The Belles Page 8

  I can’t take my eyes off Amber.

  The queen smiles at my sister. My heart shatters like a glass mirror, the tiny shards shooting out into every part of me, cutting at my insides, spreading pain. They will never be put back together.

  Du Barry keeps her arms crossed over her ample chest. She gives me a satisfied look.

  I am not the favorite.

  The words smash into one another inside my head.

  I am not the favorite.

  Hands reach for me. Lips kiss my cheeks, leaving smudges of rouge-stick behind. People swarm in a thousand directions. Women squeeze my hands. They tell me how excited they are to book appointments with me at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. People applaud, lights flash, arms pull me into hugs and twirls. Some whisper that they thought it should’ve been me. Newsies flock around, shoving voice-trumpets in my face and pestering me with questions about Amber and my opinion about the queen’s selection of the favorite.

  I bite back tears. I push them down with too-sweet champagne.

  Amber is surrounded, her ginger Belle-bun a tiny crest above the crowd. Du Barry gives an interview about what she was like as a child: studious, deferential, loving. The Beauty Minister tells royal listeners what criteria the ministers and the queen used to choose the favorite this season: disciplined, dutiful, responsible. My sisters bounce around in their beautiful dresses and speak to other courtiers and newsies.

  The room swirls around me. The queen’s words ring out—Ambrosia is the favorite— alongside the racing thrum of my heart.

  11

  The evening whizzes by like the spinning of a newsreel. My sisters dance and laugh and give interviews and kiss cheeks and eat sweets. We have our portraits painted and talk to our big sisters—the previous generation of Belles. I hide in an adjacent tea salon to avoid the newsies until we return to the Belle apartments. Amber doesn’t come with us. She lingers in the Grand Imperial Ballroom surrounded by well-wishers and courtiers, who clamor for her attention.

  I watch the doors. I wait for her to walk in.

  Belle-trunks are lined up in the middle of the main salon like coffins. Servants fill them with beauty caisses, new dresses and shoes from the Fashion Minister, the latest Belle-products, and sangsue jars.

  Hana peers into her trunk. “We’re not going to be together anymore.”

  “Is it time already?” Padma whines. “I don’t want to go yet.”

  I don’t either. The pinch of it comes sweeping back, and I’m near tears. I face the wall and pretend to admire the tapestry map of Orléans.

  “The carriages will be here soon.” Valerie collapses into a nearby chaise. Her dress rips, but she’s too tired to look down at the fishtail train that’s threatening to fall off.

  “And I saw our big sisters leave another apartment in traveling cloaks,” Hana says.

  A pause settles over us. Tears well up in Padma’s and Hana’s eyes. Edel’s cheeks flush. Valerie sniffles. I look away. The uneasy silence feels suffocating.

  “I’m ready to get this over with.” Edel throws her shoes into her Belle-trunk.

  Servants present trays of fizzy water overflowing with raspberries, snowmelon slices, strawberries, and limes. Carts hold late-night treats: petit-waffles, sugary syrups, fried sweetbread and chicken, and luna pastries. Three télétropes project pictures on the walls. The magic of the night flashes all around us, but I feel only disappointment. A sad tremor lives inside my chest, and my arms and legs buzz with the memory of not being chosen.

  “Where’s Amber?” Valerie asks.

  The sound of her name feels like a sparkler explosion.

  “Gloating somewhere, no doubt,” Edel says.

  “I haven’t seen her since the dinner.” Hana opens the doors of the Belle apartments to peek out.

  “She probably has a dozen things to do now,” I mumble.

  “I didn’t want her to win,” Edel states.

  “That’s terrible to say.” Padma gives her a playful shove.

  “Why do you think the queen picked her?” Valerie asks.

  “Because she’s always perfect.” The words slip out heavy and hard.

  My sisters turn to me. I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering. A tiny hiccup works its way up my throat. I’m relieved when the servants take us to the dress salon.

