, and I can’t tell if she’s upset or teasing.
“I escaped a cabinet meeting with my father and found her on my way out.” Auguste moves to her side. He kisses her hand and whispers something in her ear. She giggles, and Auguste slips out.
“I came here for you, Your Highness.” I show her scrapbooks and newspapers. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I was searching for vintage styles to present to you,” I lie. “Ideas for new trends and unexpected looks for you to try. Especially one for the upcoming Declaration.”
Her lips part in a wide smile.
“People who always aim to please me will be treasured.”
She steps closer, and I am suddenly aware of how very alone we are. Her teacup monkey, Singe, jumps from the table and onto my shoulder. I’m frozen. The nails on his little feet dig into my skin. He pets my hair and leans close.
“But those who cross me . . .”
Singe hisses, his sharp teeth grazing my ear. I flinch and he leaps into Sophia’s arms. She strides away. Her laughter echoes after her down the hall.
39
When I return from the Imperial Library, I find the king’s nephew, Prince Alfred, sitting in the main salon, ready for his appointment. Several female attendants flank his sides. Newsies have filled their papers, tattlers, and scandal sheets with Alfred’s exploits—gambling losses and several marriages and expensive tastes. He’s notorious.
“Lady Camellia.” He lumbers over to me. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Welcome,” I say with a small curtsy. His musky scent fills the whole room. “Your Highness.”
He goes to kiss my hand, then pauses. “Am I allowed to?”
“I’m afraid not,” I say.
He grins and kisses it anyway.
I pull my hand away. My cheeks warm.
“I need a new wife, and I figured the best Belle in the kingdom would help me attain a look that women enjoy.” He releases a deep laugh that makes my stomach knot. “I think I need more charm, too. It wears off too fast, and they leave me.”
His female attendants release a series of fake chuckles and coo over how amusing he is. Servants help him into a seat and yank off his thick boots.
“What number are you on now?” I ask.
“Four, but who’s counting?”
Disgusting.
“The servants will take you to a bathing chamber,” I say. “Then we’ll be ready to begin.”
He insists on undressing in the main salon. A privacy screen is brought out. Every undone button and opened zipper echoes. I fixate on a spot on the wall. His female attendants ogle me. One holds a teacup tiger. It purrs quietly. Another gawks through a spyglass.
“This way to the bathing chambers, sir,” says a servant.
Instead of listening, Prince Alfred marches out from behind the screen. His robe hits the tops of his gray feet. “How do I look?” he says to me, and turns.
“Just fine,” I say.
The servants shower him with compliments and affection.
He finally allows himself to be led from the room. I find Bree stocking a beauty-cart. “Where’s Ivy?”
“She’s been summoned by Du Barry today,” Bree whispers.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
We walk to the treatment room. The bed is dressed with warm towels and pillows. “Light more beauty-lanterns, and melt the pastilles early. Is the Belle-rose tea brewing?”
“Yes, my lady.” Bree brings the teapot over, lifting the lid to show me the swirling rose petals in the hot water. I give her a nod of approval. Anxious nerves drum through me. They’ve prepare
d the room several times before. It’s always been perfect. But being alone without Ivy, and with this prince, makes me feel uneasy. The memory of Auguste distracts me, untethering my mind and setting it afloat like a post-balloon.
Bree wheels out trays that hold hairbrushes and combs, hot irons and steam curlers, rouge-stick canisters, tiny pots of skin-tone paste, paintbrushes, and various kohl pencils. I take deep breaths, and I hope I can calm the too-fast beat of my heart.
“Set up chairs with pillows for his attendants.”
“Yes, my lady,” she says.
The man thunders into the room and guzzles two cups of Belle-rose tea. His female attendants take their places at high-backed chairs set in the corners of the room. I look away as the servant women disrobe him. He climbs onto the table. They drape his naked body with towels.
“Like what you see?” he asks one of the servant women.
They don’t answer. One giggles. I flash her a look and she quiets.
