The Belles (The Belles #1)(2)
RHUBARB HAIR POWDER
A COMPLEXION OF LILIES AND BELLE-ROSE LIPS—
THIS SEASON’S COLORS OF BEAUTY
The newsies say that’s what everyone will want in the coming months.
Coins jingle. Hands wave velvet pouches in the air. The spintria inside creates a tinkling melody. How much does each pouch hold? How many treatments can they afford to purchase? How much are they willing to pay?
I adjust the eyescope lens, zooming in on excited onlookers, noticing how some of their skin tones have faded, like paintings that have faced the sun too long; how their hair is graying at the roots, and age-lines are creasing several brows.
It’s a reminder of why I’m here.
I am a Belle.
I control beauty.
2
The carriages stop before the royal pavilion. Embroidered chrysanthemums coil around its peaks. Trumpets sound. Bells chime. I adjust the eyescope lens, and squint to see the king, the queen, and their daughter. They remind me of the porcelain dolls my sisters and I used to play with as children. The chipped face of the little king in his purple robe, and the queen with a bent crown pinned into her dark hair, both sitting inside a miniature palace made of cypress wood scraps in the playroom.
They look the same here, though not as worn, of course. The queen glows like a faraway star, her ink-black skin catching the last rays of sunlight; the king’s copper beard hits the waist-belt of his robe; their daughter has her golden hair pinned up like a beehive. I used to paint the arms and legs of the princess doll each time the real princess altered her skin color, keeping up-to-date with the scandal sheets Maman used to smuggle past Du Barry.
The blimp screens sparkle with her picture. Tonight she’s snowy white like her father, but with peach-pink freckles expertly dusted across her nose. I want to be the one who makes them all beautiful. I want to be the one the queen chooses. I want the power that comes with being Her Majesty’s favorite. And if I can be better than Amber, I will be chosen. The rest of my sisters are good, but deep in my heart, I know it will come down to her and me.
Madam Du Barry speaks into a voice-trumpet. “Your Majesties, Your Highness, ministers, comtes and comtesses, barons and baronesses, ladies and gentlemen of the court, people of Orléans, welcome to our kingdom’s most notable tradition, the Beauté Carnaval.” Her voice is thick with authority. The noise rattles my carriage. Even though I can’t see her, I know she’s wearing a hat full of peacock feathers, and she’s squeezed her curvy frame into one of her black dresses. Maman told me that Madam Du Barry likes to maintain a large and intimidating figure.
“I am Madam Ana Maria Lange Du Barry, Royal Gardien de la Belle-Rose.” She says her official title proudly. The people of Orléans would most likely gasp if they knew we called her “Du Barry” at home.
Applause rumbles. High-pitched whistles echo. The noise vibrates inside my chest. My entire life I’ve wanted nothing more than to be here, before the kingdom.
“This tradition goes back to the very beginning of our islands, and to the onset of our civilization. For generations my ancestors have had the grand privilege to be guardians of our most treasured jewels.” She turns to her left and motions to the previous generation of Belles. All eight of them sit in high-backed chairs, and hold Belle-rosebuds in their hands. Black lace veils mask their faces. The favorite—Ivy—wears a glistening crown on her head. This is the end of their time at court. They will return home once they train us.
When I was a little girl, they all played with us between their lessons with Du Barry. But then one day, the servants packed the older girls’ things.
I wanted to hole up inside those steamer trunks and carriage cases, hide within their silk dresses and soft furs and fluffy tulles, to stow away and catch glimpses of the world through a trunk’s keyhole. I remember reading about the older Belles in the papers after they left. I have their official Belle-cards tacked to my bedroom wall.
I want to be Ivy. I have always wanted to be her.
You have to be the favorite—just like me, Maman told me before she died. The people of Orléans hate themselves. You must change that. The memory of her words warms me from the inside out as the sting of missing her swells inside my chest. The favorite shows the world what is beautiful. She reminds them of what is essential. I wish she had lived long enough to be here, watching from the stage.
I picture myself living at the palace as the personal Belle of the royal family, being the left hand of the Beauty Minister and helping her draft beauty laws, experiencing the wonders of the Imperial City of Trianon and all its quartiers, swimming in La Mer du Roi, sailing in royal ships, visiting every island, and roaming every town to taste all the world has to offer.
My sisters will be placed at one of five imperial teahouses, or will stay at home to tend to Orléans’s newborn citizens.
I will be a vessel for the Goddess of Beauty.
I hold the dream inside my chest like a breath I never want to let out.
“And now, it is my pleasure to present the newest generation of Belles,” Du Barry announces.
A shiver of anticipation makes my heart threaten to burst. My hands shake, and I drop the eyescopes.
The crowd cheers. The driver pulls the netted covering of flowers from my carriage.
I’m revealed to the crowd. I grab the fans from my lap. Their latches fall open, exposing the fans’ primrose-pink pattern. I cover my face, then flap and twirl them together so they flutter like a butterfly’s wings. I toss them above my head and catch them effortlessly. The hours of lessons pay off in this moment. Whistles and shouts rise up from the throng.