The Belles (The Belles #1)(77)

“And? What happened?”

Bree sighed before continuing. “One day the princess said Aria’s eyes were too beautiful for a servant girl. Even though Aria maintained the beauty restrictions for servants. She accused her of getting additional work done, and put her in the box for three days. She had her eyes pecked out by birds. She almost died.”

My stomach lurches. A chill settles over me.

Sophia cannot become queen.

Bree slips her hand in mine. “Please don’t ever tell anyone I told you that. I could be—”

“Don’t worry.” I stare into her eyes to reassure her. Tiny hints of red push against the warm sepia brown of her irises. A gray tinge lingers beneath her pink-white skin and more stubble dots along her chin.

“Let me refresh you.” I touch her face lovingly.

“I couldn’t—”

“You will.” I lead her to my vanity and force her into the seat. Her mouth fights away a grin. She sinks into the high-backed chair. I grab a pot of Belle-rose tea from the tearoom and bring her a cup. She sips and smiles.

“Close your eyes.” I open my beauty caisse, remove a bei-powder bundle, and find a skin-pot color that matches hers. I cover her face with the skin paste. I slip my mirror from inside my dress. I quickly push the pin into my finger and wipe the blood on the base of my mirror. I watch it climb, willing it to go faster. The rose turns red and twists into its message—BLOOD FOR TRUTH.

I examine her. The glass fogs, then it reveals her smiling face bathed in a halo. Her loyalty reflects in the glass like a warm sun. The confirmation surges through me.

I restore her skin color, add more freckles to her nose and cheeks, and deepen the brown of her eyes. I touch the light stubble on her chin and cheeks.

“Do you mind. . .” she starts to ask.

I smile at her and touch her face, pulling the short hairs out and killing the roots of them.

“Those hairs won’t come back again,” I say.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

I add a small dimple—like mine—to her cheek as a bonus.


“Do you like the new dress?” Sophia asks as she flits around her boudoir in a sheer bathing gown. Her legs and hands twitch, and she fights to keep herself still. Wire-rimmed glasses sit on a wide nose, and her deep-set hazel eyes are two pools of sadness. She reminds me of a flower that’s lost all its petals. Her hair-tower is a frantic mess of tangles and jewels. Old makeup rings her eyes and lingers on her cheeks.

“It’s pretty,” I say.

“Spin for me.”

I do a careful turn. Unease fills me.

Sophia cannot be queen.

Sophia is unfit.

Sophia is temperamental.

The dress folds release a tiny melody each time I move.

“Isn’t it a lovely sound?” She leaps around to the beat of it. “I’m working with the Fashion Minister to make a line of dresses that sing. This is my first attempt.”

“Very clever.” I don’t tell her Rémy teased me on the entire walk to her chambers, calling me a pavilion bell.

“I need to make sure I take fashion to a new place, too. My mother is not a very fashionable queen. Her dresses are always rather dull. I will commission gowns the likes of which the world has never seen.” She digs into her vanity, throwing creams and puffs and tonics and perfume vials. Glass shatters.

I step back as some of the objects fly over my head like shooting stars. Servants rush to clean, but more hit the floor and splatter their contents before the servants can catch them. I shift my weight and try to find the right moment to interject.

“Will we be having lunch, Your Highness?” I ask tentatively.

She pauses. “I’ve planned a windy-season picnic. It’s partly a date with another one of my suitors.”

I wait for her to say Auguste’s name.

“Ethan Laurent from House Merania.”

I smile with strange, unexpected relief.

She returns to lobbing beauty products. “But I just can’t find . . .” She jerks upright. “Hmm, I can’t seem to remember what it is I was looking for.” She stares at the ceiling.

Servants duck and dart around her, trying to sweep up her mess.

Sophia steps in front of her vanity. “I look horrendous, favorite. I need you. I was up too late.” She reaches out her hand. I hesitate before taking it. “Fix me.”

“I must change into my work dress.”

“No, I want you as beautiful as possible while you work on me. Perhaps it’ll inspire you.”

We go to her treatment salon.

“Can we send for Bree? I need my beauty caisse.”

Sophia snaps a finger at a nearby servant. The woman ducks out of the room. I call out a thank you behind her.

“I will go bathe while you set up,” she says.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

I double-check the treatment room: adequate beauty-lanterns floating about, a servant setting Belle-rose tea on the table, pastilles melting on chafing dishes and filling the room with a lavender scent, another servant draping a large bed with pillows and linens, Belle-products sparkling on tiered trays. I trace my fingers over the fleur-de-lis Belle-emblems etched onto each item.

I remember the first time Amber and I sneaked into the Belle-product storeroom. After the house had gotten quiet, we stole night-lanterns and dragged them to the back of the house. The room’s wonders had unfolded to us for hours: perfume atomizers and color crème-cakes and rouge-sticks and powders and kohl pencils and golden vinaigrettes and pastilles and potpourri and oils and sachets. The room had smelled heady and sweet, and we’d fallen asleep there after powdering ourselves all night. Du Barry made us write fifty lines each as punishment.