The Belles (The Belles #1)(3)

I look to the left at my sisters’ carriages. We’re all lined up like a row of eggs in a carton, moving in time with one another. We exchange smiles. The same blood runs through us: the blood of the stars, the blood of the Goddess of Beauty.

Crimson lanterns float into the air. Against a darkening sky, the thin paper burns big and bright with our names: Edelweiss, Ambrosia, Padma, Valeria, Hana, and Camellia. Fish jump from nearby fountains, changing from ruby to teal mid-flight, teasing onlookers. Their leaps hold the promise of our powers. The square explodes with cheers. Little girls wave Belle-dolls in the air.

Many men and women are sporting monocles to have a closer look at us. I smile and wave, wanting to impress them, wanting to be good enough to be remembered.

Du Barry presents Valerie first. Her carriage rolls forward.

I close my eyes.

Don’t watch them, Maman had said. Don’t ever covet their use of the arcana. Envy can grow like a weed inside you. Be the best without trying to be better than the others.

We weren’t allowed to discuss our instructions in the weeks leading up to the carnaval, but Amber and I had swapped our dossiers. Her subject needed to be given skin the color of toasted walnuts, hair full of large barrel curls, and a pretty, plump face; mine had to have skin the shade of alabaster stone from the Fire Isles, hair so dark it blended into the night, and a mouth so perfect and so red it would be indistinguishable from a rose. We practiced our looks on house servants, perfecting them in solitary chambers under the scrutiny of Du Barry. Practice begets perfection, she’d yelled for hours.

I shift around in the carriage as the demonstrations continue, with Hana following Valerie. My legs fall asleep from having them crossed for so long, and my eyes flutter, fighting my desire to keep them closed. Pained moans cut through the noisy square like silver knives as the little girls endure their transformations. I wince as the cries peak and fall, and the onlookers cheer at their crescendos.

Some of my sisters receive louder reactions than others. Some get oohs and ahhs. The roar deafens me at times.

I love my sisters, especially Amber. She’s always been the one I loved the most. We all deserve to be the favorite. We’ve worked so hard to learn the art of beauty. But I want it so much there’s no room inside me for anything else.

My eyes feel like they’ve been closed for an eternity before my carriage trudges forward again. Imperial attendants approach, and their gold uniform buttons catch the lantern light. They arrange themselves at four corners around me, unlatch the hitches, grip the levers jutting from the sides of my glass ball, and lift me off the wheeled bottom like I’m only a soap bubble. Thin and weightless.

I lock my legs in place and focus on my balance. The men march me to the center platform. I try not to be nervous. Du Barry re-created this entire set inside our home, complete with the gold cylinder where my platform will eventually come to rest. I’ve been preparing for this day since my thirteenth birthday; all of the lessons, the lectures, the practice. I know exactly what I’m supposed to do. It’s been rehearsed, yet I can’t stop my fingers from trembling and my body from quivering like there’s a tiny landquake inside my glass ball.

I whisper to myself: “I will have the best showcase. I will receive the loudest applause. I’ll be named the favorite, just like Maman. I will get to live at court. I will get to see the world. I won’t make any mistakes. I’ll make people beautiful.” I say it over and over again like a prayer until the rhythm of the words erases my fear.

The men turn a lever. Gears clink and clang and wheeze. The platform under me rises just above the crowd. Plush royal boxes sit on stilts high above. People lean out of them with eyescopes and spyglasses pressed to their faces, and ear-trumpets jutting out like elephants’ trunks. Faces look up in wonder and anticipation like I’m a star caught in a vase, ready to explode.

The platform stops. I turn a tiny lever on the carriage floor. The glass ceiling above me cracks open like an egg. The night’s warm air skates over my skin like soft fingers, and it tastes even sweeter up here. If I could bottle the tiny winds, they’d turn to sugar dust.

The stars twinkle. I feel close enough to grab one and stow it away in my beauty caisse.

The square grows so quiet, and the sounds of the ocean swell. The people of Orléans gaze up at me, the last Belle to demonstrate her talents. Du Barry didn’t prepare me for what it’s like to be stared at. There are so many pairs of eyes, all different shapes and colors. My heart leaps.

Du Barry winks at me, then taps her full lips—a reminder to smile. The crowd believes I was born knowing how to make them beautiful. They don’t know how hard I’ve worked to perfect the traditions and master the arcana. They don’t know how hard I’ve struggled to learn all the rules.

“Now, it is my pleasure to present our final Belle, Camellia Beauregard!”

She fills the syllables of my name with pride, triumph, and magic. I try to hold on to that, and use it to combat my worries.

Light shines everywhere: the lanterns and blimp screens and sky candles and a bright rising moon. I can almost taste it, soft and bubbly and sweet, like pink champagne on the tip of my tongue.

I face a semicircle of smaller platforms. Three to the left and two to the right. Seven-year-old girls stand on them like jewels on velvet cushions. They’re as different from one another as pearls and rubies and emeralds, showing how uniquely we can use our arcana to beautify.