The Belles Page 10

  “What did you mean, Lady Jocquard?”

  “The last Belle here,” she explains.

  “Lady Camellia,” the servant starts. “Your next client is here.” She leads me forward as Lady Jocquard continues to talk.

  “Job well done. You can be sure I’ll tell Madam Claire,” she says as the doors close behind me.

  14

  The rest of the day zips by like a lightning flash. Women come with their beauty boards, attendants, and friends. I alter bodies, change hair colors and skin tones, give a man a songbird voice, erase age-lines, and try to reassure frantic courtiers about how beautiful they are. Finally, I crawl into bed, every part of me exhausted.

  But my arms and legs buzz with the fervor of the day, and I can’t sleep. I thumb through hand-drawn Belle-cards, searching for mine. Portraits of my smiling sisters—and past generations of Belles—are set in circular frames.

  I am in the middle of the stack. My face stares back at me: smiling eyes, a Belle-bun full of camellia petals, a rosy blush set in brown cheeks, and the Belle-emblem stamped on my chest. Beneath the picture, calligraphy script announces my full name—CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD—and my best arcana: AURA. The assignment space says CHRYSANTHEMUM TEAHOUSE.

  I cover it with my thumb. I want to scratch it out and write favorite. When I turn the card left and right, my tiny portrait winks. I comb through them again, staring at my sisters’ faces, missing the sound of their laughter and the noise of their company. I linger on Amber’s, and her eyes hold a glimmer like she has a secret. Her Belle-bun looks like flames wrapped up in a bow. When you rotate her card, she smiles. I trace my finger along her mouth, wondering if she’ll ever smile at me again.

  I tuck the stack under my pillow. Servants blow out all the night-lanterns in my room except for one. They close the bedcurtains. I stare up at the canopy and wait for my dreams to sweep me away. Maman always said, Dreams remind us of who we are and how we feel about the things around us. But my mind is a frantic mess of worries that pull me awake each time I drift off. Will Amber forgive me? Will I be able to help the people of Orléans discover their beauty and make my mother proud? Will I be able to accept that I’m meant to be here, instead of at the palace?

  The shuffle of heeled feet and the hum of tiny cries drift through the house. I listen for a few moments, thinking it might be a servant. The cries continue.

  I pull a robe from the closet, then walk to my bedroom door.

  It’s locked. I wiggle the doorknob. It opens, but not from my side. A sleepy-eyed servant stares back at me. “Lady Camellia, how can I help you?”

  “There’s crying. What is it?”

  “I didn’t hear anything, miss.”

  I brush past her into the hall. I listen again. The whoosh of night-lanterns and the sounds of one of Madam Claire’s parties drift through the foyer. The clink of glasses, the giggling of excited women, the laughter of men. “I heard it.”

  “Maybe it was a night-lantern. They screech a little when the candles are about to go out,” she says. “That must be it.” She tries to guide me back into my room.

  I plant my feet. She avoids my gaze. A sheen of sweat appears across her forehead.

  “Why is my door locked? And where is Bree?”

  “Just a precaution, miss,” she says. “Your safety is important to Lady Claire. Bree is having her nightly meal. Would you like me to get her?”

  “No, it’s all right.” I walk back inside the room.

  “Good night, miss,” she says before closing the door. The tiny click of the lock echoes.

  “Good night,” I whisper back. I bite my bottom lip and go right past the bed to the wall. I rub my fingers along the beautiful cream of the damask-printed paper. Tiny air streams push through the panels.

  “Bree?” I whisper.

  No answer.

  I nudge at the hidden door Bree uses to enter my room. The panel swivels forward and reveals Bree’s quarters.

  Two oil lamps cast their yellow glow through the space like a pair of great eyes watching for movement in the dark. The walls hold cupboards lined with cutlery and plates, piles of silk, linen, candles, and bottles of every kind. Sets of wing-backed chairs spill over with laundry. A lap-size washbasin sits at their feet. On a footstool sits a half-eaten meal of soup and a hunk of bread and cheese. Steam still rises from the bowl.

