The Belles (The Belles #1)(66)

I open her Belle-book. A frayed scandal sheet called Madam Solaina’s Secrets is tucked between two pages. The headline: LADY SIMONE DU BERTRAND OF HOUSE EUGENE DIES WHILE HAVING HER SKIN COLOR RESTORED BY THE FAVORITE

What?

Maman’s frantic handwriting accompanies it.

Date: Day 53 at court

She wanted the whitest skin in the whole kingdom—pure as fresh milk and a newborn daisy, she kept saying. Her attendant held a mirror above her body the entire session. I would press the chalk-white color down into her skin, and it would sour, mixing with stubborn shades of radiant gray. She would sit up, slap me, and make me do it again.

I got so angry, I couldn’t hold on to the picture of her in my mind. The arcana didn’t work properly. She kept slapping me harder and harder, and threatened to use a belt if I couldn’t deliver the right color. I felt a pinch inside me and couldn’t stop myself from imagining her flesh covered in wrinkles, her heart slowing. When I opened my eyes again, her eyes were bulging and her mouth was slack. Her heart had stopped. I didn’t understand what had happened at first, but then I realized—it was me. I’d done this. The Minister of Justice ruled the case accidental—her private doctor confirmed she’d had health challenges before having beauty work done.

I suck in a sharp breath. Maman killed a client? The arcana betrayed her? How could she have kept this a secret? Could the same thing happen to me?

I slam the book shut and tuck it back into its hiding place in my beauty caisse.

Two post-balloons zip inside, trailed by more leaves.

The first: a crimson one, burning bright with Maison Rouge de la Beauté’s house emblem.

The second: a silvery white one covered with a twinkling collage from the Glass Teahouse.

I tie their ribbons to the balloon hook on my desk. I cut open the one from home first. I pluck out the parchment.


Dear Camille,

I haven’t heard from Edel. I asked Du Barry, but she just keeps saying everything is fine and to focus on my own work. Is everything all right? What have you heard?

The babies have grown even more. Du Barry had us celebrate their sixth birthday two nights ago. I don’t quite understand how it all works. Did we grow this fast, too? The nurses hum them songs and call them rose babies. I’ve included a drawing of the one who looks like you. She could be your twin—dimple and all. I keep accidentally calling her Camille, but she doesn’t mind. She wants to be just like you when she comes to court. Her name is Belladonna. We call her “Donna.”

Love,

Valerie


I unfold the second page and see a portrait of a smaller version of myself. Bright eyes. Warm brown skin. Dimple in the left cheek. Curly hair with a pile of frizz. Why would the Goddess of Beauty create another Belle who looked like me? Du Barry gave us pamphlets about our births. She told us Beauty had sent each one of us to our mothers. That we’d fallen from the skies like shooting stars. That she’d handpicked all of our features. That we were all flushed and warm with blessed blood. What isn’t Du Barry telling us? And what about the Belle at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse with the deformed face? Did Beauty send her, too?

I open the second post-balloon—from Hana.


Camille,

I’ve been staying up late at night, trying to find whoever keeps crying. My Madam, Juliette Bendon, says it’s just overly drunk courtiers at her late-night parties. But I don’t believe her. I think there are other women here. But I can never search for long. I’m so tired these days. I don’t have a moment’s rest.

I haven’t heard from Edel, but I saw the headline, too. She won’t answer my post-balloons.

Hana

I pace the room. Where are you, Edel? Why haven’t you written back? Amber might be right. Maybe she did escape. But if so, how is she surviving? Where did she go? How is the teahouse continuing to operate without raising alarm?

“Lady Camellia.” Bree interrupts my thoughts.

I tuck the letters away and join her in the main salon.

“What is it?”

“Come, have a look.” She waves me to the Belle-apartment doors. “Rémy is with his sisters.”

We peek through a space in the door. Rémy holds the hand of a little girl a quarter of his size while two others fuss over him. The little one’s hair is a dark cloud of coils and glitter, complete with metallic threads reminiscent of lightning streaks. They all share his rich midnight coloring, and standing together they look like a bouquet of black calla lilies.

“What’s she like?” the little one asks. “You promised to tell me everything about the favorite, and you’ve only sent two post-balloons. How can you fit everything in only two letters?”

He smiles down at her with an easy demeanor that I’ve never seen.

“You haven’t told us anything,” the tallest one says. The silver color of her gown makes her skin glow and hugs her curves like silk around an hourglass. “Even Maman’s been asking.”

“She’s nice,” he says.

His compliment warms me.

“That’s it?” the third one replies with a stamp of her foot. She shoves his shoulder and pouts, her lips a brilliant shade of coral.

“She’s a little stubborn.”

I smile.

“Can be a bit impulsive or reckless,” he adds.

I scoff. Bree chuckles.