The Belles (The Belles #1)(7)
I look for the guard. He’s gone.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in just a minute. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“ You should be afraid. Not me,” I say. He could be arrested and spend years in the palace dungeons for being alone with me. Two months ago, the queen put a man in a starvation box in the Royal Square for trying to kiss Daisy, the Belle at the Fire Teahouse. His portrait filled the newspapers and télétrope newsreels. After he died, the guards left his body, and then the sea buzzards carried it off in pieces.
“I’m never afraid,” he says.
It’s strange to hear an unfamiliar voice. A boy’s voice. A buzzy feeling settles under my skin. The only other boy I’ve spoken to outside of a treatment salon was the son of Madam Alain, House Glaston, who I caught in the Belle storeroom powdering his face and smothering his lips with rouge-sticks while waiting for his mother to finish her treatments. He wanted to be a Belle. We were eleven and had laughed more than we’d talked.
This boy is more of a young man. Du Barry taught us to fear men and boys outside the confines of a treatment salon. But I’m not scared. “Who are you? You’re not wearing an emblem,” I say.
“I’m no one.” His mouth lifts in the corner. He moves forward, closing the gap between us. He carries the scent of the ocean, and watches me with such interest, it’s as if he’s touching me. “But if you want to know so badly, feel free to have a look at my name. I’ll even unbutton my shirt so you can see the ink better.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. At birth, Orléans citizens are marked with permanent imperial identification ink that not even Belles can cover up or erase. Even if you cut out the skin, the ink will rise again from the blood. Most wear their emblems on their clothing, near the spot where they’re marked.
I watch him with newfound curiosity: the way he tucks the fallen strand of hair behind his ear, the few freckles he has on his nose, how he adjusts his jacket. “Where did you come from?”
“The Lynx.”
“I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“They must not teach you much.”
I scoff. “I’ve had an excellent education. Is it in the south?”
“It’s in the harbor.” He grins. “My boat.”
So he was trying to make me feel stupid.
“You’re rude.” I start to walk away. The argument between Edel and Du Barry is dying down in the distance.
“Wait! I just wanted to see if the newsies were right.” His eyes are a cedar brown, the color of the trees that grow out of the Rose Bayou waters at home. Navy emblems twinkle on his jacket like newly minted leas coins from the Imperial Bank.
“Right about what?”
“They say that you can create a person from clay with your arcana, like magic.”
I laugh. “Like a court magician paid to entertain royal children with fireworks and tricks?” The newsies always call what we do magic, but Maman said the word is too simple an explanation for the arcana.
“So, can you?” He fusses with his cravat until it loosens, and the silk tumbles down his chest like a spill of orange champagne.
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“How does it?” His eyes burn with questions as he takes another step forward.
My heart hitches. “Don’t come any closer.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to murder me?”
“There are laws,” I remind him. “And maybe I should.”
“You follow those?”
“Sometimes.” I fuss with the ruffles of my dress. “It’s forbidden for men to be alone with Belles outside the confines of beauty appointments, or to speak to them unless the conversation relates to beauty work.”
“And what of women? They can be just as dangerous, if not more.”
“The same applies. We’re not to fraternize with non-Belles.”
“Why all the fuss? It seems silly, if you ask me.” He smiles like he already knows the answer.
“Bad things have happened in the past.”
“But they don’t always have to.” He rubs his chin as he studies me. “You don’t seem like a rule-follower.”
A blush rises to my cheeks. “You have a keen eye.”
“I’m a sailor. I have to—”
“Camellia!” Du Barry calls out. “What are you doing back there?”
I flinch at the sound of my name and pivot around. “Coming!” I shout.
The guard returns.
I turn back. “Who are you?”
But the boy is gone. The guard gives me a pointed look, but I rush to the palace gates anyway and look left and right.
Nothing.
“Camellia!” Du Barry shouts again.
I go to the opposite side of my carriage.
Nothing.
Already the memory of the boy feels like a dream you try to remember the very first moment you wake up. Fuzzy, wispy, and out of reach.
5
The Beauty Minister opens the southern gate, prancing forward in a body-length mink coat. She pets the fur with her red-tipped nails; peacock feathers are woven into her dark hair. She points up. A gold-and-white post-balloon dances over her head. The House of Orléans’s emblem blazes on its side. The queen’s personal post correspondence.