The Belles (The Belles #1)(56)

“Yes, miss,” she replies, coating Sabine’s legs with honey-scented wax.

After my client is hairless, I glide a kohl pencil over her skin like it’s parchment. Lines of symmetry run through the body like the architecture of beautiful buildings. It creates the perfect harmony preferred by the Goddess of Beauty.

I mark Sabine’s breasts so they will be enlarged to the size of snowmelons, and move the pencil down her stomach, making a series of hachure lines so as to smooth out the small depressions. I draw circles on her waist and legs to indicate spots to polish. I place a measuring lace on her face, and my hand shakes as I draw contour lines along the fabric onto the woman’s nose and forehead and cheeks.

I take bei-powder bundles from my beauty caisse and shake them over her. The white flakes coat her like flour. I use a paintbrush to spread the powder, a trick Maman taught me, to coat it evenly.

“Very nice,” Ivy whispers.

Her compliment spurs me forward.

The deep lines of the kohl pencil on Sabine’s stomach show beneath the powder like avenues covered with snow. I step forward. I pull out her arms and cross them over her chest. The empty weight of them feels like Maman’s did before she died.

“Pastilles, please,” I say.

Bree wheels over a cart of chafing dishes. Triangular color blocks sit on tiered trays like a series of sugary petit-cakes. They melt in glass skin-tone pots creating every pigment imaginable: ink black, sandy beige, eggshell white, desert brown, lemony cream, soft sable, brown sugar syrup, and more.

I use a flat blade from my beauty caisse to cut a slice from the ivory-white and sandy-beige blocks. I also take a wedge of the soft sable for the freckles. Bree hands me an empty pigment pot. I swirl the colors together until they blend into a richness that matches a sliced almond. I spread a smudge across her arm. It seeps into the dry and wrinkled folds.

I identify all the smaller pigments—the rich browns and tans and whites—that help make the hue bright and uniform. Maman used to make me tell her all the pigments that made up the deep red of an apple, or the brown of a peanut. It was her nightly test for me while I was studying skin transformations. While the other mothers forced my sisters to trace their cursive letters, I worked on shades and spectrums. The core of beauty is color, Maman used to remind me when I complained about her exercises.

All three arcana wake up inside me. I soften her temper. I push the color down into her skin. I smooth away the tiny wrinkles.

The woman’s soft moans echo off the walls.

I wipe off the paste. The color climbs over the woman’s body, changing it from pale gray to soft beige with yellowy undertones.

Ivy circles me and watches over my shoulder. “Ask her if she’s all right,” she whispers.

“Princess Sabine, how are you doing?” I say close to her ear.

She grimaces out a reply. “I’ll be fine.”

I use another flat blade over her stomach.

She shifts a little. I close my eyes, picturing her body. I think of her hips as a pair of overly frosted crème-cakes. The tool scrapes away the layers. She squirms and sighs. I lift the blade and start to ask her if we should leave her natural shape intact. But Ivy’s hand finds mine. “Keep going,” she whispers.

I rub the instrument across her stomach again, and it flattens with each stroke, the extra skin and bulk beneath it melting away, her waist growing smaller.

She grips the edges of the table. Her knuckles whiten. I quicken my strokes. I chip away at the pelvic bones, just a pinch on each side.

She cries out. “It’s much more painful than usual. I can’t tolerate it.”

“More Belle-rose tea should help.” I wave for Bree. She approaches with a cup and helps to sit Princess Sabine up. Her stomach and hips glow red in the subtle darkness. She lifts the facial mesh and gulps down the tea. “Why can’t the Royal Apothecary give us something stronger to withstand it?”

My brain is a fog of nerves and worries. “I . . . I—”

Ivy steps forward. “Princess Sabine. It’s me, Ivy.”

“Oh—Ivy.”

“Yes.” Ivy’s soft voice puts Princess Sabine at ease. “Anything stronger than Belle-rose numbs the blood, Your Highness. The arcana will not work.” She holds the base of Princess Sabine’s teacup, helping her take larger sips. “I put Belle-rose elixir in this pot. It’ll be a bit stronger for you.”

The princess’s eyelids droop, and her mouth softens. “Yes, I suppose that worked. I feel much better.” Bree helps her lie back down.

“Quickly now,” Ivy says to me. “You’re taking too long—hesitating and perfecting too much. They can’t tolerate the pain in long increments, and it isn’t good for you, either.”

“But she said she wanted it all at once.”

“They always want it all at once, but we have to guide them. We have to be wiser.”

I nod and look up at the hourglass. Almost time for my next appointment.

In my head the rest of her beauty requests arrange like a checklist: New nose

Smooth wrinkles

New eye color

Brighten skin color

New mouth shape

Freckles

Smaller waist

Lighten the hair

Soften the hair texture

Sweeten her disposition

Sweat drips down my brow. I promised Sabine I’d get it all done. My heart accelerates. My hands wobble. She clenches her teeth. The grinding is loud enough for me to hear.