I try to avoid squirming as I approach him. I place my fingers on his temples.
“Your hands are very soft,” he says.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I whisper. “No more talking now. Let the Belle-rose tea start to work, and relax your mind.”
“It’s hard to stay relaxed around all of these beautiful women.”
His attendants release approving chirps.
“Add the charm last. I like to be my true self through the process.”
“Yes,” I reply.
“I’m very curious about Belles, and—”
“In order for me to concentrate, and let my arcana work, I need complete silence. You understand, don’t you?” I say with a purring voice he seems to like.
“I do.” He turns his head so his cheek lands in my palm. I re-center his head and move to the side of the table.
I fold over the towels to reveal his legs. The sickly gray skin resembles an elephant’s trunk with thick hair poking out. I grab for a charcoal stick. I draw lines along his thighs, then move to his stomach. The women study every movement I make. All four of them inspect my lines. I cover him with bei powder.
Bree presents a tray of tiny skin-tone pots. I pluck one that matches his royal look. Its rich yellowy hue reminds me of smashed bananas. I finger the round bulb in my hands. I mix a little russet brown in to deepen the color and add several undertones.
The women inch out of their seats. Servants usher them back.
I use a paintbrush to finish coating the man’s skin with the paste, like sticky marmalade on toast.
I close my eyes and focus on the man’s arm. I rub my fingers along the skin. Sweat coats my forehead. The beat of the man’s heart, and the noise of his blood as it circulates through his body, grow louder and louder. I mix the pigments.
I open my eyes and wipe off the paste. The color climbs over the man’s arm, changing his skin from pale gray to a warm color with yellowy undertones.
The women gasp with awe and approval.
“How’s the pain, Your Highness?”
“Just fine. I’m like a thoroughbred,” he says. I motion for a servant to blot his sweaty brow.
“I’m moving on to the deeper work you requested now.” I run my finger over his stomach.
He squirms a little. “Give me muscle definition.”
I close my eyes, picturing his body. I push a metal instrument along his belly.
He grimaces and grunts. Muscles appear. His skin tightens and reddens. He winces with pain.
I wave the servants over. “Sit him up. Give him another full cup of Belle-rose tea. Add a drizzle of elixir.”
I do exactly what Ivy did with Princess Sabine. They lift his head and place the cup to his mouth. He thanks me. “Also, prepare an ice bath for him.”
Bree scampers out.
“Are you all right, Alfie?” one of the attendants calls out.
He puts his hand up and flicks it to the right. The women stand on command and file out the door.
“Where are you going?” I say.
They don’t answer, and close the door behind them.
He sits up.
“Sir, please lie down. I’m not finished.”
He grabs for me—one hand closing on my wrist, the other pawing at my dress and neck. His mouth presses against my face. Panic tears at me.
“Your Highness.” I push him away.
“I want to know what you taste like. If being born with color changes the way you feel.” He rips one of my skirts and tries to untie my waist-sash. “You must all be different. I visited one of your sisters. The white-haired one—Edelweiss, yes, that was it—and she was lovely.”
I scream out.
His hands find their way under my skirts. We knock into the trays, scattering Belle-products across the floor.
“I like screaming.” He hisses at me like an animal.
I kick him and escape to the opposite side of the treatment table. He jumps at me again and presses me against the wall. He kisses my neck and smells my hair. I reach for the tools in my belt, grab a metal smoothing rod, and stab him with it. The rod pierces his belly. He grunts, but still pushes forward, trying to sandwich me between his body and the treatment table. I shove the rod in harder and finally make the space to slip away.
“Get back here!” he bellows. “Just one kiss.” He yanks the rod out of his flesh and tosses it aside, like it’s nothing more than a splinter.
He chases me around the table and catches me by the waist. I use my arcana to call the Belle-roses in the teapot back to their younger forms. They surge; the teapot explodes. The porcelain shatters. Liquid splatters all over, and he flinches as the hot droplets sting his back. I uncoil the flowers, stretching out their petals and stems. They bloom into thorny chains that I use to press Prince Alfred’s arms and legs against the wall. He fights against the restraints.