  I listen harder for the crying. The sharp sobs ring out beneath the party noises. I exit through the room’s back door and land in a salon room made rich with russet sofas and ivory tea tables. I slip out, and up the back staircase that the servants use. Night-lanterns nip at me as if they know I shouldn’t be out of bed or using these stairs. I follow the whimpering noises and the laughter.

  Dark sets of doors lead to sprawling chambers and bold apartments. The cries grow louder and louder alongside a crescendo of laughter. I enter an adjacent tea parlor to peek into the party room. The floor is a stretch of marble with gilded piping; cushioned chaise lounges in shades of indigo and crimson sit in a circle; tiered trays spill over with tarts and petit-cakes and sugar-dusted fruit; beauty-lanterns whiz above well-dressed guests, providing them with the perfect amount of light to look their best.

  “You’ll be fine, Sylvie,” one woman says.

  “It really isn’t that bad,” another adds.

  “But it’s terrible,” the woman cries out. “You’re all lying.” She paces the center of the room, and her dress blooms around her, the color of fresh blood. A deep gash cuts across her face in the shape of a sickle. She dabs it with a handkerchief.

  “Men will still find you attractive,” says a third person.

  “Don’t speak for all men,” a male voice says, sending raucous laughter through the room.

  “Well, they’ll still be attracted to your purse, if nothing else,” someone says.

  “I don’t care if men want me. To be found beautiful by other women is worth more leas than affection from any man,” the injured woman snaps back.

  “Anything can be fixed,” the man calls out, “with the right amount of spintria. And we all know you have a bounty of it.”

  “I can’t believe your teacup bear did this. Did you get her at Fardoux’s? I hope you return the little beast,” a woman says.

  “Where is she, by the way? Lurking about this room, ready to maul someone else?” another man says.

  The women scream, and glance over and under their chairs and chaise lounges.

  “She’s off hiding,” the injured woman says. “And where is Claire with the Belle? I’m terrified my skin might fall right off.” She snaps at a nearby servant, “Go and fetch Madam Claire. Tell her that her hospitality is lacking, and I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The servant scoots out. The Belle? I panic, wondering if Madam Claire is in my room right now, looking for me. I turn to leave, but hear Madam Claire’s high-pitched voice.

  “We’re here. We’re here to the rescue,” she screeches.

  I return to my hiding spot at the door. Madam Claire parades a girl with a Belle-bun and veil around the room. My heart thuds. Is that Aza? Did she lie to me about my big sister being here?

  I crane to see.

  The woman in the red dress circles the Belle. “Why can’t I have your new Belle? Camellia, is it?”

  The sound of my name knocks into my chest.

  “Lady Sylvie, Camellia has just arrived. Her ledgers are chockfull of daytime appointments. She does not work after dusk. I reserve specific Belles for the night.”

  Belles for the night?

  “This one will suffice and is talented,” Madam Claire says.

  “I want to see her before she works on me,” Sylvie demands.

  The Belle whimpers and cries. The same sound I heard before. The pain of it sends a shiver across my skin.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Sylvie asks.

  The rest of the room bursts into laughter.

  “She’s just nervous,” Madam Claire assures her. She tightens her grip on t
he Belle’s arm.

  “Lift her veil. Let me see her,” Sylvie says. “Hurry up.”

  “Perhaps we should go into one of the treatment salons. We have dozens. Anything that suits your fancy. It would be more appropriate to inspect her in one of those.”

  “I don’t care what is proper. I want this over quickly so I can go back to enjoying myself. We’re headed into the Rose Quartier just before the midnight star. We’ve got a card game. I need to be fixed now.”

  Madam Claire forces a smile. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  I hold my breath.

  “Lift your veil, Delphine,” Madam Claire orders.

  Who is Delphine? I crane my neck farther. The Belle slowly uncovers her face, but her back is to me, and I can see nothing.

  Sylvie leans in and frowns. “Why does she look that way?”

  “They don’t all come out the same. Or as beautiful. It’s an imprecise art, is what my sister says.”

  Sylvie turns the Belle around so everyone can inspect her. I press my face so close to the door it’s slick with my sweat. The left side of the Belle’s face is fused into hard wrinkles, like melted wax. I cover my mouth with one hand and step back.

