The Belles (The Belles #1)(4)
I know my sisters’ work: Padma’s subject has limbs the rich color of honey bread; Edel shaved her girl’s head close to the scalp; the eyes of Valerie’s subject twinkle like amethyst stars; Hana’s girl has the body of a dancer, long legs and arms and a slender neck; Amber’s subject has a cheery round face just like her own.
The other Belles have created tiny masterpieces.
It’s my turn to transform a girl.
The king and queen nod at Du Barry. She waves her hand in the air, signaling for me to get ready.
I glance up to the heavens for strength and courage. Belles are the descendants of the Goddess of Beauty, blessed with the arcana to enhance the world and rescue the people of Orléans. Blimps crisscross above me and block the stars with their plump forms and silhouette banners.
The last platform lifts directly across from mine. It completes the set of six and creates a perfect half-moon curve. The girl wears a long shirt, which is an excuse for a dress; its frayed hem kisses the tops of her feet. Her hair and skin are as gray as a stormy sky, and wizened like a raisin. Red eyes stare back at me like embers burning in the dark.
I should be used to the way they look in their natural state. But the light exaggerates her features. She reminds me of a monster from the storybooks our nurses used to read to us.
She is a Gris. All the people in Orléans are born this way—skin pallid, gray, and shriveled, eyes cherry red, hair like straw—as if all the color was leeched out of them, leaving behind the shade of freshly picked bones and ash. But if they earn enough spintria, we can lift away the darkness, find the beauty underneath the gray, and maintain their transformation. We can save them from a life of unbearable sameness.
They ask us to reset their milk-white bones. They ask us to use our gilded tools to recast every curve of their faces. They ask us to smooth and shape and carve each slope of their bodies like warm, freshly dipped candles. They ask us to erase signs of living. They ask us to give them talents. Even if the pain crescendos in waves so high it pulls screams of anguish from their throats, or if the cost threatens to plummet them into ruin, the men and women of Orléans always want more. And I’m happy to provide. I’m happy to be needed.
The girl fidgets with the camellia flower in her hands. The pink petals shiver in her grip. I smile at her. She doesn’t return it. She shuffles to the platform edge and looks down, as if she’s going to jump. The other girls wave her back and the crowd shouts. I hold my breath. If she were to fall, she’d plummet at least forty paces to the ground. She scoots back to the center.
I exhale, and sweat dots my forehead. I hope she earns a few leas for the stress of participating in this exhibition. Enough for her to purchase a square of bread and a wedge of cheese for the month. I hope to make her beautiful enough to receive smiles from people instead of fearful whispers and frenzied glares. I don’t remember being that small, that vulnerable, that terrified.
I flip open the beauty caisse beside me. Du Barry gave each of us a different chest, engraved with our initials and the flowers that we’re named after. I run my fingers across the golden carvings before lifting the lid to reveal a medley of instruments tucked inside endless drawers and compartments. These items mask my gifts. Du Barry’s morning instructions repeat in my head: Display only the second arcana, and what has been instructed. Keep them wanting more. Show them what you truly are—divine artists.
Three scarlet post-balloons, carrying three trays, float up to the little girl’s stand. One sprinkles little white flakes—bei powder—all over her, and she ducks as it coats her like snow. The other dangles a porcelain teacup full of Belle-rose tea, an anesthetic drink steeped from the roses that grow on our island. It sloshes and dances near her mouth. She refuses to have a sip. She swats at the cup like it’s a nagging fly.
The crowd cries out as she nears the platform edge again. The last post-balloon chases her with a brush smudged with a paste the color of a cream cookie. To her left and right, the other girls shout at her, telling her not to be scared. The crowd roars. Onlookers try to convince her to drink the tea and wipe the brush across her cheek.
My stomach knots. Her constant squirming could spoil my exhibition. A surge of panic hits me. Every time I imagined this night, I never thought my subject would resist.
“Please stop moving,” I call out.
Du Barry’s gasp echoes through her voice-trumpet.
The crowd goes silent. The girl freezes. I take a deep breath.
“Don’t you want to be beautiful?”
Her gaze burns into mine.
“I don’t care,” she yells, and her voice gets carried off by the wind.
The crowd erupts with horror.
“Oh, but of course you do. Everyone does,” I say, steadying my voice. Maybe she’s starting to go mad from being gray for so long.
“Perhaps they shouldn’t.” Her fists ball up. Her words send a shiver through me.
I paint on a smile. “What if I promise it’ll all turn out well?”
She blinks.
“Better than you expect? Something that will make all of this”—I wave at our surroundings—“worth it.”
She nibbles her bottom lip. A post-balloon putters back up to her with tea. She still refuses it.
“Don’t be afraid.” Her gaze finds mine. “Drink the tea.”
The post-balloon returns.