  Servants remove our gowns. We’re given soft traveling dresses made of cotton and chambray and voile and gauze. The sadness of leaving hits me in a wave. I’ve never not seen my sisters every day. Hana’s morning grumpiness, Edel always getting in trouble, Valerie’s tinkling laugh, walking the grounds with Padma, and sharing secrets with Amber. I didn’t think about how far away they’d be after we received our assignments. I didn’t think about how different things would be between us.

  We pile back into the main salon and eat food from the carts.

  “I think it’s time for a toast.” Padma grabs a glass from a tray. Bubbly green liquid spills on the front of her travel dress, and she curses.

  “Should we wait for Amber?” Valerie asks.

  “No,” the rest of us say.

  Hana lays her head on my shoulder. “I thought it would be you.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper. Me too.

  “Quiet down and come on.” Padma tries to get everyone’s attention. “Get a drink. I don’t know how much longer we have together tonight.”

  Edel gulps down a flute of red liquid and takes another. Valerie fusses at her for drinking the last one.

  Padma clears her throat. “Cheers to each other. Cheers to this night. And cheers to what’s to come.”

  We lift our glasses and sip.

  “Me next!” Valerie leaps up from her chaise. “Even though I was upset about my placement earlier today, and I love all of this . . .” She waves her hand around. “In my heart I’ve always known I was supposed to go back home. My maman was the Belle of Maison Rouge de la Beauté, so deep down I knew that I had to fill her shoes. But please don’t forget about me. Send me post-balloons about the things you get to see and do. And better yet, don’t get too busy to come visit.” Her voice cracks. “I will miss you all.”

  We take another sip. Her words hit me. She’s doing what her mother did. I was supposed to be the favorite, like my maman. I’ve let her down.

  “Ugh, you girls are getting emotional,” Edel complains. Hana jostles her shoulder, which makes Edel break out in a smile. “I guess I’ll miss you all, too.”

  Servants present us with thick traveling cloaks lined in white fur and covered in tiny gold stitches in the shape of Belle-roses and our royal emblem.

  We’re slipping our arms into the cozy sleeves when Amber strides into the room. Her heavy footsteps pound the floor as if it should crumble under the weight of their importance. The petit-crown on her head glitters like it is made of stardust.

  “Hello, my sisters!”

  She prances about, swishing her gown left and right, beaming brighter than a morning-lantern as she waits for us to gush over her.

  “Congratulations.” Valerie steps forward to hug Amber.

  “We’re so happy for you.” Hana swirls her around and around until both of them collapse in laughter and dizziness. A selfish emotion bubbles up in my chest. It grows larger by the second, stealing my breath. It won’t pop. I want to wrap my arms around her, sink my face into her neck, and whisper how proud I am of her, but my feet won’t move, and my mouth is full of syrup, the words stuck.

  “You’re going to make a beautiful favorite.” Padma blows her a kiss.

  “Well.” Edel looks her up and down. “I suppose someone had to win.” And then she sweeps out of the room.

  A travel attendant steps aside to let Edel go, then taps an hourglass hanging from her jacket lapel. “Carriages will soon depart.”

  Everyone gives Amber one last hug. I linger in the room after my sisters leave.

  Amber and I stare at each other.

  “I can’t believe Edel,” she says. “Are you happy for me?”
<
br />   “I am,” I say. “Just trying to let it all sink in.”

  “You’re at the most important teahouse. The Chrysanthemum. It’s where the royal ladies-of-honor go. At least you’ll be here in the city—”

  “Don’t try to make it sound better, Amber. I’m not the favorite.” The sound of it out loud sends another surge of disappointment through me. I hear Maman’s disappointed voice and see her furrowed brow.

  “But you’re still important. We’re all important.”

  “It’s not enough.” I finally let out the little sob in my chest.

  She rushes forward, grabs my arms, and pulls me close. I sink my face into the nook between her shoulder and neck. “It’s going to be fine.” Her words land on my cheek. She smells like a mishmash of courtier perfume. She’s been hugged a hundred times tonight. “You’ll be able to visit me, and I’ll invite you to everything I can. Also, I’ll come see you.”

  I pull away from her embrace. My failure crashes back in, hitting me in a hot wave. I am not the favorite. I can’t take her pity, and when she reaches for me again, I push her away.

  “Stop,” I say.

