The Belles (The Belles #1)(78)

I wish Amber was here now. What would she tell me to do?

Bree arrives with my beauty caisse. “I thought you were headed to a luncheon,” she whispers.

“So did I.”

Bree sets it up on a nearby cart and begins the process of unhooking its compartments. Servants usher Sophia back into the room. She guzzles a vial of her specially made Belle-rose elixir and climbs onto the bed.

I pace around, trying to figure out what look I’ll give her. An idea wells up.

“Facedown, please,” I say.

“Why?” Her eyebrows lift in surprise.

“I need to get a good look at your hair,” I lie. “I want to experiment.”

Sophia claps giddily. “You know how much I love to toy with things.” She turns over.

I stand at the top of the treatment table. Bree and I work to cover her with bei powder. The weight of my plan is like a solid-gold spintria block, heavy with risk. Doubt curls into my stomach, souring it with anxiety.

I brush her hair down her back. I lighten the strands to the color of snow and add streaks of silver and embed diamonds. I paint her in a new skin tone, the color of freshly laid eggs. The second arcana awakens. I freckle her body with beautiful beauty marks. Goddess-of-Beauty kisses.

She grunts, and sweat dots her skin.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?” I pretend to fuss with the metal rods used to shape the contours of the face and body.

“Yes, proceed,” she whispers.

I motion to Bree to lift her hair. Bree’s shaky hands gather the new strands. Sophia’s spine curves beneath her skin, visible on her skinny frame. The first arcana awakens inside me at the sight of it. I think of Maman’s entry about the queen. A poor manner can be leeched out of anyone.

I take a deep breath. I nudge my fingers lightly into the back of her neck. Her soft skin warms beneath my fingertips. I push out her temper, plucking it from inside her like a weed in a garden, and plant the virtues of patience and serenity.

Sophia screams out and leaps up. Her sudden movement knocks me to the floor.

“Are you in pain, Your Highness? Is everything all right?” I scramble to my feet.

A servant hands her another vial of her elixir. She brushes it away. “I’m just . . .” Her eyes blink, and her head moves left and right as if she’s having some sort of conversation with someone who isn’t there. “I’m done for today. You can leave.” She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even ask for a mirror.

“But—”

“Good-bye, favorite.” Servants sweep me out of the room like dust. My pulse races with panic and worry and fear.

She knows what I was trying to do.





34


The next day, the salon doors burst open with a flourish. I brace myself for the Beauty Minister, Du Barry, or even Sophia herself, with a reprimand for trying to soften Sophia’s manner without her consent.

But the Fashion Minister barrels in, followed by his team of dandies and a wardrobe closet with massive carriagelike wheels. Its white birchwood sides remind me of my Belle-trunk, but its gilded edges and damask pattern allow it to blend in with the rest of the luxurious room.

“My little doll,” the Fashion Minister cries out. He lifts me out of my chair and twirls me around and around, no doubt inspecting my day dress. His false hand presses into my back.

“Not too fast,” I say.

He chuckles. “Yes, no more losing your stomach. And, hmmm, looks like you’ve missed me. At least, your body and sense of fashion have.”

I smile. “Where have you been?”

“Locked in a tower. Forced to make dresses for the rest of my years.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ve been at the Dress Bazaar, trying to settle on the proper fabric for Princess Sophia’s wedding gown. I have to match your glorious feat from that day in the Receiving Hall somehow.” His team wheels the wardrobe closer.

I blush at his compliment. “Perhaps I can help you.”

He blows me a kiss. “Firstly, I have a few special gifts for you.”

“For what occasion?”

“No need for an occasion, doll. You are the favorite. It’s an honor to dress you.” The wardrobe doors open and the interior explodes with color. Dresses with full skirts, A-line cuts, empire waists, sheaths, long sleeves, cap sleeves, no sleeves, V-necks and scoop necks and plunging necklines. Dresses made of brocades, laces, velvets, glass beads, cashmeres, silks, and pastel satins in every color and pattern. Special carts follow the wardrobe, carrying vivant dresses inside large glass bell jars. These are dresses made of living things. Butterflies open and close their wings, exposing their dress’s inner rib cage. Honeybees buzz in and out of a honeycomb-shaped gown. Roses of every color wave their petals.

Elisabeth slips from her office and approaches the wardrobe jars with widened eyes. She stretches out her fingers, mesmerized.

“Don’t touch, little Du Barry,” the minister says, bopping her hand lightly. “Those are not for you.”

I can’t help but laugh at her pinched expression.

“Show some respect. Those are for the favorite. They are gowns and dresses befitting the most important person in the kingdom . . . aside from the king, queen, and princesses, of course.” He bows and then shows me each frock one by one, much to Elisabeth’s chagrin. She scowls as they’re presented like delectable pastry treats.