The Belles (The Belles #1)(93)

“I—”

“Please, Camille. Don’t make me replace you, too.”

My hands freeze.

Her eyes close before I can answer her.

“It’s time to leave, Lady Camellia,” her attendant says.

I stand and leave the room, quiet as a mouse, the queen’s threat stinging like a fresh cut.





41


The next day, the Fashion Minister waits in the main salon for me after my first beauty appointment. “Well, good morning, little doll.”

“What are you doing here? Have more dresses for me?” I kiss both of his powdered cheeks.

“No, and aren’t you spoiled.” He takes my hand. “Today, you are coming with me and the princess to the Dress Bazaar.”

“But I have more appointments.” I point to the wall ledger.

“And this is your most important one. We have yet to find a suitable fabric for her wedding gown. Nothing compares to the look you created. She says she needs you there, and future queens get what they want. Or have you not learned?” He waves the latest scandal sheet at me. “Come along,” he says, sensing my hesitation. “You never know what mischief one can get into. You might have fun. The Trianon Dress Bazaar is the largest in all of Orléans.”

Hearing the full name strikes something in my memory. A sign from the carriage ride on my first night as an official Belle. “The Trianon Dress Bazaar. Isn’t that near the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?”

“Why, yes, it is,” the minister says, and winks as if he knows what I’m thinking.

Amber.

I race to get dressed.

The minister smiles. “Now that’s more like it.”


After lunch, we ride in a procession past the royal hourglass. It wears a coat of ice and snow, its diamond-like sand swirling inside like an impending storm.

“More tea,” the Fashion Minister orders the carriage servants. Bree stokes the small fire and places more pots of tea on the iron rack. This is the largest carriage I’ve ever been in—like three regular-size ones put together.

I press my nose to the window. Sophia’s royal carriage glitters like a sun ahead of us. My breath makes tiny flat clouds across the glass. A plan to slip away and see my sister buzzes through me, alongside my ever-present fear and panic. Rémy sits beside me on high alert, as if he can sense I’m up to something.

I laugh and join the conversation, hoping to quell his suspicions.

We pass through the Market Quartier. Blue lanterns fight the wind, clutching the hooks above their stalls. Vendors stand before their pavilions and shops, hawking their wares.

“Silkworms—finest quality!”

“Cravats that change color!”

“Best brocades in the kingdom!”

“Glass beads from Savoy—this color is made for you.”

“Dresses that light up the night!”

Shoppers carry heat-lanterns over their heads like parasols to keep warm. They drift over high hair-towers and hats like tiny stars tied to ribbons.

The carriages snake through the narrow passageways as they enter the Garden Quartier. The stores are piled on top of each other, like gift boxes in all the colors of the rainbow. Emerald lanterns shine above doors and inside windows. Golden lifts and spiral staircases take passengers up to the highest stores—some are hidden by the thickening white clouds. I spot the Chrysanthemum Teahouse in the distance, its turrets shining like the wings of bright bayou fireflies in the dark of night.

The carriages park. We step out onto the street. Sophia’s ladies ooh and ahh at the sights.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Sophia says to me.

“Yes, Your Highness.” I paint on a smile.

She hands me a heat-lantern. Its warmth heats my Belle-bun. Part of me wishes it could lift me away into the clouds.

Imperial guards clear the shops Sophia chooses to visit—Prima’s Petticoat Palace, Gascon and Duhart’s Fichu Forge, Lady Cromer’s Brocade Bonanza. The Fashion Minister guides her through the complex vertical network of stores. Gabrielle, Claudine, and Henrietta-Marie saunter behind her. People bow and shout wedding blessings. Newsies sketch pictures and swarm us with gossip post-balloons.

The Fashion Minister’s dandies comment on the best shops to visit: where to get the richest silk, which shopkeeper gives customers the best-quality champagne, what dressmakers have the keenest eye, which of the owners are favored by the queen and the Fashion Minister himself.

We take one of the golden lifts up. The glass windows boast advertisements: vivant dresses that shift color every ten seconds, cravats that release cologne so a man always smells his best, matching outfits for teacup pets and their owners, hats and headdresses as tall as the ceiling, lace shoes that jingle pleasant tunes.

I try to imagine when I will be able to slip away. With seven guards around us and Rémy behind me, it’s going to be difficult. My head rattles with possible escapes. Maybe I can accompany Sophia into a dressing room and slip out a back exit? Maybe I can use the commode and sneak out through a window?

I try to keep track of the staircases, lifts, and shop names, but the corridors twist and turn with no orderly pattern. It’s a maze.

Sophia volleys in and out of several shops. Tailors, dressmakers, and merchants try to woo her with free gifts for her ladies, or offer pastries and champagne. The princess’s voice drifts down the passageways as she speaks with the Fashion Minister and her ladies.