The Belles (The Belles #1)(28)

I think of the beauty of the room in which Amber now sleeps. The whole scene with her replays over and over again: the hurt in her eyes and the noise she made as she fell. A heaviness settles into me, like a post-balloon with too much to carry. And even though this is a beautiful room in an even more beautiful house, and I am the second most important Belle in the kingdom, all I see are images of the palace Belle apartments, and all I hear are Amber’s words, and all I feel is that this room isn’t good enough.

“I think you will be perfect here. You already seem to fit with the space.” Madam Claire giggles. “Your skin is the right shade of brown to match it. The designers worked hard to ensure it’d be the right fit.” She runs her hands over the furniture, then leans on the vanity, staring in the mirror. “Oh, dear, I’ve put on too much rouge-stick again.” She rubs at her teeth.

The servants stifle laughter. She clears her throat, and they stop. She looks at me in the mirror’s reflection. “I thought the queen was going to choose you.”

I meet her gaze, and tears well in my eyes.

“Your exhibition was so clever. I rooted for you because it was markedly different from the others. And because you made my sister so mad.”

I bow so she won’t see the smile that her statement inspires. “Thank you, Madam.”

“But Ambrosia is the right favorite for the current royal family,” she says, and the momentary happiness disappears like a popped bubble. “They’ve had enough strife. They need someone who will do exactly as told.”

“I could’ve done that,” I say, even though it feels like a lie.

She walks over and places a hand against my cheek. “Who are you trying to fool, me or you?” She smiles, the rouge-stick now coating more of her teeth, and leans forward to sniff me. “You smell like lavender. How lovely. I’m happy to have you here. Tomorrow we’ll get to work.” She excuses herself, sending in nurses to check my arcana levels.

I climb into the too-large bed and let the nurses poke and prod me. After they leave, I take out the cameo of my mother and set it on the pillow beside me. I trace my fingers over the silhouette of her face, carved from blush-pink stone, glass, and white quartz.

“What should I do, Maman?”

I close my eyes and imagine her beside me. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the sound of her breathing. I listen hard for her voice like it’s only a faraway whisper.

Do what you’ve been asked to do, she’d say.

“What if I don’t want to?”

You must. The queen has made her decision. You weren’t raised to covet the path of others. It allows the God of Envy’s snake to enter your veins.

“I yelled at my best friend.”

You should never let your anger bubble over. It blinds you. It shatters hearts.

“I’m sorry, Maman. I’m sorry I failed. I didn’t work hard enough.”

I wait for her voice. I wait for her to tell me it’s all right. I wait to feel her arms curl around my waist, to feel the soft beat of her heart pushing through my back.

Nothing comes.

I sink down in the new mattress, wishing for an indentation like the one left behind by Maman in our bed at home, and drift into disappointed dreams.





13


Unfamiliar noises and new scents wake me early, and I’m swept into the day. Breakfast on the veranda, and a list of morning appointments.

Mistress Daniela Jocquard, House Maille 7:00

Lady Renée Laurent, House of Silk 8:00

Countess Madeleine Rembrandt, House Glaston 9:00

Lady Ruth Barlon, House Eugene 10:00

Duchesse Adelaide Bruen, House of Pomanders 11:00

The small treatment salon has pale blue walls and a circular shape, like the inside of a robin’s egg. Servants work to fluff pillows and drape blankets across a long table. Bree opens up my beauty caisse and sets out instruments on a silver tray.

A skylight window reveals angry clouds ready to thunder and rain down. It’s as if the sky reflects my insides.

“Lady Camellia,” Bree whispers.

“Yes?”

“Your first clients have arrived in the parlor. Tea has been served.”

“Thank you.”

I take a deep breath and smooth the front of my canary-yellow work dress. Bree squeezes my shoulder, and I flash her a thankful smile.

Madam Claire strides in. “Camellia, darling, how are you feeling this morning?” Rouge-stick bleeds around her smile. She mops sweat from her brow.

I curtsy. “Fine.”

“I trust you slept well.” She rubs my shoulder. “It’s your first day here, so I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.” Her nose scrunches.

“Because I am.”

She eyes me suspiciously but says nothing more, and we walk together to the adjacent waiting parlor. A little girl marches around in circles. She chases a tawny teacup lion.

“Come here, Chat. Little Chat, come back.” The teacup lion yelps out a tiny roar as the girl yanks its tail. The girl’s jeweled pinafore balloons around her small waist, and the little hat on her head threatens to fall off. She can’t be more than five years old. Her elegant mother grabs at her, demanding she sit down.

“Lady Jocquard and Mistress Daniela, may I present the new Belle of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse at your service.”