The Belles (The Belles #1)(54)

I pin my hair up into a Belle-bun and dress in a dark cotton work dress and apron. Bree ties my waist-sash on.

“Tighter,” I whisper, wanting it to subdue the flutters inside my stomach. I drape the necklace holding the mirror around my neck, and tuck it inside my dress.

“What is that?” Bree asks.

The metal cools my too-hot skin. “Just something for luck.”

“The God of Luck has already blessed you.” She squeezes my arm. A pair of faded blue eyes stare at me. Dry curls peek out from under her hat. A gray tinge lingers just under the whiteness of her skin, and tiny patches of whiskers crop up along her cheeks.

I smile back at her, then touch her face. “I’m going to give you a few beauty touch-ups.”

“I couldn’t allow that, my lady. I don’t have a beauty token. Plus, I have an appointment at the Silk Teahouse for late Saturday night. That’s when they do servants.”

“It can be our little secret.”

Her eyes brighten. “I couldn’t—”

“I insist. And you must do as I say,” I tease. “Right?”

Her mouth fights away a smile. “Well, yes.”

“So that’s that. If there’s any trouble about it, say I let you off early to go to the teahouse. Tell them I’m a tyrant about beauty.”

She giggles. “I’ll make sure you get the tattlers and newspapers.”

“No. Don’t risk the punishment. ”

“I will. It’s the least I can do.” She hugs me, then pulls back. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I don’t know what came over me.”

I wrap my arms around her and hug even tighter. She lets go and still has the biggest grin on her face. “I’ll see that the final preparations are complete.” She curtsies and slips from the room.

I take one last look at Maman’s Belle-book, reviewing her notes about her very first beauty session. Be gentle and be quick. I take a deep breath and put it in the hidden space at the base of my beauty caisse.

Ivy walks into the bedroom with an ocean-blue post-balloon. “This came for you.”

I take the tail ribbons from her. I’ve never seen a post-balloon like this. Up close it’s covered in tiny waves, and makes a sound like the tide.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I’ll be in the main salon.”

I open the back of the balloon, and fish the note from the compartment. My fingers tremble with curiosity, confusion, and excitement. I open the privacy casing, breaking the seal.


Newest Favorite Belle,

Make sure not to turn anyone purple.

Good luck.

Yours,

Auguste


I laugh, and read his words three more times. Bree returns to the room.

“Lady Camellia,” she says. “What is so funny?”

“Nothing,” I say, holding the paper to my chest.

“Her Royal Highness Princess Sabine has arrived. She is in the main salon.”

I turn around. “Then let’s go.”

I tuck the tiny paper inside my Belle-book, then press a hand to my chest, trying to get my heart to slow. The cool surface of the mirror brushes against my skin. I take a deep breath, hold it, then walk to the main salon.

I am ready.

Ivy sits at the edge of the room. She almost blends in with the room’s trappings, like a flower arrangement. On a puffy cream settee is Princess Sabine Rotenberg. Gray and white strands snake through dark hair. An attendant announces me. The woman whips around and leaps off the couch.

“Lady Camellia.” She takes my hands and sweeps me into a hug. She smells of rose water.

“Your Highness.” I pull back, then discreetly wipe my arms and face. Powder covers my hands.

“My apologies. I’ve been waiting so long to see you, I had to resort to covering my skin to hide the gray, and I’m even wearing eye films. They’re so painful, you know. I almost broke down and went to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. As I’ve gotten older, it pushes through so much harder.” She pats her forehead with a handkerchief. “It’s disgusting, like in the old days. People would walk around court looking like rotten chicken ready for frying.” She thrusts the beauty key into my hands. “And this, before I forget.”

“Yes, and thank you.”

Bree approaches, takes the key, and fits it into a slot on a velveteen board.

Princess Sabine is strikingly beautiful, despite the tiniest hints of gray. Sand-colored skin, a perfectly sloped nose, and a rosebud mouth. She’s wearing one of the Fashion Minister’s new “vivant” day dresses that vary their color every few seconds. Hers changes from gossamer to quicksilver to a stormy blue. She motions at one of her attendants, who sets up an easel with a beauty board on it. The surface is covered with courtier portraits and tiny beads from broken beauty-scopes. I run my fingers across the color swatches she’s tacked onto it, and the rouge smudges smeared at the corners.

“I want you to combine a few looks,” she says, settling back on the settee. Bree brings out the tea tray, and she takes a cup. “My beauty consultants mocked this up. They are certain the next beauty trend will be textured hair-towers, heart-shaped faces and lips—like a matched set—and freckled skin. Don’t you just love freckles? And I want my waist as small as possible within the queen’s limits. After my last child, deeper body work around my middle just doesn’t settle for long. One slice of bread too many sends me back to the Belles quite often.”