The Belles (The Belles #1)(8)
“Welcome, my lovelies; I am Rose Bertain, House Orléans, and Royal Beauty Minister to our great kingdom. I have a message from Her Majesty.” She slices the back of the balloon with a hooked letter opener. Glowing sparks spray from its rear. She pulls out a tiny scroll boasting the queen’s wax seal.
She breaks and unravels it, then reads:
“My Dearest Belles,
Welcome to my home and the capital of your beloved kingdom. Each one of you was so beautiful tonight. I think the Goddess of Beauty watched proudly from the heavens above. I look forward to determining the best placement for you. Thank you for your divine service to this land. May you always find beauty.
– HRM Queen Celeste Elisabeth the Third, by the Grace of the Gods of the Kingdom of Orléans and Her Other Realms and Territories, Defender of Beauty and Borders.”
I hold my breath until the Beauty Minister finishes reading the queen’s title.
“Shall we go inside?” she says.
“Yes,” Valerie blurts out a little too loudly. We all laugh. Her light brown skin turns pink.
Du Barry and the Beauty Minister lead us forward onto the imperial grounds. Guards flank our sides. We walk down a sloping promenade and along curving pathways, headed for the palace.
Night-lanterns wander overhead, leaving footprints of light in front of us. I pass by bright green lawns and ornate trees trimmed into shapes favored by the gods, flowerbeds that burst with scarlet Belle-roses and snowy lilies shimmering like blankets of red and white stardust. Royal beasts parade along the grass—cerulean peacocks, rosy teacup flamingos, and fire-red phoenixes.
Amber looks back at me. I stick my tongue out and race up to her. “You did so well,” she whispers.
I try to pluck a flying bug from the waist-sash around her sunset-orange gown. She sweeps it up and sets it free.
“So did you.”
Her pale nose scrunches. The angles of her face curve into a perfect heart shape. Her complexion is as smooth and delicate as a piece of the fine porcelain from the formal dining salon at home. The Belle-makeup she wears makes her skin look even whiter. A slight wind pulls her ginger hair out of place. Her high bun looks like a split peach on account of the color. “I messed up with the skin. It turned out too bright.” Her eyes shimmer with tears.
“It was fine.” I trip over my dress skirts, but she catches me. I feel so light and so tired from using the arcana.
“My nerves were a mess. I did everything Maman . . .” Her voice breaks in half.
I lace my fingers through hers, and they look like twists of butterscotch and vanilla. Amber’s sadness is painted all over her. I bury my own. We both did what our mothers told us to do.
“You did great. Your girl’s hair had perfect ringlets. Maman Iris would’ve been so proud.” At home, Amber lived next door to me on the seventh floor. Her maman would set up tea parties with sugar cakes and marzipan rose creams just for us. Despite the fact that we were thirteen, and a little too old for it, I loved them. I’ll always remember when Maman Iris taught us how to use the bei-powder bundles, and how the chalk-white sprinkles made her skin look like dried-out dirt.
In our Belle-trunks, little stone mortuary tablets are packed alongside our dresses, in memory of our mothers.
“Amber, you did wonderfully.”
“Liar,” Amber says. “You didn’t even watch. I could see you. You had your eyes closed.” She elbows me.
She’s always seen right through me.
“I saw her after you were done.” I’ll sneak a newsreel and watch the whole thing later.
My few childhood memories have Amber in them: tiptoeing into Du Barry’s chambers to see what size brassiere she wore, hiding out in the nursery where people brought infants for their first transformations, placing bei-powder in our playroom mistress’s tea just to see her spit it out, pushing all the lift buttons to get to the restricted floors, breaking into the Belle-product storeroom to test all the latest concoctions. We’ve shared our friendship for so long, I can’t pinpoint when it first started.
“Look at the sky.” I wave above our heads. “It’s different here than at home.” No cypress trees blocking the stars. No hum of bayou crickets or the bleating of frogs. No tiny curling bars on the house windows. No thick northern clouds; just a clear stretch out to the ends of the world.
“The queen was supposed to stand up after my exhibition, Camille. So I would know. So everyone would know. Maman told me I had to be the favorite. There’s no point in being anything else.”
My chest tightens. We were told the same thing. I feel selfish for wanting to be better than her, and all my sisters.
“She didn’t stand up for me either,” I remind her. And myself. “I know you did well, even if I didn’t see it.”
“Yes, but you were spectacular!” She throws up her hands. “I’ve never seen you perform like that.”
“And you were just as good, so stop it.”
“We all did what we were told to do. What was in our dossiers. Except you. Turning the little girl into your mirror image—so clever. And, I didn’t even think to use my ambrosia flower as a little cocoon. It really heightened everything. Made it such a reveal. None of that crossed my mind. Which is my problem. I don’t do the unexpected. You take the rules as suggestions, and go beyond.” She balls up her fists. “Just change their hair and skin color.” She parrots Du Barry’s nasal-toned voice. “Nothing more. Anything else is a waste. . . .” She covers her face with her hands. “It was a show, and you understood that.”