The Belles (The Belles #1)(64)

I nod, recalling how her court ladies had clamored over the jewels.

“They draw the tiniest bits of blood. I only need a little. And when mixed with your blood, Belle blood, remarkable things happen.”

“My blood?”

“Yes. I have your leeches drained, and sometimes the ones from your sisters at the teahouses, too.”

I try to keep my disgust from showing on my face. “Why?”

“Oh, don’t let it bother you.” She pats my shoulder. “I discovered it long ago, when I was a child and my mother’s favorite, Arabella, used to change my hair and eye color in the playroom. She’s still my favorite Belle, too. Though you might be able to continue to win me over.” She bats her eyes at me. “I used to bite Arabella playfully, and tiny drops of her blood stained my little day dresses and pinafores. I’d have my nursemaid cut out pieces of the bloodstained fabric and save it. A strange keepsake, I know. But I was fascinated by what you all can do.”

I step back from her. I search her face and eyes, and wonder if she’s serious. She beams at me. Pride oozes out of every corner of her. Does she want me to be honored that she’s fascinated by Belles?

“That’s when I made the discovery. That’s when I began to understand the power of it. If Arabella’s blood touched my skin, it would restore the color momentarily. Imagine! I thought Belles had more power than queens. I wanted to be like that.” She runs her fingers over the jewelry, tracing her fingertip across the tiny places where needles poke out, and the hidden chambers tucked inside the crested jewels. “I sucked the fabric and sometimes stole Arabella’s leeches to eat. I thought if I ingested the blood, I’d become like you. Like Arabella. Like the Belles I saw in the teahouses. But it didn’t work. It just made me sick.”

Discomfort settles into my stomach.

She returns to her wall. “As I got older, my sister, cousins, and friends became prettier and prettier than me. My mother wouldn’t let me do deep body work. She started enacting laws and shying away from radical changes. I felt ordinary. Forgotten. Plain. My sister made it seem so easy to be beautiful. The colors she chose and her subtle changes made her look extraordinary—more lovely after each appointment with Arabella. I needed people to pay attention to me like that. I needed to be better than everyone. I needed to have the same style and beauty instincts.”

She leans close to one of the morphing portraits. “Look!” She pulls me forward. “Lady Christiana just had her hair color changed from brown to a plum purple. Hideous color. And at this hour. I wonder which teahouse she’s patronizing.”

We watch the image change. The nose transforms from a slender-tipped point to more of a cute button. Her cheekbones lift higher and her jawline smoothes out. Her skin darkens from ivory to honey brown. It’s like watching a télétrope reel of minute-byminute changes.

“Your powerful arcana connect them to my wall,” she says. “It’s more immediate with yours than your sisters’, or even Arabella’s. Even with only a few drops of their blood mixed with yours, I can see what they do.”

“I don’t understand.” And I don’t know if I want to.

“I change the jewelry every week to always have a fresh supply of their blood. And for some reason—it even evades my scientists—your blood allows me to watch them.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Be excited. You are strong.” She clasps my wrist. “And you will be the one to help me achieve my goals—finally. I want to be the most gorgeous woman in all of Orléans, and the world.”

“But you are already stunning.”

“You lie so easily, it makes me wonder what else you aren’t telling me.” The pitch of her voice sends a skitter of nerves through me. Her eyes burn into mine.

“I’m not ly—”

“I know that I’m not the most beautiful. I come here twice a day. And I’m reminded when I see pictures of my sister in the royal halls. When I see the looks your sisters create. When I see my mother. I know I’m average at best. I wasn’t blessed by the Goddess of Beauty with a superior natural template. I don’t have a good base to work with.”

She reminds me of myself—wanting to be the best, researching and plotting and planning to make sure I am ahead of everyone.

“But how can you tell who is more beautiful? They all look different,” I ask.

“Do you understand what I want?” She raises her voice.

I start to sweat. She steps closer to me. Her heavy breaths are coming out in pants.

“You want to be the best,” I say, and somehow it’s too familiar— like I’m talking about myself. I might do the same thing if I was preparing to be queen. The dark realization sinks down inside me.

Sophia grins. “I knew you’d understand.” She takes my hand and kisses it. “We must become friends. Best friends. After all, I wanted you. Always. From the first time I saw you in your Beauté Carnaval carriage.” She heads toward the door. “You will do whatever it takes to help me, right?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” I say as I curtsy, but I don’t know what it will cost me.





28


Ivy waits for me in the main salon the next morning, and rushes to me as soon as I step into the room.