The Belles (The Belles #1)(68)

Sophia squirms on her throne.

The queen stands. “My wise and loyal court. Please join me in helping to decide the princess’s wedding look. Besides becoming a wife, my daughter will also step into her ‘forever’ look, as tradition demands of the royal family.”

The crowd applauds.

“But first, I want to hear from the favorite. Camellia, please join me,” she says.

I jump at the sound of my name.

The queen leaves her throne. Her fur robe trails her as she points at the portraits.

I proudly stand and walk over to join her.

“These were put together by my cabinet, but you and your sisters hold the secrets to the art of beauty. I want to know what you think.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say.

“What look would you give my daughter? Which would you choose?”

My hands knit in front of me. The questions she asked me at Sophia’s birthday banquet compete with her latest challenge: Can you do this? Can you be who I need you to be?

I comb over the portraits. I want to show her that I belong here.

The sound of whispers and the whoosh of newsie post-balloons echo. My brain struggles to puzzle out which one would be best. In our lessons, Du Barry gave us beauty templates to work with— skin and hair colors that complement each other, the most balanced shades and pigments, symmetrical facial structures, dresses for specific body types, Belle-makeup colors for every color palette. But I never wanted to use them, always preferring to create my own looks from scratch. My mind is a well of doubt.

I glance up at Sophia. Our eyes meet. Deep-green eyes stare into mine. Her hair falls into her lap, swirling into a pile of ringlets, and her tiny teacup monkey plays hide-and-seek within the strands. I wonder if she wants to pick her own look. I wonder if she has an opinion or was given a choice. Her dress begins to rustle.

The crowd snickers. Out pops a tiny teacup elephant, its trunk longer than half a peppermint stick. The monkey jumps from her lap and chases the elephant around the throne. Sophia leaps forward and scoops both of her teacup pets into her arms, giving them a flurry of kisses.

The queen waves her hand at one of the imperial guards. He wrenches the creatures from Sophia’s hands. The animals cry out.

“Zo! Singe!” she says. “It’s all right. It’s just for now.”

“My daughter has an unnatural fondness for animals,” the queen says.

The crowd laughs. The distraction buys me some time to think.

The queen turns her attention back to me. “Now, shall we begin?” She walks back to her throne.

I circle the pictures. All eyes are on me. I chew on the inside of my cheek. Du Barry would want me to do something simple. Pick a portrait. Make a few suggestions. The Beauty Minister would say to discuss what I like about each one. The Fashion Minister would want me to highlight which dresses best match each particular look.

I snuff out their voices like candles.

I want the queen to see what I can do, to see that I can be the person she needs, to know that I can help her daughter.

Sophia has patterns—always returning to blond hair, no matter if her skin is a warm hazelnut or paper white or a deep inky black, or if her hair texture is a frizzy cloud or deeply wavy or shaved to the scalp.

I run my fingers over one of the portraits, feeling the lumpy paint beneath my fingertips. These pre-approved looks aren’t enough. I can’t tell what she would look like from the back, or whether her profile would suit.

I turn to the queen. “Your Majesty, would you indulge me if I experimented a bit?”

Her mouth is a straight line. “As you wish.”

I close my eyes. The room dissolves around me: the women and their flapping fans and raspy whispers, the queen’s strong gaze, Sophia’s frustrated sighs, the noise of the newsies’ pens, the gentle flutter of post-balloons and lanterns, the roiling boil of anticipation.

I think about what I’d do if Du Barry had assigned us this task. I return home to the lesson rooms. I’m with Maman at a worktable. Her hands on my shoulders. Her laugh ringing in my ears. Her voice drifting over me: You know what to do. Make beauty mean something.

There are no grades. There is no commentary from Du Barry. There is no competition from my sisters. Just me. And the arcana.

I can see the princess in my head.

My body warms.

Beads of sweat dot my neck.

My heart pounds.

My blood races through me.

The arcana awaken.

I fix my gaze on the portraits. I pull the paint from the canvases. It circles around me like a colorful tornado.

The court erupts in oohs and ahhs.

I push myself further. I want to show them that I am unforgettable. So unforgettable that the queen realizes she should’ve chosen me first, that she won’t ever let me go.

I rip the canvases into shreds, breaking them into parts— cotton, linen, glue, and aged hemp. They add to the windstorm. I use the Age arcana to smooth the hemp, bringing life and moisture back to the material, then form it into legs, arms, a torso, and a head, like I’m a little girl playing with papier-maché. I give her my sister Valerie’s gorgeous voluptuous shape.

I use the Aura arcana to extract the paint and coat the new body-shaped canvas, coloring it the same shade as the sand that lines the royal beach. I make her eyes the color of a stormy gray sky to honor the people of Orléans, but add tiny golden sunflowers around the middles to mirror the royal chrysanthemum. I tug the silk threads from a nearby tapestry. They crawl along the floor like golden and white snakes. I fashion them into a blond halo of tight curls, and create a cream wedding dress.