The Belles (The Belles #1)(52)

“Don’t listen to her,” I say.

“Oh, but they will.” Elisabeth grabs a luna pastry from a nearby breakfast cart and pops it into her mouth. “I am in charge here. And once I tell my mother, it will be as good as law.” She turns back to the staff. “If any of you are caught bringing these contraband items”—she taps the paper—“you will be beaten or put in the starvation boxes. I will see to it myself.”

“Elisabeth—”

“You, Camellia, should focus on being perfect so you don’t lose the title of favorite,” Elisabeth snaps before disappearing back into her office.

Hot, angry tears well up in my eyes. I bang the door again, but she doesn’t answer.

*

I furiously write letters. Five lilac post-balloons float to my left, waiting for messages, and to be set free off the balcony.


Valerie,

Have you heard from Edel?

I hate Elisabeth Du Barry even worse these days. I didn’t know that was possible.

I miss you and hearing you laugh. How big are the Belle-babies now?

Love,

Camille


Hana,

I haven’t heard from you. Is everything all right? Have you found out about the noises? Or asked your mistress if there are other Belles at the teahouse?

Did you see that headline in the paper about Edel? Have you spoken to her?

I miss you. And you won’t believe how Elisabeth Du Barry is behaving at court. It’s worse than when we were at home.

Love,

Camille


Padma,

Has Edel written you? Or Amber, even? I can’t get in contact with either of them.

Do you know if everything is okay?

Love,

Camille


Amber,

Please write me.

Did you see the headline about Edel?

I hope you’re all right.

I’m sorry.

Love,

Camille


Edel,

There’s a headline about you in the Trianon Tribune. Is it just a rumor?

Don’t leave. Come here to see me first. I can help you.

Love,

Camille


I roll up all the tiny parchments and slip them into privacy casings no larger than my forefinger. I tuck them into the compartments inside the balloons, light the post-charcoal, then close them again and tug the balloons out to the balcony by their ribbons. Below, ships dot the coastline. Waves crash against them.

I think about the lists my sisters and I made in our playroom as little girls, noting all the things we wanted to see when we grew up and left home: the spinning looms in the dress markets, cinema-graphs and avenue boards of famed courtier socialites along Trianon’s promenade, the pet shops with teacup elephants and teacup tigers lined up in the windows like treats for sale, the patisseries full of tarts, cakes, and cookies, the royal beach with its grains of pink sand and white-sailed ships. I still wish we could do these things together.

I send the balloons off the terrace. They drift out over the royal sea, then turn in different directions, obeying the tiny compasses on their noses—southwest for the Bay of Silk to Padma, north to home and Valerie, across the Royal Square to Amber, west to the Fire Isles and Edel, and out to Hana in the Glass Isles near the barrier of Orléans. The sun lights a path for my balloons as they hover above the dark ocean, careful not to get swept into the masts of large imperial ships. Air-postmen glide about in open-top dirigibles with hooks and paddles to help guide the balloons along.

I watch until I can’t see them anymore.

I unlatch my beauty caisse. The tiered compartments fan open, exposing a medley of beauty instruments tucked into nooks and crannies. I search for a place to store the pastels. I run my fingers along the ruby-red interior and discover a hidden drawer at the very bottom. A shiver of excitement rushes through my hands. How have I never seen this before?

I gently pull. It inches forward, and I wiggle it until the whole section is out. The tiny cubby holds a lace-wrapped book. I remove the fabric to find a portrait of my mother, who stares up at me from the center of the leather.

Her smile brings tears to my eyes. It’s her Belle-book. I press it to my chest and wish that somehow I could bring her back, like she could be remade from parchment and sinew and ink and memory. The binding is frayed, and the rope around its center barely holds in the contents. Her signature flowers, linneas, are embossed in gold along its spine; the paired blooms curve upside down.

I used to catch her thumbing through the book late at night when I was supposed to be asleep. I remember finally getting the courage to ask her about it. “It’s my beauty book.” She’d rubbed her weak fingers across the rope. “It has all the notes I kept while at court. You’ll start one as soon as you leave here. Never tell anyone you’ve seen mine.”

The memory brings tears to my eyes. I set her mortuary tablets on the desk.

She’s been gone for the entire warm season, and now the windy season is settling over us. We didn’t get to take the rowboats out to see the dragonflies, or walk the perimeter of the dark forest as the Belle-roses bloomed for the last time before the cold crested over them, or taste the mint from our chef’s kitchen garden, or wait for the noses of imperial ships to show up in the bayou.

Don’t cry, she’d said when the other mothers started to get sick and when a few of them died. Everything will be fine. This is the way it has always been.