The Belles (The Belles #1)(33)
I ask Madam Claire about the other Belles at the teahouse at least once a day, and she sweeps away my questions like dust from a tea table. “Nonsense; you are the Belle of this teahouse.” But the sounds of sliding doors, carriage wheels, and tiny footsteps drift through the house, and each time I leave my room to explore, a servant returns me to where I’m supposed to be.
I think about that Belle’s face and wonder if she was really and truly a Belle. I wonder if Madam Claire is trying to deceive others besides just me. I wish my sisters were here to help me figure it out—especially Amber. If we were home, she would’ve launched a full-scale plan with lookouts and maps and secret meetings. I follow Amber in the papers to feel closer to her, but the stories are confounding.
FAVORITE DAZZLES COURT WITH HER MANNER ARCANA
LADIES COMPLAIN OF THE FAVORITE’S COLOR CHOICES
LADY AMBROSIA RESTORES A MAN’S
FACE AFTER PERILOUS ACCIDENT
THE FAVORITE CAUGHT CRYING AT A COURTIER LUNCHEON
NEED CHARM? THE FAVORITE CAN GIVE YOU
ANY DISPOSITION YOU’VE EVER WANTED
The tattlers and scandal sheets show pictures of a scowling Amber sitting beside the princess.
I think about her every day. I write her a dozen letters that I rip up after finishing, and prepare a dozen post-balloons that I don’t have the courage to send. Stupidly, I wait for a palace post-balloon from her. I check the teahouse mailroom every day, hoping to see their lilac forms.
I receive post-balloons from all my sisters except Amber:
Camille,
The new Belle babies are here. They have sweet little cheeks and tiny cries. You must come home and see them if you can.
Have you started in on our list? Seen all the sights we planned when we were little?
You’re missed.
Love,
Valerie
Camille,
Amber’s been writing to me. She’s having a hard time. I hope you wrote to her, too. Or better yet, try to go visit her.
Love,
Padma
Camille,
One of the little Belle babies looks just like you. She even has the freckle underneath your right eye and the dimple in your cheek.
Their portraits are being painted tomorrow. I’ll steal one of the duplicates and send it to you.
They’re growing so fast. It’s been a week since they were born and they already look like three-year-olds. Did you know we grew so fast?
Love,
Valerie
Camille,
Du Barry didn’t tell us it would be this hard. I’m so tired. Madam Alieas works me for hours and hours. She won’t even let me go into Laussat to explore or see any of the Fire Isles.
We are not blessed by the Goddess of Beauty. We are cursed.
I don’t want to do this.
Edel
Camille,
I can’t sleep. There are so many noises at the Glass Teahouse—crying and screaming late into the night. No one will tell me what’s going on. I’ve never wanted to go home so badly. We always wanted to leave Maison Rouge de la Beauté, and now I just want to go back.
What’s it like at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?
Hana
I write them back, and I tell Hana that I’ve heard the noises here too, and I’ve seen what looked like another Belle. I send magenta post-balloons out my window.
The days fill with the monotony of lonely work: breakfast, beauty appointments, lunch, more beauty appointments, dinner, dropping off spintria pouches to Madam Claire’s office, a visit from the nurses with the sangsues, and to bed, only to listen to the late-night noises of parties and crying.
This morning the house buzzes with more activity than ever. Every house-lantern has been lit—morning, dusk, and night ones—every chaise and chair fluffed, every door opened to expose the currant red and fuchsia and rich butter yellow of the rooms beyond.
I lean over the balcony outside my room, peering down into the grand foyer. I tiptoe down the grand staircase unnoticed. The melody of preparation hides my footsteps: clinking glass, the jingle of silver cutlery, the clack of porcelain dishes, the grunts and whispers of the servants.
The breakfast veranda is open. Sunlight and a persistent breeze push inside. The golden noses of imperial carriages peek out of the trees surrounding the teahouse. Important people must be somewhere in the house. A servant ushers me to the only seat at the table. I long for the round table at home, complete with my sisters. Plates of petit-waffles, boiled eggs, tiny quiches, grape clusters, and sweet luna pastries are placed in front of me.
I pick over the food. Valerie would love these little waffles, and Hana likes anything and everything with eggs. Amber would’ve asked for a snowmelon. Padma would’ve frowned at the slices of steak shaped like stars. Edel would’ve been difficult and asked for something different—an omelet or sweet toast.
Newspapers rest in stacks. Their headlines pulse and flicker across the pages, calling my attention.
BEAUTY IS ALL THAT PLEASES THE GODDESS
WHAT IS FAIR IS EVER DEAR: NEW
SKIN-BRIGHTENING BELLE-PRODUCT
KING’S MISTRESS CAUGHT WEARING HIS ROYAL EMBLEM
NEW POLL SHOWS MANY HOPE PRINCESS
CHARLOTTE WILL WAKE TO TAKE THE THRONE
There is a shatter of glass, and a rush of pounding footsteps booms through the teahouse.
“Try to clear them out,” a servant shouts.