“I like you. You’re feisty,” he says. Blood trickles down his arms and legs. I push the thorns deeper into his skin, then let a vine hook around his neck. He makes a kissing noise at me.
Anger pushes my arcana further. The sound of his heart pounds in my ears. Its fleshy red shape sears through my mind. Its erratic beat is a drum.
I slow it down, beat by beat.
The color drains from his face.
I tighten the rose thorns around his throat. They dig deeper, drawing more blood. His eyes bulge. He chokes and coughs and sputters.
The door bursts open.
Rémy bounds in. “Camellia!” He grabs me. My concentration breaks. I release the roses. Prince Alfred collapses forward, crashing into two carts. Belle-products shatter everywhere. The female attendants flood inside and cry out with concern.
I almost hit the floor, too. Rémy catches me, sweeping me up in his arms. I curl into him, arms tucked under his, legs pulled up, my head against his chest.
40
I’m immediately taken to see the queen—still covered in Prince Alfred’s blood and Belle-rose tea, still angry from his disgusting advances, still shaky from almost stopping his heart. A veil covers me, an attempt at protection against the ever-present newsies and courtiers in the palace halls.
“What will Sophia’s forever look be?” many shout out as I pass, ready to cast another wager in the newest palace-wide game. They flash animated cameos at me.
“What about this one?”
“No, this one.”
“Will she be a blonde?”
“Freckles?”
“Will she take the coloring of her mother or father?”
Rémy blocks them from getting too close. I don’t look up from the ground. The buzz in my head and heart and body make it impossible to think of anything else. We take a palace lift to avoid more courtiers.
Rémy posts himself outside the queen’s door.
Chafing dishes melt medicinal pastilles, and steam vases release vapor into the room. The fireplace burns brightly.
“Your Majesty. Lady Camellia, the favorite, here to see you,” her attendant says.
&
nbsp; She sits beside an arched window. The Beauty Minister and the Minister of Law flank her sides.
“Sit with us here, Camellia.” Her voice is soft and reminds me of my mother’s.
I take the seat across from her.
“Let me see you.” She motions for me to lift my veil. A nearby servant helps me remove it. She tsks at the bruise on my cheek left by Prince Alfred.
A teacup and saucer find their way into my nervous hands; I take small sips.
She rubs my cheek. “I heard about the unfortunate incident with Prince Alfred. We’ve called you here to let you know what we’re going to do about it,” she says. “First off, let me apologize for his terrible and ungentlemanly behavior.”
“I don’t want an apology. I want him to be punished. I want it to never happen again. To anyone.” The rage inside me flares and leaks out. I think about how he mentioned going to see Edel. Did he do this to her, too? Is that why she ran?
The Minister of Law twirls a black mustache between thick fingers. “Camellia, we’re issuing his estate a fine of several thousand leas.”
“And he will never be able to book an appointment with you again,” the Beauty Minister adds.
“What about my sisters? Can he see them?”
“He is a prince, Camellia,” the Beauty Minister reminds me. “He will need to maintain himself.”
It feels like she’s slapped me. “He shouldn’t be able to.”
“We’ll make sure to have imperial guards in any treatment room with him in it from now on,” the Beauty Minister adds.
“We’d rather not turn this into a scandal,” the queen says. “If the newsies got wind of it . . .” She shakes her head and sighs. “We’ve paid the attending servants in your apartments for their discretion.”
“So you want me to lie about it?” I grit my teeth.
“No, that isn’t the case,” the Beauty Minister says.
“Just be discreet,” the queen adds.
I want to see Prince Alfred embarrassed. I want to see Prince Alfred lose his adoring flock of females. I want to see the kingdom ostracize him.
“He will be sent away. Banished to the Gold Isles,” the Minister of Law declares.
“He should be put into a starvation box,” I say.
The Minister of Law clears his throat and loosens his cravat.
The Belles Page 27