  She looks hurt, but there’s nothing I can do. “You can’t be happy for me.”

  A tornado of heat swirls around me. My stomach flip-flops, and my face runs with sweat. “I am.” I fight back tears. Can’t she see how hard this is?

  “You thought you’d beat me easily. You got to go last at the Beauté Carnaval. Anyone who goes last gets to leave the best impression. Placement drowned out those of us in the middle. Du Barry set you up to be the favorite, but the queen chose me.”

  “Is that what you really think? Du Barry doesn’t like me. Never has. She’s never understood what I have to offer,” I say, searching Amber’s face for traces of my friend. “Do you know how hard I worked? Researching for months about past carnavals, thinking through different looks, stealing Du Barry’s pamphlets and beauty magazines from the mail chest to study trends. I worked just as hard as you did.”

  “Well, you didn’t follow the rules at the carnaval, or ever, really,” she says. “You didn’t deserve to be the favorite.”

  I glare at her. A wrinkle of concentration mars her forehead.

  “You’re my best friend,” she says. “You should’ve been the first one to kiss me after the announcement and the first one to tell me how proud you were. Instead, you’re sulking and being jealous. I followed the rules, Camellia. I deserve this. You don’t. You always get so upset when I beat you at anything. What would Maman Linnea think of your behavior?”

  “Don’t bring up my mother.” My eyes fill with tears. My fists clench. I shake with anger.

  Amber leans in close. “She would be ashamed of you.” She grabs my wrist and I yank away, pulling her off-balance. Amber lets out a half-surprised, half-anguished shout as she falls to the ground.

  I gasp. “Amber! I didn’t mean—”

  Her eyes drill into me. Her cheeks burn with redness, and her once-elaborate eye makeup runs down her cheeks in orange-and-gold streaks.

  “I’m so sorry.” I reach for her.

  She scoots away and crawls to her knees, then stands. “Don’t touch me.”

  A travel attendant peers into the salon. “Lady Camellia, your carriage awaits.”

  Amber won’t even look at me. I turn and run from the room. An angry knot hardens inside my gut, and a headache punches its way up my neck and into my temples. I race down the stairs to catch up with the rest of my sisters as her words repeat over and over again to the beat of my footsteps.

  She would be ashamed. . . . She would be ashamed.

  12

  The carriage wheels thump against the cobblestones in the Royal Square. I peel back the curtains, and diamond-paned city-lanterns illuminate rich limestone mansions and townhouses in the aristocratic Rose Quartier. Their pillars cut the skyline like expensive blades. The moon paints the sky in deep violets and indigos. The horses whinny and neigh as the driver navigates the sharp turns and narrow lanes of the Imperial City of Trianon.

  “Lady Camellia,” a familiar voice says.

  I glance away from the window. A pale face peeks out from behind a curtain. It’s the servant from the palace’s Belle apartments. Her brown dress is a smudge of chocolate against the wine red of the carriage’s interior.

  “I’m—”

  “I remember you, Bree.”

  She flushes pink. “I’ve been assigned to you as your imperial servant.”

  “Wonderful.” I try to be gracious, just as Du Barry has taught me.

  “Would you care for something to eat?”

  “No.” I return to the sights beyond the carriage.

  “How about tea?” She takes a pot from a tiny hearth that holds a warm, crackling fire.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  She removes the lid and flashes the steeping Belle-roses inside. “It’s to help you relax before your arrival.” She pours me a cup. When served to clients, it’s supposed to keep their arms and legs from trembling, quiet their fears or anticipation, and help dull the pain of beauty transformations.

  On second thought . . . I swallow the liquid down in one gulp. It burns all the way to my stomach, and I wish it had the power to erase the memory of my fight with Amber. I want to forget the whole night.

  I peer outside again as the world becomes a blur of light and color. Spires of smoke twist up and disappear into the sky. We move through the Market Quartier, still busy with merchants selling wares better suited to the dark. Cobalt-blue lanterns hang from every stall and swing above every saloon, beckoning late-night patrons. Vendors holler that they have the best spyglasses for sale; a trio of women hold up bracelets on raised arms; a man offers carved pipes and powders that promise wishes and dreams, while another curves ear-trumpets in the air like a series of elephant trunks. There are scowls, the flashing of teeth, and sluggish smiles. The fuss of haggling tongues deafens me.

