The Belles (The Belles #1)(41)

They turn their attention to us. A flush climbs up my entire body. They whisper behind fans and glance at me. I tell my heart to slow down.

At the back of the room, a large screen is hooked around the silhouette of a claw-foot bathtub. A waist-high barrier isolates it from the rest of the space.

“Your Highness,” the Beauty Minister calls out.

“Yes, Madam Minister,” the princess’s voice echoes.

“I have the new favorite, Lady Camellia Beauregard, here.” She pulls me in front of her and drums her red-polished nails on my shoulders. “And the rest of the noble crowd eagerly waits outside your doors.”

Water sloshes as the princess climbs from the tub. Servants rush to her. The screen is removed. Flushed pink and tangled in a web of towels, she’s dressed in a bathing gown and doesn’t look like the Imperial Princess, heir to the House of Orléans. She looks more like a little girl ready to play dress-up. Her appearance is different again—pale white as a snowflake, with hair almost a mirroring shade, and bright blue eyes. She smiles sweetly at me. I relax a little. Everything will be fine.

The princess waves me forward. I lean over the barriers and she kisses both my cheeks, leaving a warm wetness behind. “So nice to see you again.”

I bow all the way to the floor. “Happy birthday, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” she says.

The Beauty Minister clears her throat. “I will leave you here, Camellia, to get acquainted and witness the toilette ritual that only befits a princess and future queen. I’ll see you later this evening for the royal games and banquet.” The boudoir doors open, the Beauty Minister disappears, and a swarm of women floods inside.

I study them: most are princesses from the royal family—nieces of the king and queen—and a few girls and women from high houses. When courtiers receive their appointments, their portraits fill every newspaper and beauty pamphlet. The monarchs shower favored families with land, titles, gifts, and notoriety.

“Pay close attention,” Ivy whispers to me before slinking backward into the growing pack of onlookers.

The women organize themselves by rank and wait patiently for their roles to begin. A few men squeeze into the group.

A massive vanity is carried into the center of the room. Large mirrors reflect the beauty-lantern light. Enameled caisses expose glistening Belle-products, crested with rich, sparkling Belle-emblems. Glass canisters hold colorful liquids. Golden pins poke out of a pink velvet cushion. Carts hold tiers of pastries frosted in rose-petal pinks and pearly whites and apple reds, flutes overflow with jewel-tone liquids, and sugar-dusted strawberries and pomegranates sit in glass bowls. Vases spill over with flowers in a rainbow of colors.

Sophia is led to a cushioned seat before the vanity. The towel on her head writhes. Out pops a teacup monkey.

“Singe,” she cries out. “How’d you get in there?”

The tiny monkey jumps from table to table as servants attempt to catch him. The ladies-of-honor screech until he’s safely returned to his small golden cage.

“Why must you have that creature with us in the boudoir?” one of her ladies says.

“Singe has a mind of his own,” Sophia replies.

“The femme de chamber,” an attendant calls out. A petite woman steps forward with an open book in her shaky hands.

Sophia gazes down into the pages of wardrobe choices. She plucks a sparkly pin from the cushion and pushes it into the pages. She does this three times. The group of women oohh and ahh at her selections. A maid shuffles in with a screen. Sophia steps behind it and disrobes, dropping the wet bathing chemise on the floor.

Servants bring in her garden dress, parading it in front of the onlookers, who fawn over it.

The attendant steps forward. “Lady Gabrielle, princess du sang, and first lady-of-honor to Her Royal Highness, please step forward.”

Sophia’s dress is handed to Lady Gabrielle, who ducks behind the screen.

“Camellia, my ladies will introduce themselves, won’t you, girls?” Sophia calls out.

Lady Gabrielle steps into view once more. Her eyes are bright, her skin the color of the warm fudge my sisters and I used to steal from the kitchen.

“I am Lady Gabrielle Lamballe, a princess du sang, from the House of Orléans. Her favorite cousin.” She throws the room a smile. “I am the superintendent and first lady-of-honor. I call myself Lady of All Things.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” I say as I curtsy.

From lessons on royal society, I know Gabrielle advises the princess and oversees the other ladies.

“Seeing you up close, you really are quite beautiful. The papers were right, for once.” Gabrielle stares me up and down. “Most Belles are incredibly boring. Like the last one. What was her name again?”

“Her name was Ambrosia,” I say. The words sound too hard. Too protective.

Gabrielle recoils like I’ve poked her.

“We call her Amber,” I add to soften it.

“Yes. Amber. Dull as plain vanilla.” Gabrielle smirks. “You look like you might be entertaining.”

I can’t tell whether she’s paying me a compliment or an insult. I stutter out a thank-you.

The next lady-of-honor doesn’t move from her spot, sprawled across one of the sofas. She barely turns to look at me, too busy pushing a strawberry crème tart into her mouth. “I’m Lady Claudine, Duchesse de Bissay,” she grunts out, and waves a hand in the air.