The Belles (The Belles #1)(20)
We jump, and then laugh.
“Stop frightening them, Gustave. You know they’re not used to men lurking about,” the Beauty Minister says.
“No need to be afraid of me, little dolls. I’m so uninterested in female comfort. I’m here to make sure you always have the proper dress to wear. I would dare say—upon penalty of death—that fashion is the most important element of beauty.”
The Beauty Minister gives him a light push. They kiss each other’s cheeks again.
“You are looking well,” he purrs.
One of the Fashion Minister’s attendants slides his ermine-lined robe from his shoulders, exposing a gold medallion with his royal minister emblem. Another attendant fluffs his hair with a wide-tooth comb. He waves a flash hand made of diamonds around, thanking his team.
He inspects Elisabeth. “Is this the little Du Barry, here at court to learn the ropes?”
She curtsies. “I’m Elisabeth Amie Lange Du Barry, daughter of the Gardien de la Belle-Rose, and I know plenty about court.”
“But do you know the slightest thing about beauty?” he asks. “By the look of you, I’d say not.”
Edel chuckles, but a look from Du Barry silences her.
“Of course she does, Gustave; she is my daughter,” Du Barry says with pride.
He does a lap around Elisabeth, then returns to Du Barry’s side. “There’s much work to be done, Ana, for her to fill your shoes.” He kisses the reluctant cheek offered up by Du Barry. “But for now, it’s time to dress the Belles, and for the whole world to find out who has been chosen.”
Servants put up privacy screens and unpack trunks. Silks, woolens, crinolines, cottons, satins, taffetas, tulles, and velvets are stretched over long tables by teams of people. Tiered trays hold buttons, lace, ribbons, gems, jewels, and hundreds of other baubles. A servant rushes me behind a screen and helps me up on a dress block. She unties the sash around my slip, undoes the petticoat ribbons, and removes my crinoline. A seamstress joins us, towing a kit.
“What kind of dress will you make?” I ask.
“The kind the Fashion Minister told me to. He picked out colors for you based on your complexion.” She sits at a massive machine that boasts three spindle wheels and two looms. Her thick hands lace the string through a series of loops and pegs. She presses her foot on a paddle. The machine roars to life, creaking like a rickety carriage on a cobblestone street. Red, black, and white threads zip in and around a set of dowels.
Even though I’ve been dressed and measured and primped so many times, I still hate the feeling in these moments that my body doesn’t belong to me. I become a doll—an object to be embellished. I wonder if this is how women feel on our treatment tables. I wish I could pick out my own dress. I’d choose something simple—a shade of red to match Maman’s hair, a high waist with a cream waist-sash, and a sweeping skirt that flows out like a silk river behind me.
Another servant helps me into a robe and leads me to the bathing chamber for our second bath of the day. Beauty-lanterns cast a warm light on pink-tiled walls and gilded mirrors. A series of claw-footed tubs lines one side.
Amber sits in front of a mirror with her beauty caisse. Valerie and Hana are rushed into the tubs. Edel’s wet hair is fanned dry by three people.
I tangle my feet up in plush floor rugs. My bath is drawn, and I’m in and out of it before the water can soak fully into my skin. An onsen servant leads me to a vanity. With fluid movements she wipes my arms, legs, and face with a damp rose-scented cloth and cuts and buffs my nails, then paints and dries them. She puts my feet into little red shoes. Another woman touches my eyelids, making me close them. I hear them unhook the compartments of my beauty caisse. Now I’m the one to be made beautiful. She powders my face and rubs a rouge-stick over my lips.
The clicks of Belle-pencils echo. She lines my eyes with two different kohl tips. Layer after layer of Belle-powder and rouge are applied to my cheeks and eyes. She rubs a waxy perfume-stick behind my ears and along my wrists. The soft powders and pencils and warm creams relax me. It would be easier if I could use my arcana on myself, even though Du Barry says it’s impossible. The arcana are for the service of others.
I imagine my new life-to-be: being chosen, living at the palace, enjoying all the court has to offer, creating beautiful people. I take deep breaths. But Du Barry’s words hover around me like the beauty-lanterns.
“Hair is next.” The servant sections my hair, combing it through. The steam from the rollers creates a cloud around me, and their warmth seeps into my scalp as she sets my curls with them. Big waves hit my shoulders and are quickly pinned up into a signature Belle-bun, with Belle-rose petals to prevent frizzing.
The women rush me from this room to our dressing stalls. Bree waits for me. She fits me in a patterned long-sleeved gown in black and white. I’ve never worn any other color besides the deep pink Du Barry claims brings out the honey undertones in my brown skin. Bree’s deft fingers close a series of hooks and clasps along my back. A bloodred waist-sash is tied at the middle to gather the skirts into the perfect bell shape. “You look beautiful, my lady,” she says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Are you excited to see the royal family and court?” Bree asks.
“Yes, I am.” Our eyes meet in the mirror. I welcome the conversation. “What is the queen like?”