  What is this? What is going on?

  “I don’t want her,” Sylvie says. “I demand you wake Camellia.” She removes a coin purse from the folds of her dress and jingles it. “I’m prepared to spend thousands of spintria for the trouble. And you don’t want to run me off to the Silk Teahouse, because I will go and take all my rich friends with me.”

  Madam Claire trembles and clutches her hands together, almost like she’s begging. She points at a nearby servant. “Wake her. Get Camellia up and dressed.”

  I race out of the room and back through the servant entrance to the staircase. I bolt through Bree’s quarters. She jumps from her seat.

  “Lady Camellia, what are you doing—”

  “I’ll tell you later.” I shove through the panel door into my bedroom, just as I hear the click of the lock. I open the bedcurtains and dive under the covers.

  The door creaks open.

  I hear the soft patter of approaching feet, the whisper of echoing voices. The bedcurtains flutter. My heart knocks against my chest, wanting out. Sweat soaks my gown.

  “Lady Camellia,” a voice calls in.

  I press my eyes closed.

  She jostles my shoulder. I don’t move.

  “She’s not waking up,” she whispers to someone else. The woman tiptoes back to the door. “Tell Madam Claire she’s fast asleep.”

  I wait for them to go, trying to calm my breath. When all is silent I slide out of bed again and go back to the wall panel.

  “Bree,” I whisper.

  The door panel creaks open.

  “Yes, Lady Camellia. What’s wrong?”

  “Are there other Belles in this teahouse?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I saw one.”

  “One of your sisters?”

  “No, someone else.”

  “A big sister?”

  “I know every big sister. I’ve memorized everything about them. This was someone else. Someone I’ve never seen before. Her face was mutilated. Her name is Delphine. Can you help me find out about her?”

  “Of course.”

  A heavy knock pounds the door. “Camellia,” Madam Claire’s voice calls out.

  “I don’t want to talk to Madam Claire until I find out what’s going on. Tell her I’m a hard sleeper. One who doesn’t wake easily once in bed. Blame it on the use of my arcana. Quick.”

  I slip back into bed and cover myself completely with the covers. Bree hustles forward to the door.

  Bree and Madam Claire exchange a series of frenzied whispers.

  I lie frozen as Madam Claire inspects me. I hold my breath until I hear the door lock again.

  15

  Warm days turn chilly, and the trees around the teahouse start to blaze in brilliant shades of gold and orange and red. Madam Claire is always fussing about money, and wanting to compete with the other teahouses for the most business. Clicks from her ivory and cardinal-beaded abacus fill the main hall each morning, and the banging noises of her spintria safes fill each evening. Yet the morning and afternoon ledgers stay impossibly full. She hosts late parties every night. Laughter coils around the chandelier-lanterns, racing along each balcony, only to be undercut by the melody of sobs and cries.

  I ask Madam Claire about the other Belles at the teahouse at least once a day, and she sweeps away my questions like dust from a tea table. “Nonsense; you are the Belle of this teahouse.” But the sounds of sliding doors, carriage wheels, and tiny footsteps drift through the house, and each time I leave my room to explore, a servant returns me to where I’m supposed to be.

  I think about that Belle’s face and wonder if she was really and truly a Belle. I wonder if Madam Claire is trying to deceive others besides just me. I wish my sisters were here to help me figure it out—especially Amber. If we were home, she would’ve launched a full-scale plan with lookouts and maps and secret meetings. I follow Amber in the papers to feel closer to her, but the stories are confounding.

  FAVORITE DAZZLES COURT WITH HER MANNER ARCANA

  LADIES COMPLAIN OF THE FAVORITE’S COLOR CHOICES

  LADY AMBROSIA RESTORES A MAN’S

  FACE AFTER PERILOUS ACCIDENT

  THE FAVORITE CAUGHT CRYING AT A COURTIER LUNCHEON

  NEED CHARM? THE FAVORITE CAN GIVE YOU

  ANY DISPOSITION YOU’VE EVER WANTED

  The tattlers and scandal sheets show pictures of a scowling Amber sitting beside the princess.

