The Belles (The Belles #1)(40)

“Lady Camellia,” he repeats without making eye contact.

“Lady Rémy.”

He clears his throat and sighs. “I’m here to discuss the plan for this evening’s festivities, and review the protocol with you.”

I sigh. “But of course.”

He adjusts his uniform jacket. “When you go to the princess’s chambers, I’ll be stationed right outside. When you’re in the gardens, I cannot allow you to venture more than fifteen paces away from me. At dinner, I’ll be posted behind you with the other guards.” He speaks as if I’m a child in need of a leash. And maybe I am.

“Will you come to the commode with me, too? Stand beside me while I use it?”

“I’ll be outside the door.”

“It’s a joke,” I say.

His eyes narrow. “There are risks at court.”

The roses in the bathroom come to mind.

“Where’s Ivy?”

“Her presence has not been requested,” he says.

“Well, I’d like her with me.”

He turns without another word and leaves. I bathe and get dressed, then return to the main salon. Rémy reappears with Ivy.

“Will you come with me today?” I ask.

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Why not?”

“Camellia, my time is up. I bring no more value, other than to do beauty work until you’re trusted to do so, and train you to replace me.”

The way she talks about herself reminds me of Du Barry discussing a worn-out pair of shoes. We learned that after our time is up at court or the teahouses, we train the next generation for a month before returning home to La Maison Rouge to become mamans and raise the next group of Belles. Maman once said that it went so fast she felt like she’d only been at court for a single turn of a télétrope.

“I disagree.” I take her gloved hand.

“That seems to be a trend with you,” she says, and if I could see her face, there might be a tiny smile playing across her lips.

“Will my sisters be here tonight?” I ask.

“All official Belles are invited.”

“Official? What does that mean?”

“Just what I said.”

Her ability to always use the fewest words infuriates me. She’s like a locked door I can’t pry open.

The Belle-apartment doors swing forward. An attendant announces: “The Royal Beauty Minister.”

The Beauty Minister strides in. She wears a model ship inside her nest of hair. “Camellia, the princess has requested your presence while she dresses for her party. This is a great opportunity to get to know her and to learn her preferences.”

“Yes, Madam Minister.” Sudden nerves make my hands quiver. This is the first time the princess has asked to see me.

The Beauty Minister glances at Ivy. “What are you doing here?”

“Lady Camellia requested me,” Ivy mumbles.

“It seems highly unnecessary. You won’t be able to attend. They won’t have a place setting.”

Ivy steps back.

“Ivy must come with me to the princess’s boudoir,” I say. “I need her counsel.”

The Beauty Minister sighs. “The favorite gets what the favorite wants.” She leads Ivy, Rémy, and me out of the apartments, on the long walk to the princess’s chambers. But the trip feels shorter this time. Servants move in and out of the doors, carrying trays and baskets. Laughter escapes into the hall.

“Sounds like she’s in a good mood. This bodes well for the day.” The Beauty Minister checks her tiny pocket hourglass. “Her toilette ritual is set to begin in just a moment. You’re right on time.”

“You’re not staying?” Panic crackles inside me.

“No, my dear. Not today. You must bond with Princess Sophia. Soon you will be completing all the beauty work for the entire family.” She knocks on the doors. “Just be your charming self. And you have Ivy here to help, and Rémy will be right outside.”

“Not that he’s any comfort,” I whisper.

Ivy thumps my arm. Rémy glowers at me.

“Now, now,” she says. “That’s not what he’s trained for.”

A servant opens the massive set of doors. I squeeze my hands together to keep them from shaking, and hold my head high.

The Beauty Minister steps inside. I follow, with Ivy on my heels.

The boudoir is a jeweled caisse: all pink, cream, and gold, with the scent of roses wafting through the air, and three crystal chandeliers. Jeweled beauty-lanterns sail overhead, dusting the room with the perfect amount of light. Courtiers mill in and out of an adjacent tea salon, loitering until the ceremony begins.

The details of a proper toilette ritual for a queen and princess took weeks and weeks of studying and endless days of exams from Du Barry. But the particulars of those lessons vanish from my memory as I soak in the enormity of this room. Alive with movement, teams of servants lug large sofas and toilette tables and gold-tiered stands of macarons and tarts. They arrange items on beautiful brocade cloths under the careful watch of a trio of well-dressed ladies. Lavish necklaces coil around their throats like collars, displaying their house emblems. Each emblem contains a chrysanthemum twisted inside the symbol of their high house to represent their relationship to the royal family.