The Belles (The Belles #1)(26)

“Don’t bring up my mother.” My eyes fill with tears. My fists clench. I shake with anger.

Amber leans in close. “She would be ashamed of you.” She grabs my wrist and I yank away, pulling her off-balance. Amber lets out a half-surprised, half-anguished shout as she falls to the ground.

I gasp. “Amber! I didn’t mean—”

Her eyes drill into me. Her cheeks burn with redness, and her once-elaborate eye makeup runs down her cheeks in orange-and-gold streaks.

“I’m so sorry.” I reach for her.

She scoots away and crawls to her knees, then stands. “Don’t touch me.”

A travel attendant peers into the salon. “Lady Camellia, your carriage awaits.”

Amber won’t even look at me. I turn and run from the room. An angry knot hardens inside my gut, and a headache punches its way up my neck and into my temples. I race down the stairs to catch up with the rest of my sisters as her words repeat over and over again to the beat of my footsteps.

She would be ashamed. . . . She would be ashamed.





12


The carriage wheels thump against the cobblestones in the Royal Square. I peel back the curtains, and diamond-paned city-lanterns illuminate rich limestone mansions and townhouses in the aristocratic Rose Quartier. Their pillars cut the skyline like expensive blades. The moon paints the sky in deep violets and indigos. The horses whinny and neigh as the driver navigates the sharp turns and narrow lanes of the Imperial City of Trianon.

“Lady Camellia,” a familiar voice says.

I glance away from the window. A pale face peeks out from behind a curtain. It’s the servant from the palace’s Belle apartments. Her brown dress is a smudge of chocolate against the wine red of the carriage’s interior.

“I’m—”

“I remember you, Bree.”

She flushes pink. “I’ve been assigned to you as your imperial servant.”

“Wonderful.” I try to be gracious, just as Du Barry has taught me.

“Would you care for something to eat?”

“No.” I return to the sights beyond the carriage.

“How about tea?” She takes a pot from a tiny hearth that holds a warm, crackling fire.

“I’m not thirsty.”

She removes the lid and flashes the steeping Belle-roses inside. “It’s to help you relax before your arrival.” She pours me a cup. When served to clients, it’s supposed to keep their arms and legs from trembling, quiet their fears or anticipation, and help dull the pain of beauty transformations.

On second thought . . . I swallow the liquid down in one gulp. It burns all the way to my stomach, and I wish it had the power to erase the memory of my fight with Amber. I want to forget the whole night.

I peer outside again as the world becomes a blur of light and color. Spires of smoke twist up and disappear into the sky. We move through the Market Quartier, still busy with merchants selling wares better suited to the dark. Cobalt-blue lanterns hang from every stall and swing above every saloon, beckoning late-night patrons. Vendors holler that they have the best spyglasses for sale; a trio of women hold up bracelets on raised arms; a man offers carved pipes and powders that promise wishes and dreams, while another curves ear-trumpets in the air like a series of elephant trunks. There are scowls, the flashing of teeth, and sluggish smiles. The fuss of haggling tongues deafens me.

The lantern colors change from deep blues to emerald greens as we enter the Garden Quartier.

The world should be like a garden with people bright as roses and lilies and tulips, otherwise it’s all a waste, Maman used to say. Towers curve above painted avenue boards. The promenades boast animated cameos and portraits of famed courtiers that wink and wave as we pass. Rose-shape pavilions sell snowmelon cider, peach champagne, fluffy beignets, and luna pastries. The scents slip in through the window.

Bree takes my cup. “We’ll be arriving soon.”

A scarlet glow pushes into the carriage, washing my arms and legs in red stripes. Beauty-lanterns drift along streets paved with glistening stones, past mismatched shops painted in pastel shades and lined up like the frosted pastries in a bakery window. The stores branch into a maze of twisting alleys. Belle-products twinkle behind glass windowpanes. I try to get excited. I try to take in how pretty it all is. But my mind reminds me that I’m not the favorite and I am not at the palace. This is the consolation prize.

The Chrysanthemum Teahouse glows in lavenders and magentas and reds. Ten stories high, its elegant turrets hold balconies trimmed with shiny night-ivy. It climbs the walls, scaling so high it could grow off the teahouse and make a path to the God of the Sky. A golden walkway licks out like a tongue. Crimson sill-lanterns sit in each window and cast their bloody light over the courtyard. People crowd along the teahouse grounds. Newsies hold up light-boxes. Men and women affix spyglasses to their eyes. Children, up too late, wave their little hands.

The carriage stops. The door opens.

“Lady Camellia!” An attendant presents me with his arm. “Right this way.”

I step out. A full staff awaits.

“Camellia!”

“Camellia!”

I wave to the shouting crowd, and try to smile with the perfect amount of teeth, just as Du Barry taught us. I pretend to be happy.

I’m led across the walkway.