  I think about her every day. I write her a dozen letters that I rip up after finishing, and prepare a dozen post-balloons that I don’t have the courage to send. Stupidly, I wait for a palace post-balloon from her. I check the teahouse mailroom every day, hoping to see their lilac forms.

  I receive post-balloons from all my sisters except Amber:

  Camille,

  The new Belle babies are here. They have sweet little cheeks and tiny cries. You must come home and see them if you can.

  Have you started in on our list? Seen all the sights we planned when we were little?

  You’re missed.

  Love,

  Valerie

  Camille,

  Amber’s been writing to me. She’s having a hard time. I hope you wrote to her, too. Or better yet, try to go visit her.

  Love,

  Padma

  Camille,

  One of the little Belle babies looks just like you. She even has the freckle underneath your right eye and the dimple in your cheek.

  Their portraits are being painted tomorrow. I’ll steal one of the duplicates and send it to you.

  They’re growing so fast. It’s been a week since they were born and they already look like three-year-olds. Did you know we grew so fast?

  Love,

  Valerie

  Camille,

  Du Barry didn’t tell us it would be this hard. I’m so tired. Madam Alieas works me for hours and hours. She won’t even let me go into Laussat to explore or see any of the Fire Isles.

  We are not blessed by the Goddess of Beauty. We are cursed.

  I don’t want to do this.

  Edel

  Camille,

  I can’t sleep. There are so many noises at the Glass Teahouse—crying and screaming late into the night. No one will tell me what’s going on. I’ve never wanted to go home so badly. We always wanted to leave Maison Rouge de la Beauté, and now I just want to go back.

  What’s it like at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?

  Hana

  I write them back, and I tell Hana that I’ve heard the noises here too, and I’ve seen what looked like another Belle. I send magenta post-balloons out my window.

  The days fill with the monotony of lonely work: breakfast, beauty appointments, lunch, more beauty appointments, dinner, dropping off spintria pouches to Madam Claire’s office, a visit from the n
urses with the sangsues, and to bed, only to listen to the late-night noises of parties and crying.

  This morning the house buzzes with more activity than ever. Every house-lantern has been lit—morning, dusk, and night ones—every chaise and chair fluffed, every door opened to expose the currant red and fuchsia and rich butter yellow of the rooms beyond.

  I lean over the balcony outside my room, peering down into the grand foyer. I tiptoe down the grand staircase unnoticed. The melody of preparation hides my footsteps: clinking glass, the jingle of silver cutlery, the clack of porcelain dishes, the grunts and whispers of the servants.

  The breakfast veranda is open. Sunlight and a persistent breeze push inside. The golden noses of imperial carriages peek out of the trees surrounding the teahouse. Important people must be somewhere in the house. A servant ushers me to the only seat at the table. I long for the round table at home, complete with my sisters. Plates of petit-waffles, boiled eggs, tiny quiches, grape clusters, and sweet luna pastries are placed in front of me.

  I pick over the food. Valerie would love these little waffles, and Hana likes anything and everything with eggs. Amber would’ve asked for a snowmelon. Padma would’ve frowned at the slices of steak shaped like stars. Edel would’ve been difficult and asked for something different—an omelet or sweet toast.

  Newspapers rest in stacks. Their headlines pulse and flicker across the pages, calling my attention.

  BEAUTY IS ALL THAT PLEASES THE GODDESS

  WHAT IS FAIR IS EVER DEAR: NEW

  SKIN-BRIGHTENING BELLE-PRODUCT

  KING’S MISTRESS CAUGHT WEARING HIS ROYAL EMBLEM

  NEW POLL SHOWS MANY HOPE PRINCESS

  CHARLOTTE WILL WAKE TO TAKE THE THRONE

  There is a shatter of glass, and a rush of pounding footsteps booms through the teahouse.

  “Try to clear them out,” a servant shouts.

  “Grab a broom,” another says.

  “Close the doors,” a third hollers.

  I rush into the hallway. The foyer is filled with midnight-black gossip post-balloons. One after another, they swarm through the door like bees in a hive, zipping left and right, knocking into freshly lit chandelier-lanterns, staining the marble with their dark sparks.