The Belles (The Belles #1)(43)

“You’ll embarrass the crown. You’re already embarrassing all of us in front of the Belle,” Gabrielle says.

“It’s Camellia,” I remind her. “Or Camille, which I prefer.”

She jumps back like I’ve hit her.

Claudine grins at her. “Forgetting names already, superintendent Gabrielle?”

“I don’t forget anything.” Her eyes hold annoyance. Sweat slicks my neck. Little quivers pulse through my hands. I hold my dress skirts and don’t break eye contact until she looks back at Claudine.

Gabrielle orders the servants around, telling them how the princess will wear her hair for the evening—three single plaits twisted into a low bun—and she tells the other ladies-of-honor how to drape her with jewelry. Her slender brown arms wave about like wings as she doles out every command.

A body-length mirror is set before Sophia. She turns around and around, then slaps her hands against her legs. “I hate this look.”

Her ladies-of-honor spring into action. They fuss over her like it’s a competition to tell her how beautiful she is. Even the little one lingers at the edge, holding swansdown puffs, ready to spray Sophia with a perfume atomizer. Sophia’s maids glue extra feathers onto the gown, creating trailing folds like a peacock’s tail. They sew sparkling charms along the sleeves. A diadem is placed in her hair.

“I need to be the most beautiful girl at my party.”

“Of course you will be,” Gabrielle says.

“Why would you think otherwise?” Claudine adds.

“Henrietta-Maria, tell them to bring out the beauty boards,” Sophia orders. Henrietta-Maria skips all the way to the door, then disappears into an adjacent room. When she returns, she’s trailed by a team of servants holding canvas boards and easels.

“Camille,” Sophia barks.

I leap up from my chair.

“What do you think of these? I had my beauty cabinet make them up. And my mother continues to meddle and edit them.”

I circle the boards. They feature different looks—nose shapes, hair and eye colors, facial structures, hair textures, body shapes, and skin tones—matched with fabric swatches and rouge-stick smudges and nail lacquer.

“They’re lovely,” I say. And boring.

Sophia rushes up to me so fast, I take a step back. She cups my hand in hers. “I don’t want to just be beautiful. I want to be the most beautiful.” She doesn’t blink, and her eyes stretch open so wide, it’s as if she’s trying to take me completely in. “I need to make the beauty-scopes this week. It’s my birthday.”

I’ve never seen her in the scopes. Not once. It’s as if the newsies purposefully ignore her. But her sister, Charlotte, used to frequent them until she became ill.

“I have a secret for you,” she tells me. She leans close to my ear. Her bottom lip grazes it. “I wanted you. My mother wanted your sister.” Her words burn all the way down my neck into my chest like a scalding hot tear. “Your sister couldn’t give me what I want, but I know you can. I knew from the night of the Beauté Carnaval.” She pulls back and stares at me again. I feel frozen in place, like a butterfly pinned under a glass frame.

I open my mouth to ask her what really happened with Amber, but a chime sounds.

An attendant approaches. “Your Highness, your party will begin momentarily. It’s time to go to the gardens.”

She puts her hand up. “One moment.” She turns back to me, touching my cheek. “Give me a type of hair no one has ever seen before.”

Her challenge thuds in my stomach. Sweat creeps along my brow, and my cheeks flush. “Shouldn’t we wait for our first official beauty appointment together?”

“No, I want this now, Camellia. Before my party. I have a feeling my parents are going to introduce me to suitors tonight. Everyone’s gossiping about it.” She bats her eyes at me. Her teacup monkey, Singe, starts to stamp his feet and reach his paw through the cage bars. “See, Singe agrees.”

My stomach knots with worries. Ivy hasn’t taught me what the princess likes yet. The word no bubbles up on my tongue. I think of Amber. I think of all I did to get here. I think of how much I wanted to be the favorite.

“Let’s see if I was right about you,” Sophia says. And the challenge—and threat—are clear in her eyes.

“I’ll need my beauty caisse, Your Highness,” I say.

“Gabrielle,” Sophia says.

Gabrielle releases a deep sigh, then slides off her chaise and leaves the chamber.

Sophia sits at her massive vanity. Jeweled beauty-lanterns cluster overhead. I remove the diadem and set it in front of her. I undo her low bun and unbraid her three single plaits. Hair bounces around her face like a soft cloud of white-blond curls. I run my fingers through it. I feel her eyes watching my every move. I think about all the pictures I’ve seen of her. She always leans toward shades of honey and gold.

“Should I have Belle-rose tea brought out to you?” I ask.

“No, I’m trying to go without it. I like to be alert for small changes.”

Gabrielle returns with Bree, who tows my beauty caisse. She winks at me, and I smile. Bree works quickly to unhook the hundreds of clasps and fan open the compartments. I run my fingers over hair-paste pots, letting the tiny clicking melody of their lids soothe my fears. I pluck a sunflower yellow and a silvery white from the tray.