The Belles (The Belles #1)(90)

“She’s been summoned by Du Barry today,” Bree whispers.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

We walk to the treatment room. The bed is dressed with warm towels and pillows. “Light more beauty-lanterns, and melt the pastilles early. Is the Belle-rose tea brewing?”

“Yes, my lady.” Bree brings the teapot over, lifting the lid to show me the swirling rose petals in the hot water. I give her a nod of approval. Anxious nerves drum through me. They’ve prepared the room several times before. It’s always been perfect. But being alone without Ivy, and with this prince, makes me feel uneasy. The memory of Auguste distracts me, untethering my mind and setting it afloat like a post-balloon.

Bree wheels out trays that hold hairbrushes and combs, hot irons and steam curlers, rouge-stick canisters, tiny pots of skin-tone paste, paintbrushes, and various kohl pencils. I take deep breaths, and I hope I can calm the too-fast beat of my heart.

“Set up chairs with pillows for his attendants.”

“Yes, my lady,” she says.

The man thunders into the room and guzzles two cups of Belle-rose tea. His female attendants take their places at high-backed chairs set in the corners of the room. I look away as the servant women disrobe him. He climbs onto the table. They drape his naked body with towels.

“Like what you see?” he asks one of the servant women.

They don’t answer. One giggles. I flash her a look and she quiets.

I try to avoid squirming as I approach him. I place my fingers on his temples.

“Your hands are very soft,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” I whisper. “No more talking now. Let the Belle-rose tea start to work, and relax your mind.”

“It’s hard to stay relaxed around all of these beautiful women.”

His attendants release approving chirps.

“Add the charm last. I like to be my true self through the process.”

“Yes,” I reply.

“I’m very curious about Belles, and—”

“In order for me to concentrate, and let my arcana work, I need complete silence. You understand, don’t you?” I say with a purring voice he seems to like.

“I do.” He turns his head so his cheek lands in my palm. I re-center his head and move to the side of the table.

I fold over the towels to reveal his legs. The sickly gray skin resembles an elephant’s trunk with thick hair poking out. I grab for a charcoal stick. I draw lines along his thighs, then move to his stomach. The women study every movement I make. All four of them inspect my lines. I cover him with bei powder.

Bree presents a tray of tiny skin-tone pots. I pluck one that matches his royal look. Its rich yellowy hue reminds me of smashed bananas. I finger the round bulb in my hands. I mix a little russet brown in to deepen the color and add several undertones.

The women inch out of their seats. Servants usher them back.

I use a paintbrush to finish coating the man’s skin with the paste, like sticky marmalade on toast.

I close my eyes and focus on the man’s arm. I rub my fingers along the skin. Sweat coats my forehead. The beat of the man’s heart, and the noise of his blood as it circulates through his body, grow louder and louder. I mix the pigments.

I open my eyes and wipe off the paste. The color climbs over the man’s arm, changing his skin from pale gray to a warm color with yellowy undertones.

The women gasp with awe and approval.

“How’s the pain, Your Highness?”

“Just fine. I’m like a thoroughbred,” he says. I motion for a servant to blot his sweaty brow.

“I’m moving on to the deeper work you requested now.” I run my finger over his stomach.

He squirms a little. “Give me muscle definition.”

I close my eyes, picturing his body. I push a metal instrument along his belly.

He grimaces and grunts. Muscles appear. His skin tightens and reddens. He winces with pain.

I wave the servants over. “Sit him up. Give him another full cup of Belle-rose tea. Add a drizzle of elixir.”

I do exactly what Ivy did with Princess Sabine. They lift his head and place the cup to his mouth. He thanks me. “Also, prepare an ice bath for him.”

Bree scampers out.

“Are you all right, Alfie?” one of the attendants calls out.

He puts his hand up and flicks it to the right. The women stand on command and file out the door.

“Where are you going?” I say.

They don’t answer, and close the door behind them.

He sits up.

“Sir, please lie down. I’m not finished.”

He grabs for me—one hand closing on my wrist, the other pawing at my dress and neck. His mouth presses against my face. Panic tears at me.

“Your Highness.” I push him away.

“I want to know what you taste like. If being born with color changes the way you feel.” He rips one of my skirts and tries to untie my waist-sash. “You must all be different. I visited one of your sisters. The white-haired one—Edelweiss, yes, that was it—and she was lovely.”

I scream out.

His hands find their way under my skirts. We knock into the trays, scattering Belle-products across the floor.

“I like screaming.” He hisses at me like an animal.