The Belles (The Belles #1)(87)
“Sophia had something to do with this?”
Bree walks through the door holding newspapers.
“Sophia is involved in everything, and the sooner you realize that, the better.” Arabella rushes away.
Bree bows at Arabella as she passes. The doors close with a thud behind her.
“Are you all right, miss?” she says.
I can’t answer her question. My eyes fill with tears. My skin prickles with goose bumps. Rage thunders in me like a great storm. The heat of it warms my blood more than the arcana. The hairs on my arms lift as if lightning is near.
Sophia took away the last thing I had of my mother.
38
I go to the Imperial Library to find out if there’s any record of Belles having an ability to heal. The space could fit all four wings of Maison Rouge de la Beauté and the surrounding forest and gardens. The shelves are mountains scaling the walls, tapering toward a sky of stained glass. Balconies split the room into levels. Ladders click along poles and hold servants squeezing books into nooks. Spiral staircases and tiny lifts connect to the very top. Maps of Orléans stretch along the walls, showing the kingdom’s growth over time. A wall of royal emblems illustrates the tiers of the high and middle houses. Velvet armchairs and puffy couches are scattered around small tables. Reading-lanterns are clustered near visiting patrons.
This place has to contain an answer to my questions about the arcana. The things Du Barry never told us.
Rémy waits for me at the door.
“I’ll only be a few minutes. Maybe a full hourglass?”
He nods.
I walk through the aisles, letting my hands drift over the spines. I pull a book from the shelf and open the pages just to smell them. When I was little and in trouble with Du Barry, I’d hide in our library. Maman would find me curled up behind a shelf with a reading-lantern and a book of fairy tales. I’d make a little tent out of my traveling cloak. She’d hunker down with me and read one of the stories with tough words in it. I was much more interested in falling into stories than completing Du Barry’s assignments.
The scent of oil lamps and old paper and leather circulates. It makes me miss the tenor of Maman’s voice and the perfume of her skin and how her arms made me feel like I’d never fall. The thought of Maman’s burnt Belle-book brings tears. She’d want me to help Charlotte. She’d want me to do what’s right.
Glass cabinets line a wall, displaying newspapers from various years. I gaze into them. The headlines are sluggish, showing their age. I’m drawn to the ones about Princess Charlotte.
PRINCESS CHARLOTTE HASN’T AWOKEN FOR A MONTH
THE QUEEN ISSUES A PALACE LOCKDOWN
AFTER THE PRINCESS FALLS ILL
IMPERIAL SERVANTS PUT IN STARVATION BOXES
AFTER THE PRINCESS REFUSES TO WAKE
THE FALLEN PRINCESS RUMORED TO BE NEAR DEATH
ROYAL POISONMASTERS BROUGHT TO THE PALACE
TO TASTE THE BLOOD OF THE SLEEPING PRINCESS
Her portrait is printed in the paper. Cameos sit side by side, showing what she looked like before—big hazel eyes, a freckled nose and round face, a small forehead like her father’s—and after the sleeping sickness. She’s still beautiful, even when asleep. Soft mouth, curls draped around her shoulders, a jeweled hair comb instead of a crown.
Articles boast different theories: imperial doctors blame sleeping draughts and poppy illness, tattlers and scandal sheets speculate about love sickness because Princess Charlotte’s favored suitor, Ren Fournier, accidentally drowned days earlier, and many courtiers believe that someone tried to kill her because she was just too beautiful.
“Interested in royal history, Lady Camellia?” a voice says. I turn, and a pair of piercing brown eyes stares back at me. Deep wrinkles rim her mouth and eyes. Her hair frizzes around her head in a lovely disc shape. “I’m the royal librarian. Can I help you with your selections?”
“Actually, I’m interested in Belle history.”
“Right this way.” She leads me through countless aisles, snaking left and right. Spines show titles like The History of Orléans and The Policies of Queen Marjorie II and Imperial Laws Throughout the Verdun Dynasty, and so on. There are art books and romance novels and children’s tales and thousands of rows I can’t see.
She pulls back a gauzy curtain and ushers me into a small alcove. These shelves hold books bound with red leather. Tables hold maps of Maison Rouge de la Beauté, newspaper advertisements for the teahouses, and imperial beauty law ledgers. Display boxes feature first-edition beauty-scopes, framed pictures of gardiens, Belle-cards from past generations, and ancient beauty tools marred by age. Small beauty caisses, ranging in size and age, sit in the corners.
“We should have everything you’re looking for. Otherwise it’s in the library at your home.” She lugs heavy tomes from the shelves and sets them on a nearby table. They have titles like A History of the Goddess of Beauty and the Belles, The Very First Belles, The Mythos of Belle Origins, Belle Beauty Trends, Queens and Belles—the Most Important Royal Relationship, and more. “Here are a few to get you started.”
“Thank you.”
I circle the alcove, admiring all the bits of Belle lore. I open gardien journals, scanning the text for any mention of the arcana and their healing powers.
One is written by Du Barry’s fourteenth great-grand-mère: