The Belles (The Belles #1)(83)

Ivy gasps. “It’s starting all over again. She did this with Amber, too. Oh, this is all my fault.”

“Did what?” I ask. “What’s your fault?”

“I told Ambrosia to do everything Sophia said,” Ivy says. “I told her it was her job to please Sophia. And Sophia began asking her to do unreasonable and ridiculous things.”

I remember what Elisabeth said—that Amber gave one of Sophia’s ladies-of-honor translucent skin, covered another in feathers, and gave Sophia the smallest waist possible. I hadn’t believed it at the time—couldn’t believe Amber would do such things. And now I had ruined a girl’s face.

“It’s going to get worse. She’s going to ask you to do more. She’s testing your loyalty.” She takes my hand. “I already tried to tell you. Nothing will stop this. It’s just the beginning. We have to go.”

“If we run, Sophia will just drag Valerie, Hana, Padma, or even Edel here to be the favorite. It will never end.”

“None of this is supposed to end. We are supposed to do as we’re told and go along with it. I can’t any longer.”

“We have to do something.”

“There’s nothing—”

“I’m going to help the queen,” I almost shout.

“But you could die.”

“Yes, but maybe I won’t.” I take a deep breath. “And we don’t have any other choice.”





36


The next morning, I pack a small satchel with bei powder, two smoothing instruments, and a few color pots. I tuck it into my fur waist-sash, then go to treatment room four.

Servants are tidying the room. I pay them each a pouch of spintria and leas coins and ask them to help me mess up the room. I put leeches into the Belle-products. They stare at me with puzzled expressions, but aid in the destruction. I add one beauty token to each palm, with an instruction to keep their mouths shut.

I hustle back to the main salon and knock so hard on Elisabeth’s door that it rattles.

She snatches it open. “Who the—” She swallows the curse on the other side of her sentence. “What is it? I’m busy. The phones won’t give me a moment’s rest since the card party.”

“Leeches got into the Belle-products in the fourth treatment salon, and the room is in shambles. Maybe someone broke in?”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. You need to hurry. It’s a mess,” I say. “I would hate for word to get to Madam Du Barry. We’ll both be in trouble.”

Her mouth goes slack and her face pales. She races off, leaving her office door ajar.

After she disappears, I slip in. Circuit-phones line every inch of the walls like floating candlesticks. Cone-shaped receivers rattle left and right on top of each one. Their ringing pierces the room. I don’t know how Elisabeth can tolerate it. A rolling ladder scales the wall, giving access to the phones that nearly kiss the ceiling. Iron spintria safes sit like a stack of blocks beside the door.

I bolt to the corner desk. It’s covered with beauty-scopes, spyglasses, appointment ledgers, spintria pouches, post-balloon letters, and beauty pamphlets. I open each drawer, searching for an address book. One is cluttered with newspapers and tattlers and scandal sheets, another with petit-hourglasses and abaci. The last one is packed with unused post-balloons and parchment. I dig under them and discover a royal address ledger.

Thank you, Goddess.

I scour it for the address of the Pompadours from Le Nez, House of Perfumers. I use Elisabeth’s quill to write the information on my hand, and step out from the office just in time to hear her angry voice echo from the hallway. I race back to the bedroom and pull the string for Bree.

She steps out from behind the wall. “Yes, my lady?”

“Bree, pack the bed with pillows, tightly, and draw the bedcurtains as if I’m in there. If Elisabeth asks, say I’m not feeling well and went to rest. Tell no one I’m out. Will you do that?”

Her brown eyes grow big. “But my—”

I press a few leas coins in her hand. She shakes her head and pushes them back at me. “Go, and hurry back.”

I hug her. She helps me into my traveling cloak and gives me a veil; I tiptoe back through the main salon and out the front apartment doors. Rémy stands at attention as soon as he sees me.

“I need to go to the Rose Quartier,” I say.

“Has the travel been arranged ahead of time?” he asks.

“Of course,” I lie confidently.

Rémy marches forward. I’m careful to keep my head down as courtiers pass by. I search for signs of the Beauty Minister or Du Barry. We leave through the northern gate. The sky is a snow white, with the promise of ice-flakes and wind at any moment. A line of rickshaws sits, ready to carry important passengers into Trianon or beyond. Glamorous courtiers climb in and out of private carriages. Imperial canal boats load and unload people onto gilded docks beside the Golden Palace River. Heat-lanterns trail behind pedestrians to add warmth.

He pauses and looks around. “Where’s your official carriage?”

I scurry to the nearest rickshaw and tell the man the address. He helps me up into the seat.

Rémy runs behind me. “What are you doing?”

The man holds up the canopy’s thick brocade curtain so I can speak to Rémy.