The Belles (The Belles #1)(22)

I suck in my breath and hold it in my chest until the queen speaks. Every whisper, murmur, hum disappears.

“Welcome, my trusted advisors, my beloved ladies, and my ever-loyal court”—she waves a hand in the air—“to the most important day in our kingdom. The naming of our most glorious treasure.” She faces us. “Beautiful Belles, welcome to my court and the beginnings of your divine service to our world. Without you and the gods, we would be nothing.”

The room rumbles with applause. Its echo beats in my chest.

“Feast your eyes on our new generation of Belles!”

I knit my fingers in my lap as the entire crowd turns its attention from her to us. Servants open one of the floor-to-ceiling windows along the east wall, and scarlet post-balloons fly in. They sail over us, zipping and dipping and spinning, their little compasses guiding them to the throne platform. The tiny blimps dangle Belle-cards from golden ropes. Rich, animated, glossy. They tease the hands grabbing for them, coming close enough to be touched but not caught.

I spot my face on one, but the ink waxes and wanes, changing too quickly for me to read it and know my fate.

“These royal Belle-cards will be sent to every single citizen of the kingdom: the five major islands, and the smaller outlying clusters. If anyone has forgotten your names after the Beauté Carnaval, they’ll remember them all in a matter of moments,” the queen says.

The spectators clap.

“Now, my dearest court, cast your coins before I reveal the favorite. Let us see if we’ve picked the same Belle. May you always find beauty.”

The women and men, and a few children, rush from their seats like a swarm of bees. They buzz around the gazebos, dropping coins into baskets held by servants who kneel beside them. They push eyescopes and spyglasses to their eyes and squint at our faces. They flap their fans at us. They listen through ear-trumpets for responses to their questions.

“What are your thoughts on coral-colored eyes?”

“Pale white skin turns gray faster, can you remedy that?”

“Could you give me a new face?”

“Do you think the laws should adjust, and allow for smaller waistlines?”

“My skin is getting old and doesn’t take color well anymore, can you fix that?”

“Any opinion on smaller breasts this season versus larger ones?”

“I liked the trend of darker skin and light eyes; will that be back in fashion?”

“Any ideas on extending how long beauty treatments last?”

I can’t answer one question before another one comes. The faces and voices blur into a spinning mass.

One face sticks out of the herd crowding around me.

The boy from the gate.

I feel his presence like a teacup dragon. Loud, commanding, full of fire. Courtier girls are watching him; some giggle behind their gloved hands and painted fans, and others ask him questions he leaves unacknowledged. He struts to the front of the line, and people clear a path for him. My eyes travel from the sapphire-blue cravat at his neck to the royal emblem pinned to it. Two ships sailing along the curve of a chrysanthemum stem. He’s one of the sons of the Minister of Seas.

A drum beats inside me. I try not to stare. I try to pretend he’s not gazing at me. I try to act like I don’t remember him.

He starts to drop his coin in my basket, then pulls his hand back. His gaze burns my skin. A deep flush climbs from my stomach to my cheeks.

“Did you have a question?” I ask.

“Oh, she speaks.” The pitch of his voice is richer than the darkest chocolate. He hides a smile behind his hand.

“I’m not a doll.”

“I didn’t think you were.” He reaches for my hand. I feel the heat of it through my lace glove.

I pull away.

A guard steps forward. “No touching.”

He flashes his palms. “I meant no offense. I’m Auguste Fabry, son of the Minister of the Seas, a harmless sailor. Just wanted to offer Lady”—he cranes to look up at the sign twinkling with my name—“Camellia my sincerest apologies. She’s upset with me.”

I bite back a smile, fighting with the corners of my mouth. “What is it? I’m very busy and have a long line,” I tease.

“Very well. Do you think men should be as beautiful as women?” His question curls around me like smoke, sliding over and under my skin, and through my dress. His words hold a challenge. One I want to win.

The women around my gazebo grow quiet. A nervous tremor flutters in my stomach.

“I think it’s unfair that women must parade around like peacocks and men do not. There should be an equal effort.”

The left side of his mouth lifts in a smile. “But aren’t women supposed to be more beautiful than men in order to be enjoyed?”

“Are women quills or télétropes or new carriages?” Heat rises to my cheeks. He doesn’t break eye contact.

Women fan themselves and trade whispers and gasps. Their eyes dart from me to him, and back again.

“No, they are not.” He hides a smile beneath his hand. “It seems I know just what to say to make you angry with me.”

“It seems you say stupid things.”

“But it was a question, not a statement.”

I sigh, even though I enjoy sparring with him. It’s different than arguing with my sisters.