The Belles (The Belles #1)(59)

“I want to become a beauty tastemaker. A queen who sets trends, unlike my mother. And it’s no secret that I haven’t been featured in a single beauty-scope. At least not until you came along. I swear, it’s like the newsies have a vendetta against me.” She runs her fingers across the vials, plucks one filled with violet liquid, and yanks out the stopper with a loud pop. “I brew my own Belle-rose elixir and mix it with other medicinal plants. The elixirs Madam Du Barry supplies aren’t strong enough to withstand the types of changes I want.” She drinks the entire vial, then wipes her lips.

She pulls down her bathing gown and stands naked.

I quickly turn around. “Your Highness.”

“Oh, don’t be shy. You’ve probably seen countless bodies before.”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“How does mine match up?”

My stomach churns. “What do you mean?”

“As my body returns to its natural state, I wonder how it stacks up against others. I’m too scared to let it turn fully gray and see exactly what I was born with. So tell me . . .”

“It would be inappropriate to compare, Your Highness. Plus—”

“Look at me,” she yells, then softens. “Just look.”

Her command jolts through me. I slowly pivot. She jams her hands to her hips. Her breasts are small apples, and her stomach is smooth.

“Don’t you quantify us? Break us into parts? Tabulate what features are more beautiful than others?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you must have an opinion.”

“I don’t see you that way.”

“How noble of you. I bet Du Barry taught you to say that. To make us feel better.”

“I don’t listen to everything Du Barry says.”

She smiles.

“I shouldn’t say that—”

She raises a hand and wipes away my apology. “No need. I won’t tell her.” She uses a footstool to climb into the treatment bed. Servants tuck her in. “I’m ready. Come.”

Sophia reaches her hand out to me. I take it. She squeezes. “Make me the most beautiful,” she says, then closes her eyes.

Bree drapes her face with the measuring lace. The cloth drifts up and down as Sophia takes deep breaths. I shake out the nerves in my fingers. Bree nods encouragingly. I press my hands to my stomach, then run them over the mascara cakes and pastille waxes and hair-color pomades and texture wands.

Sophia’s breathing slows. It’s so quiet in the room I can hear each inhale and exhale. I cover her with bei powder and brush it into her hair. The two-toned hair color I gave her still shines brightly. My hands tremble. I’m caught off guard. If I’d known I would be working with Sophia today, I would’ve planned out every single moment.

Make her beauty mean something. Maman’s wisdom echoes inside of me.

“Are you going to begin or just play with my hair?” Sophia says.

“Yes, Your Highness.” My mind whizzes through dozens of looks like the spinning of a roulette wheel. Pictures of her from the tattlers, the scandal sheets, the newspapers, and the beauty magazines. I strike certain color schemes and hair textures from consideration. I want to do something original.

I close my eyes.

My nerves tingle with power. The arcana stir inside me like flickering candles. The warmth moves from the bottom of my toes to the crown of my head and the very tips of my fingers. Bree helps me paint her hair with oil-black hair cream, then streak it with red. I plunge my hands into the strands, pushing the color through it. I wrap a tendril around a rod to give her the perfect coil, and mix two skin tones together—seashell white and a dark citrine brown. The skin colors her parents each chose for themselves.

Not a drop of sweat appears on her face. Kohl pencil marks map the changes I’ll make: higher cheekbones like her mother’s, a button nose like her father’s, and deep sloping eyes. I resist the urge to do more, remembering Ivy’s warning and what happened last time.

“Your Highness,” I whisper.

“Yes,” she replies.

“I’m finished.”

“So quickly? You didn’t do any body work.”

“I wanted to be sure I was headed in the right direction first.”

Sophia springs up. “Bring the full-length.” She slips back into her bathing gown.

I wait for her praise, craving it like a hot luna pastry.

Three servants march forward with a gilded mirror. She eyes herself, running her hands through her hair and over her skin, then leans close to the glass, inspecting her new cheekbones and nose. She bats her eyes, then pivots to see her profile. “I look too much like my mother.”

“I did that on purpose, since the queen is incredibly beautiful.” I search her face for any trace of happiness.

“I know she’s beautiful. But I don’t want to look like anyone else. I want to look like no one in the entire kingdom.” She studies her naked body. “Try again, favorite. And give me larger breasts. The size of grapefruits. They always seem to shrivel down by the middle of the month. Also, a creaseless eyelid. Those are trendy now.”

The air streams out of me like a crumpled post-balloon.

She gulps down another vial of Belle-rose elixir. Her servants help her back onto the treatment bed.