The Belles (The Belles #1)(27)
I bow, then wave the onlookers good-bye as the teahouse doors shut behind me. The inside blazes with light. Soft golden rays dance over the floor. The space carries the scent of charcoal and flowers. A bubbling fountain sprays water. The foyer looks up into the belly of the house. Nine balconies rim its perimeter, with gilded rails and oil-black spindles that curl along each floor and twist into the shape of Belle-roses. Chandelier-lanterns hang from the high ceiling, floating up and down like jeweled clouds, bathing each floor with a tiny glow. A grand staircase splits into two like a pair of pearl-white snakes.
Bree takes my traveling cloak, then sweeps my gown with a handheld broom, batting at it for dust, bugs, or any other unwanted occupant I may have picked up on my journey. She removes my shoes and replaces them with silk house socks that button along my ankles.
“Thank you.” My connection to the palace isn’t completely lost if she’s here with me.
“Of course, Lady Camellia.” She bows.
A woman saunters in wearing a dress the color of sunlit honey, which dips low in the front to display three diamond necklaces. Her long and elegant hair is pinned up in a golden swirl, and she reminds me of the chrysanthemum flower on the Orléansian emblem. Her fingernails shimmer like the bright color of its leaves.
“Camellia,” she says. “I’m Madam Claire Olivier, wife of Sir Robert Olivier, House Kent, baby sister of Madam Ana Du Barry, and the mistress of this glorious teahouse. My, my, that’s a lot.” She chuckles to herself.
I curtsy. I have faint childhood memories of her visiting the house.
She smiles, and the rouge-stick on her teeth makes her look like she’s eaten a box of colored pastels. Sweat dots her top lip, and she obsessively blots her face with a handkerchief.
“We’re so happy the queen placed you here. Though my sister says you’re a handful, with a naughty temperament. But you have the sweetest face. I don’t believe her. She can be so fussy.” She touches my cheek. “Now, now. Let me take you on a tour of the great Chrysanthemum Teahouse.”
I follow her up the grand staircase. She jingles from a strange set of keys around her waist.
“There are ten floors, with thirty-five rooms on each one. They used to be brimming over with Belles, their ledgers chock-full of courtiers. The queen had the hardest job, sifting through so many talented Belles to select the favorite. The Beauté Carnaval lasted a month when I was a child.”
I run my fingers over ornate banisters. Some doors remain closed, and others flash their themed interiors. Snowy white chaises with chartreuse pillows, jade bedcurtains and saffron drapes, fuchsia walls and garnet tapestries. I imagine each room as the beauty workshop of a Belle. House-lanterns follow behind us. Their tiny whooshing noises echo.
Du Barry never told us why there are so few of us now.
“I wonder if my sister knows how to nurture Belles anymore.” Madam Claire winks at me.
I keep my face blank. Du Barry’s threats still ring in my ears.
Madam Claire shows me the beautiful breakfast veranda and the game salon and tea parlors. “Historically, this teahouse was where the queen and her ladies came, before Queen Ana?s built the palace Belle apartments in the Charvois Dynasty. My family lives on the tenth floor, and your quarters will be on the third.”
We return to the grand staircase.
“Where’s my big sister, Aza? Will we share a room as she trains me?”
Madam Claire stops and pivots around. Her mouth crumples into a frown. “You won’t be needing her help transitioning.”
“But Madam Du Barry said we had a month together. She’s supposed to show me how to do everything perfectly and take over her clients.”
“I sent her home to La Maison Rouge early. She had an unpleasant disposition, if you will. But not to worry, you have me. I’ve been mistress of this teahouse for fifteen years. There’s no one better to show you what’s expected.”
More disappointment piles on top of the growing mountain inside me. I thought I would have an elder sister to rely on—at least for a time. That was what we’d been told.
We walk along the third floor. Servants open a set of doors. Bree and I follow Madam Claire inside.
“These are your chambers”—Madam Claire motions—“and your imperial servant will be in nearby quarters.”
The most enormous bed I’ve ever seen sits in the middle of the room. Velvet drapes hang from gilded posts tied with gossamer bows. The bed is covered in silk pillows made of swansdown, and thick blankets embroidered with the Chrysanthemum House emblem. Flames curl and hiss in a stone fireplace, even though it’s the end of the warm months. Bowls hold floating tea lights and flower petals. Gold-framed portraits swallow the walls. Marble statues of the Goddess of Beauty and famous Belles peek out of every corner. I spot my mother in the long row. I wonder what she’d say if she were here. Would she admit her disappointment? Would she tell me to be grateful?
Bree works with the others to unpack my Belle-trunk. The beauty caisse is lifted to a vanity complete with three mirrors and a series of beauty-lantern hooks. A Belle-book sits on the table, embossed with my portrait and name, and an instruction card from Du Barry demanding that I record everything. Dresses are hung in a closet so big my new bed could fit inside it.
“The Fashion Minister sent a hundred dresses. I advised him that I’d like for you to match the house, so he used the teahouse colors as inspiration.” Madam Claire’s words fade into a distant murmur.