The Belles (The Belles #1)(60)

I take a deep breath. Bree hands me a square of chocolate and whispers, “For strength.” She winks. “And patience.”

I smile at her. “Thank you.”

The chocolate dissolves on my tongue, and I think about the pounds of the stuff we devoured in the lesson rooms. I remember when Du Barry paired us up to change our very first person. In our lesson rooms, we’d stood beside the beds, and Penelope the kitchen sous chef had lain across mine. Hana and I held hands as we gave her a new hair color, eye color, and skin tone. But it all turned out brassy orange, and took three more tries to get it right. Du Barry had fed us chocolate squares to help us maintain our stamina.

I erase Sophia’s new skin color and make her beige as a crepe. I use a hand-iron to press out the coil in her hair and give her strands as straight as a board. I add a teardrop curve to her eyelids, and take away the crease. I add thirteen tiny freckles to a new, slenderer nose. I use metal tongs to pull at her skin to add volume to her breasts and curvature to her waist.

She looks like Hana. It makes me miss my sister.

Sweat drips down my cheeks. Bree hands me a glass of water, which I drink down in one gulp.

“I’m finished,” I say.

She jumps out of bed and goes straight to the mirror again, examining herself from all angles. “The breasts are perfect. And I like the hips. But”—she pivots to face me—“I’ve never liked dark hair.” She fingers her waist-long strands. “It was always my mother’s—and sister’s—preferred shade.” Sophia kisses my cheek. “You are strong, yes?”

“The strongest,” I say.

She giggles. “Let’s try again. I’m not quite satisfied.”

I force a smile and turn my back to her, pretending to rifle through a cabinet of Belle-products. Sophia gulps down another vial of Belle-rose elixir and climbs back onto the treatment bed. I press a hand to my stomach, trying to slow my breathing. Exhaustion seeps into every part of me.

I wave Bree over. “Bring me my leeches, please, and quickly.”

“Yes, my lady.” She scurries off.

I run my fingers across glass pots, opening and closing compacts as if I’m preparing, until Bree returns moments later. She opens the porcelain jar, flashing its slimy contents. I reach my fingers in and grab a leech. It writhes within my grip. I hook the creature around the back of my neck. Its tiny teeth bite the skin. I wait to feel the tingle of its secretions pumping into me.

I steel myself and return to Sophia’s bedside. I mix a new skin color—rich pearl white and buttermilk. I recreate the same two-toned hair color with a deep scarlet and ash blond. I give her my mother’s face—thin sloping nose, light brown freckles, a pink bow of a mouth. In my current state, my mother’s visage is all that will come to me.

“Done,” I say, almost out of breath.

“A looking-glass,” Sophia says. Her attendant holds the hand mirror over her and she smiles. “This is perfect for now. A good start.” Sophia’s eyes bob open and shut. “I’ve had too much Belle-rose elixir to do this anymore.”

Her attendants help her shimmy into a robe and out of the room. When the doors close behind her, I collapse forward onto the treatment bed.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Bree asks, but my mouth is too tired to open. She helps me into a chair.

The overuse of the arcana dulls my senses; the room feels thicker around me, and I feel too thin to be part of it. My legs shake and coat with sweat. My limbs are light as feathers, ready to drift off in the wind.

She hands me a cup of spicy cayenne tea and another sliver of chocolate, and adds a leech to each wrist. I close my eyes and sink into a nap.


Bree jostles my shoulder. “Lady Camellia, it’s time to go. Do you feel better?”

I stumble awake. “Yes. How long was I asleep?”

“An hourglass’s worth of time.”

We walk out of the treatment salon. My legs are more like putty than bone. Bree’s cart rattles behind me. I have to think about each step, willing my feet to move.

The boudoir doors snap open. Rémy is waiting in the same spot I left him. His dark eyes hold concern. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine.” The edges of the hall fade into a haze.

Bree hands me another square of chocolate. “I’ll meet you back at your room,” she reassures me, then heads off in the direction of the servants’ lifts.

Rémy offers me his arm.

“Where are you running off to?” a voice says.

It’s Auguste.





26


Auguste leans against one of the marble columns, thumping at a dying night-lantern. His hair is out of its usual knot, in a mess around his shoulders. Freckles create a trail across his cheeks. He wears a betrothal pin on his lapel—a reminder that he’s one of the princess’s suitors.

An unexpected shiver rushes through me. I pull my shoulders back, open my eyes wide, and try to feel—and look—less exhausted. He smiles and stares as if he’s waiting for me to say something first. I bite the inside of my cheek and fuss with my hands, if only to have something to do.

“What are you doing here?” is all I can manage.

“I can’t be in the hall?” he replies.

“I meant—”