The Belles (The Belles #1)(23)

“Final question,” he says, lifting his coin in the air.

“I think you’ve asked enough questions, and slowed down my line.”

“Just one more. Is that all right?” He pokes his bottom lip out, like he’s a child on the edge of a tantrum. The women fuss, goading me into allowing it.

“Go on,” I demand, feigning annoyance.

“If you could change anything about me, what would it be?” he asks.

“You will have to make a private appointment for us to discuss your options.”

“I’ll take that answer to mean you’d change nothing.”

The women snicker, coo, and shower him with compliments. He grins at me as he basks in it. I want to laugh, but hold the outburst in my chest. I will not smile. I will not let him know that he amuses me.

“But if you want my coin . . .” He rubs his hand under his chin, and his dark brows slant up. “You’ll have to tell me. Because maybe I should give you my vote.” He dangles the coin over the basket again. “Or maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Save your coins, I have plenty,” I say. “My sisters are just as talented.”

“But are they as beautiful?”

Nearby women burst with chatter.

I blush.

“I think you might make for an interesting favorite. Plus, I like to place a good bet.” He drops the coin in just as the baskets are collected, then he disappears into the crowd. Traces of his smug attitude linger like perfume, distracting me from an onslaught of new questions. I search for him in the masses, wanting to tell him I’m not here for him to find me beautiful. I’m here to help the world. I’m not an ornament.

The queen returns to her throne, and she nods at the Beauty Minister.

“It’s time,” the Beauty Minister says into a voice-trumpet.

New scarlet post-balloons zip through the room, glowing bright with our Belle-emblem. They circle over the Beauty Minister like tanager birds looking for their nest. She reaches for one of the blimps and removes the card. “First up, Valeria Beauregard.”

Valerie steps out of her gazebo.

“You will return home to Maison Rouge de la Beauté.”

Valerie bows. When she returns to her platform, she looks at the ground and tries to catch the tears falling down her face.

We all clap for her.

The Beauty Minister reaches for another card. I resist bunching my dress.

“Edelweiss Beauregard,” she says.

“Yes,” Edel accidentally calls out, before clapping a hand over her mouth. The Beauty Minister smiles at her.

“My lovely, you will be at the Fire Teahouse in the Fire Isles,” she says.

Edel curtsies.

“Hana Beauregard.”

Hana snaps upright. Her hands dig into the folds of her dress as she walks out of her gazebo. She doesn’t look at the Beauty Minister; her eyes are fixed on the ground. A few cherry-blossom petals fall from her Belle-bun. She takes in a large breath.

The Beauty Minister scans the Belle-card. “You will be at the Glass Teahouse in the Glass Isles.”

Hana exhales, claps her hands together, then bows.

“Padma Beauregard, you will be at the Silk Teahouse in the Bay of Silk,” the Beauty Minister says.

Padma’s chin drops to her chest. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she does her best to wipe them away. A sob escapes her. She covers her mouth. A nearby servant rubs her back, and whispers something to her.

Two blimps linger over the Beauty Minister’s head, chasing each other in a perfect circle.

This is it.

I look at Amber to my left. She winks at me. I blow her a silent kiss and cross my fingers for both of us. I tell myself: If it isn’t me, then I’ll be happy it’s her. I hope she feels the same. I ignore the tiny voice inside me that whispers, You’re lying.

The Beauty Minister reaches for the cards displaying our faces. I stand up straight and ball my fists in anticipation of what she’s going to say. The girls watch and wait.

“Camellia Beauregard,” she says.

I walk forward. Fear and excitement climb over me like vines. My palms itch. My face feels flushed. I don’t know whether I want to vomit, shriek, or both. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.

“You’ll be at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse in the Rose Quartier of our Imperial City of Trianon.”

My cheeks flame and I know they’re red as strawberries. My heart plummets into my stomach with a crash. Sweat streams down my back. “But . . .” I start to say, before Du Barry glares at me.

I bow and return to my gazebo. My chest heaves. I might never be able to catch my breath again.

The queen stands. The Beauty Minister turns to her.

“Ambrosia Beauregard.” The queen stretches out the syllables of her name.

Amber steps forward—eyes gazing ahead, shoulders back, slight smile on her face—looking exactly how Du Barry trained us to. Gracious. Alert. Always ready.

“You have been named the favorite,” the Beauty Minister announces. The word explodes through the room like a cannon.

I put a hand over my mouth.

The queen claps. “Ambrosia is the favorite.”

A servant dumps out Amber’s basket. Coins splatter on the floor and make a golden mountain. The court cast many bets for her.

I can’t take my eyes off Amber.