The Belles (The Belles #1)(47)

“Yes, my lady, can I help you?” the woman says, her facial expression marked with confusion.

It’s not her.

The disappointment makes me almost lose my balance.

Rémy puts a hand on my waist. “Your sisters declined their invitations tonight.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s not my place to speak for others,” he says, ushering me away.





21


I soak in the Grand Banquet Hall: candelabras and centerpieces dripping with white and gold, animated ceiling frescoes of the royal family’s bloodline, roses opening and closing to release their scents. The table is set for thousands, and enormous ballroom-lanterns flash so much light overhead that everything glitters. The snowmelons and strawberries in their bowls. The macaron towers draped with nets of sugar syrup and golden honey. The silver terrines filled with spiced soups. The ladies’ hair-towers and hats. The men’s cravats and suit jackets.

Du Barry and Elisabeth watch me cross the room as royal attendants ply the guests with wine and savory hors d’oeuvres. I lift my head and stand up straight, knowing I must impress.

Gossip flows faster than the water circulating through the room’s centerpiece fountain.

“One of the king’s mistresses is in attendance tonight. She wears the emblem. Look!”

“I wonder if the new favorite is better than the old one. I liked the original.”

“House Kent is falling apart, going bankrupt. Did you see Lady Kent’s dress—frayed at the hem.”

“I heard the princess ran the old favorite out of the palace.”

“I was told Princess Charlotte will wake up any day now. The queen will announce it at the Declaration of Heirs Ceremony, you’ll see.”

“The queen doesn’t really like the new favorite. If she did, she would’ve picked her from the start.”

I try to ignore the bits about Amber and me, and plaster a stiff smile on my face.

Guests are coaxed into their seats. Little handwritten labels tell us where to sit. Royal relatives, ministers, and titled courtiers from high houses and merchant houses crowd the table. I scan the names, looking for my sisters, hoping Rémy lied, but I don’t see them.

An attendant approaches. “Lady Camellia, may I escort you to your seat?”

I nod, happy to be taken from Rémy’s watchful presence and deposited between the Beauty Minister and the Fashion Minister.

Auguste enters the room. He looks up and catches me watching him. He winks. I laugh and look away, willing the flush rising in my cheeks to vanish. I find him absolutely ridiculous, and a little interesting, if I’m honest with myself. I glance around, worried that someone might’ve seen, and pretend to participate in the conversation at my end of the table. It’s full of speculation about the queen’s toilette-box allotments and new beauty laws. I need to be careful. I need to be perfect. Especially if any of that gossip about Amber is true.

“I heard the queen wants to extend royal beauty restrictions to high-house courtiers. All of us might have to settle for a single definitive look,” one woman says.

“I think that’s all newsie trash and gossip,” another one replies.

“I’m just ready for her to announce the new toilette allotments. I’m excited to shop. The Pomanders will be releasing their new scents soon—and I don’t want anything that’s been picked over,” a third adds.

The doors open, and the royal family emerges: the king, queen, and princess. The guests fall silent.

“We’re so elated that you could join us in celebrating the birthday of our beloved daughter.” The king speaks into a voice-trumpet, and his words echo from a sound-box peeking out of the flower arrangement on our table. It feels like he’s standing right beside me. “My little girl is all grown up.”

The applause is thunderous. I watch Sophia’s eyes sparkle as she looks at her father.

He puts a hand on the queen’s shoulder. “We will feast, have the presentation of the gifts, and conclude with much dancing and merriment. Bon appétit.”

Servants release a set of sparkler balloons into the air. They glimmer above our heads, leaving glowing trails above the table, until they explode with color and light, and take the shape of Sophia’s royal emblem. The brightness of the chrysanthemum blinds me.

“Happy birthday, my love.” The king blows her a kiss. “Papa loves you.”

He makes me wonder what it’s like to have a father. As little girls, my sisters and I asked about ours, after being read stories full of mothers and fathers and their misbehaving children. We were told Belles had mothers. Several of them. We were told that Belles didn’t need anything else.

The king and queen sit in their high-backed chairs. Sophia and her ladies are led to the opposite end of the table.

The queen rises again. Everyone stops talking. “My husband forgot to introduce another new member to court this season. Our new favorite Belle of this generation, Camellia Beauregard.” My name booms through the sound-box like an explosion. Unexpectedly loud.

The Fashion Minister stands and pulls out my chair for me.

I flash them all my best smile and walk over to the queen. I execute a full bow before taking her hand.

“Your Majesty,” I whisper. The queen’s eyes remain cold, her face and words formal. I wish she’d look at me the way she looked at Amber after she named her the favorite. Elated. Thrilled.