The Belles (The Belles #1)(63)

“Come, quickly. She’s in a foul mood and does not like to wait.” Bree rushes me out of the Belle apartments, where Rémy awaits me.

“Good evening,” I say.

“Actually, it’s good morning,” he corrects.

I sigh. “Do you know how annoying you are?”

“My older sister told me often.” He walks ahead. I’ve memorized the way to Sophia’s apartments, but we go in the opposite direction, toward the south wing of the palace. We pass grand ballrooms and glass solariums and ornate parlors.

“Where are we going?” I ask Rémy.

“Where I’ve been instructed to take you.”

“And you wonder why I don’t like having you around.”

He stops, and faces me. “I was trying to joke with you.”

“Well, you’re terrible at it.”

“I’ll try harder next time.” He stalks ahead again. “The princess requested you come to her private workshop.”

“Do you know why?”

“They don’t pay me to know, just to follow orders.”

Thick black doors shine bright with the House of Inventors emblem—a chrysanthemum growing out of a stacked tower of cogs and gears. A trio of imperial guards block the entrance. Rémy salutes, they step aside, and he takes his place beside them.

The doors open. Enormous shelves scale the walls and split into hundreds of balconies. Books choke every spare place. Silver-gray work-lanterns dangle over long tables. Their surfaces are scattered with beakers, tubes, droppers, spoons, a set of mortars and pestles, and graters. A caged catlike animal with blond fur and black spots purrs. There are baskets full of flower petals, and a monstrous stove in the corner releases tiny clouds of steam. The shelves are lined with apothecary bottles that twinkle like jewels, as well as clear jars and magnificent flasks containing resins, balms, waxes, and oils made from flowers, plant secretions, and extracts. Powder puffs, brushes, and pots of rouge sit like macarons on a sweets tray.

Sophia is peering into two flower terrariums, tapping her fingers against the glass. One contains bloodroot, a flower with white petals and a yellow center. The other holds pale pink and white blooms in starry clusters—mountain laurel. She coos at the flowers as if they’re teacup pets. Her hair is a static-filled cloud around her shoulders. Her pale skin is flushed pink with anxiety. She still looks like my mother, and I regret the decision. It turns my stomach.

“Camellia.” Sophia rushes forward. Her nightgown sweeps behind her like a tail. “I want to show you something special.” She smells like sweat and salt. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot. “My favorite.” She takes my hand and drags me merrily forward, like she’s one of my sisters and we’re headed to lessons, or breakfast, or to sneak off someplace we aren’t supposed to go. “I need your help again.”

A part of me is thrilled to be the one to help her. This is what I wanted.

We pass the terrariums. “Do you know much about plants?” she asks.

“Yes. We mostly study them for shading, pigment work, and for Belle-products.”

“Flowers are so underrated.” She gazes up at the ceiling. “Only coveted for their beauty, when they can help solve so many problems.” She tugs me forward to a large table overflowing with piles of tattlers, beauty pamphlets, and scandal sheets. Torn-out pictures are pinned to boards. Eyes, legs, breasts, hair, body shapes, faces. Beauty caisses sit in rows, their contents on display.

Sophia leads me to a beauty board on an easel. Two identical women stare back—white-blond hair, pear-green eyes, dark brown skin, and sweetheart mouths. “These are my cousins—Anouk and Anastasia.” She runs her fingers over their faces. “They only allow themselves to have tiny differences between each other. You have to search for them.”

“They’re beautiful,” I say.

“Exactly the problem.”

I bristle.

“I’ve been watching them these last few days. Tracking their beauty work. They’ve just come from a vacation in the Silk Islands, and from seeing your sister Padma.”

“Tracking their beauty work?”

“Oh, I haven’t shown you my masterpiece.” She tugs a series of braided cords that dangle along the wall, and a tapestry lifts back, revealing a complete wall of rose-porcelain portraits set in a curling network of brass tubing. Every spot and corner is filled. Each one is labeled with a titled name and royal emblem.

The gentle whoosh of liquid snakes through the tubes. A few of the portraits change—hair grows shorter or longer, noses shrink, skin tones flush over with enhanced or brand-new colors, hair textures morph, mouths plump up.

I reach for one.

“Don’t touch,” Sophia warns. “They’re very sensitive.”

“What are they?”

“It’s how I see everybody.” She admires them. “How beautiful my court is.”

“But how?” My stomach clenches.

“It’s a secret.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” My heart gallops.

Sophia returns to the table and opens one of the beauty caisses. Velvet boxes hold ornate bracelets and teardrop earrings and necklaces dripping with gold and gems. “One of my royal inventors made these for me. Remember when you first came to my toilette ritual—on my birthday—and I handed out jewelry?”