  The lantern colors change from deep blues to emerald greens as we enter the Garden Quartier.

  The world should be like a garden with people bright as roses and lilies and tulips, otherwise it’s all a waste, Maman used to say. Towers curve above painted avenue boards. The promenades boast animated cameos and portraits of famed courtiers that wink and wave as we pass. Rose-shape pavilions sell snowmelon cider, peach champagne, fluffy beignets, and luna pastries. The scents slip in through the window.

  Bree takes my cup. “We’ll be arriving soon.”

  A scarlet glow pushes into the carriage, washing my arms and legs in red stripes. Beauty-lanterns drift along streets paved with glistening stones, past mismatched shops painted in pastel shades and lined up like the frosted pastries in a bakery window. The stores branch into a maze of twisting alleys. Belle-products twinkle behind glass windowpanes. I try to get excited. I try to take in how pretty it all is. But my mind reminds me that I’m not the favorite and I am not at the palace. This is the consolation prize.

  The Chrysanthemum Teahouse glows in lavenders and magentas and reds. Ten stories high, its elegant turrets hold balconies trimmed with shiny night-ivy. It climbs the walls, scaling so high it could grow off the teahouse and make a path to the God of the Sky. A golden walkway licks out like a tongue. Crimson sill-lanterns sit in each window and cast their bloody light over the courtyard. People crowd along the teahouse grounds. Newsies hold up light-boxes. Men and women affix spyglasses to their eyes. Children, up too late, wave their little hands.

  The carriage stops. The door opens.

  “Lady Camellia!” An attendant presents me with his arm. “Right this way.”

  I step out. A full staff awaits.

  “Camellia!”

  “Camellia!”

  I wave to the shouting crowd, and try to smile with the perfect amount of teeth, just as Du Barry taught us. I pretend to be happy.

  I’m led across the walkway.

  I bow, then wave the onlookers good-bye as the teahouse doors shut behind me. The inside blazes w
ith light. Soft golden rays dance over the floor. The space carries the scent of charcoal and flowers. A bubbling fountain sprays water. The foyer looks up into the belly of the house. Nine balconies rim its perimeter, with gilded rails and oil-black spindles that curl along each floor and twist into the shape of Belle-roses. Chandelier-lanterns hang from the high ceiling, floating up and down like jeweled clouds, bathing each floor with a tiny glow. A grand staircase splits into two like a pair of pearl-white snakes.

  Bree takes my traveling cloak, then sweeps my gown with a handheld broom, batting at it for dust, bugs, or any other unwanted occupant I may have picked up on my journey. She removes my shoes and replaces them with silk house socks that button along my ankles.

  “Thank you.” My connection to the palace isn’t completely lost if she’s here with me.

  “Of course, Lady Camellia.” She bows.

  A woman saunters in wearing a dress the color of sunlit honey, which dips low in the front to display three diamond necklaces. Her long and elegant hair is pinned up in a golden swirl, and she reminds me of the chrysanthemum flower on the Orléansian emblem. Her fingernails shimmer like the bright color of its leaves.

  “Camellia,” she says. “I’m Madam Claire Olivier, wife of Sir Robert Olivier, House Kent, baby sister of Madam Ana Du Barry, and the mistress of this glorious teahouse. My, my, that’s a lot.” She chuckles to herself.

  I curtsy. I have faint childhood memories of her visiting the house.

  She smiles, and the rouge-stick on her teeth makes her look like she’s eaten a box of colored pastels. Sweat dots her top lip, and she obsessively blots her face with a handkerchief.

  “We’re so happy the queen placed you here. Though my sister says you’re a handful, with a naughty temperament. But you have the sweetest face. I don’t believe her. She can be so fussy.” She touches my cheek. “Now, now. Let me take you on a tour of the great Chrysanthemum Teahouse.”

  I follow her up the grand staircase. She jingles from a strange set of keys around her waist.