The Belles (The Belles #1)(58)

“A little tired, but better.”

“Get her up on her feet,” she orders her servants and mine. “And have tea and a late lunch brought to the main salon. She needs her strength.”

Bree rushes forward with a smile. She removes the needles from my arms and helps me out of bed. I slip on a fur robe. My legs feel soft and rubbery and unable to support my weight. Bree holds me up. “I’ve got you,” she whispers.

“Thank you,” I reply. I find my footing and walk behind the Beauty Minister into the main salon. We sit in a pair of matching chairs.

“You did splendidly with Princess Sabine. She’s been raving about you.” She leans over and kisses my clammy cheeks. “You now have a month-long waiting list.”

“Really? I didn’t think it went so well.”

“You gave her everything she wanted. She can’t wait to have another session with you.”

Relief surges through me.

“And look! There’s a congratulatory post-balloon from Madam Du Barry, and another from the princess. They’ve left a trail of glitter throughout the chambers.” The post-balloons spit out little fireworks, one crimson and the other rose-petal pink and cream. They dance around the room like children. Their ribbons swish and sweep the floor. I think of the one Auguste sent, and the memory of his words makes me smile—a shimmer of light in all this darkness.

Servants park lunch carts beside us brimming over with cheese towers, spires of tomatoes, and piles of sweet rope bread and sliced meat. The minister nibbles, and I eat ravenously.

“When will I get to work with the queen?” I want to show her what I can do and prove to her that I can be who she needs me to be.

The Beauty Minister stifles a laugh, then looks up from her teacup. “Eager mouse, aren’t we? You have much more work to do before that.”

“But I have a waiting list.”

“Patience, little love.” She smiles indulgently. “Eat up. You have another beauty appointment this afternoon.”

“I do?”

“The princess has requested you.” The Beauty Minister taps my arm. “Even though she usually waits to see how the favorite settles in. The new hair you gave her for her birthday party was quite impressive. Very inventive. Landed her in the scopes for the first time. The press corps loved it.”

“Thank you,” I say, filling with equal parts excitement and worry. “I wanted to please her.”

“I hope you can continue to do so,” she says.


After lunch, Bree and Rémy walk with me to the princess’s chambers. Bree pushes a trolley with my beauty caisse. Courtiers point and whisper as we pass through the palace corridors. I square my shoulders and try to feel less exhausted. A newsie post-balloon hovers overhead. Rémy pushes it away.

“I hate these things,” he says.

“Not exciting enough for you?” I ask.

“Newspapers are pointless.”

“Not all of them.”

“Most of them spread lies.”

“Some lies are delicious,” I say.

He doesn’t laugh. “Lies are as dangerous as a sword. They can cut to the bone.” Rémy posts himself beside the princess’s doors like a statue. He’s back to his old self, the cold Rémy I first met, instead of the one who tried to make poor jokes and ask me questions the night of Sophia’s birthday. I sigh at him. His expression remains fixed.

Bree lifts the brass knocker. Its heavy booms radiate through the chamber. A servant cracks open the door.

“Lady Camellia, welcome,” she says. “We’re just about ready for you.”

The servant scurries to an adjacent room, leaving us alone in the chamber foyer. The jewel-box room is no longer pink, cream, and gold. Cerulean walls hold golden fleurs-de-lis and the princess’s royal emblem. Frost-white chairs and chaises crowd around tables like swans floating on a serene pond.

The servant returns for us. “She is ready.”

Fear settles under my skin, and my hands quiver. But I know I can do this—I can impress her. I have to. We follow the servant into a massive treatment salon. Golden walls hug around us like we’re trapped inside the sun. Cabinets burst with so many Belle-products, it could be the storeroom at home. Dozens of jeweled beauty-lanterns leave the perfect amount of light in each corner. One can’t help but be beautiful in here. Tiered trays of rouge-sticks, complexion crème-cakes, skin-tone pots, and hair-color creams wink like diamonds beneath the light.

“Camellia.” Princess Sophia rushes forward, wearing a sheer bathing gown. She slips her hands in mine. “I need you.”

Her words sweep away the worries.

“My parents scheduled dates with my suitors, and I don’t have the right look. I don’t know what to do.” She clings to me like I’m her last hope of survival. “The first one is tonight with Alexander Dubois from House Berry.”

“I’m here, Princess. We’ll find the right look for you.”

She leans away and beams at me. “I knew you’d be perfect.” Sophia skips over to a cart of tiered vials. “The way you changed my hair for my birthday party was just the start. You’re clever. You passed my first little test.”

That was a test?

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I say.