The Belles (The Belles #1)(55)
I nod, my head filing each request into my memory. “I plan to bring round waists back into fashion as they were last year.”
She bites her bottom lip. “I’ll try that next time. For now, more freckles. Did I say that already? They’re so youthful. On my nose, especially, like little ants on a log. Could you get rid of some of these wrinkles, too? And I’d like my nose smaller this time around. Don’t overdo it. One time, last year, a Belle made my nose so small I could hardly breathe. I should’ve never gone to anyone other than Ivy, but I was in a pinch. I had a gala. I felt light-headed for a whole week. I had to be carried around in a palanquin. I got so tired of hiring the man power to lift me.” She giggles.
“Your nose shape fits well with your face. The heart shape—”
“You’re so kind.” She pats my hand and gulps down the rest of her tea. “Do they train you all to lie so well?” She waves the empty teacup in her hands for a servant to take away. “So, I’d like to use my beauty token for the waist adjustment, and I’ll pay spintria for the other services. I’d like an eye color close to yours. I know it’s impossible to have your amber-colored eyes, but let’s try, shall we? And let’s start my blond transformation. Dark blond, then I’ll go gradually lighter to white as the snow comes—yes, yes—that’s what I’ll do. My ladies will be amused. The newsies might enjoy the transformation. I’ll get more press. Maybe another feature in the scopes—or better yet, a scope and a profile in the Dulce pamphlet. My husband likes darker hair, but I don’t care.” She stands, and marches over to the wall mirror. “Also, if we have time, could you fix my lips? They’re looking very fishlike today.”
“Are you sure you want all of these things done at once? What about the pain?”
“Of course.” She scoffs, then eyes me. “If I could have you rebuild me from the bones out, I’d do that as well. I can tolerate it. I’m strong.” Her eyes glaze over with tears. “I’d do anything to be beautiful.”
Her statement thuds inside my chest. Heavy. Maman’s words echo inside me: The people of Orléans hate the way they look.
She takes a deep breath and the tears vanish.
“We won’t need all of that. We could just touch up your skin and—”
“Stop lying to me,” she shouts. “I know what I look like.”
Movement in the room freezes. I bristle and look over at Ivy. She clutches her hands together in a tight, tense squeeze. I don’t take a breath. Why did I question a client again?
The princess places a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry to yell. It’s just, when I don’t look my best, I don’t feel settled inside or like my true self.” She sits up straight. “You can soften my temper while you’re at it, too. I need to become nicer. Sweeter. I’m a hard edge these days.” She lets out a sigh. “I’m ready. I’m looking forward to our time together.” She snaps at her attendants, and they lead her off to the bathing onsen. Nerves flutter inside me like bayou fireflies.
“Just do what you’re told,” I whisper to myself, “and everything will be fine.”
24
I flip over the one large hourglass on the mantel in the treatment room. Sand swirls from one end to the other, keeping track of the beauty-treatment time.
I take deep breaths. Princess Sabine lies underneath a lace cloth. The House Orléans crest is all she wears—a tiny emerald serpent swallowing a chrysanthemum over her identification tattoo. This indicates she’s a direct relative of the queen. The pendant sits on her bare collarbone.
Sabine is the first of many. There will be more men and women waiting to be changed, anticipating perfect results. There are expectations: to be better than Amber, to please Sophia, to satisfy the queen despite being her second choice, to make the kingdom fall in love with me. The pressure curls around me like the serpent on Princess Sabine’s emblem. I gaze down at her body. Her desires parade through my mind like a series of télétrope images—each more complex than the next.
Servants wheel in tiered trays bursting with skin-color pastilles and rouge pots, brushes and combs and barrel irons, tonics and creams, bei-powder bundles, waxes and perfumes, measuring rods and metal instruments, and sharpened kohl pencils. My beauty caisse is set up behind me, fanned open so the medley of instruments inside twinkle in the subtle light. I think of Maman’s Belle-book in its base, comforted by the thought that a piece of her is nearby.
Tiny clusters of beauty-lanterns drift over the princess like night stars. Perfect beads of light reveal the cherry red of her fluttering eyes and the gray of her skin. They highlight what needs to be done.
I look at the beauty board sitting on an easel. Color smudges streak across it and display Princess Sabine’s chosen skin, hair, and eye color palette, and bodily proportions.
Ivy watches my every movement. I try to be perfect.
“Princess Sabine.” I lean forward. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, yes.”
I fold back the lace and expose her graying legs. Their bodies always fade before their faces. At the end of each month, the skin color drifts away like dust caught in the wind.
“Please remove the hair from the princess’s legs,” I direct a servant.