The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(42)

The Fashion Minister nods when we reveal ourselves.

Madam Renault studies our faces. “Still quite pretty.”

“But not perfect,” I add. “And Her Majesty requires that.”

She agrees.

I place the veil back on and let the glamour fade.

“So...” the Fashion Minster says.

“But we have no Belles here, Your Grace.”

He takes her hand and strokes it. “You’re not a very good liar. I know you must have one or two at the ready. They tell the cabinet members everything.”

She leans close to him. “But I’m not supposed to.”

“Darling, it’ll be our little secret.” He winks. “I’ll be sure to send you over a dress from my new line. A vivant dress that captures the depth and breadth of your beauty. You have been maintaining it well. I have taken notice.”

She blushes and her severe mouth softens. “I only have one Belle available. The other is, well, you know, indisposed.”

“One will suffice.” He removes an overstuffed coin purse from an inner pocket in his jacket. “For your trouble.”

She accepts the money.

“Please note that they like having their treatments done together in the same room. I know you can accommodate. Your teahouse is rumored to be the best, even better than the Chrysanthemum.”

She beams. “Those Du Barrys have been running the whole tradition into the ground. There’s decorum and order that must be adhered to. No corners cut.” She snaps at a nearby servant, “Prepare the large chamber on the fourth floor.”

“You are most gracious, my lady. I won’t forget this favor.” The Fashion Minister grins, offering Madam Renault his arm. They saunter deeper into the foyer.

My heart drums as we follow behind. The Fashion Minister distracts her by telling her about the low silkworm harvest this season and how it’s affected the production timeline for the queen’s line of vivant dresses.

The teacup dragons in my waist-pouch squirm as if they’re responding to the nerves cramping my stomach. I pat them, trying to calm their excitement, as I take in our surroundings. Where could Valerie be? Edel does the same, craning her neck to see down darkened corridors.

An attendant marches out with a young woman. A silver collar studded with diamonds loops around her neck, drops down her chest, and clasps her wrists together. A pillbox hat sits on her head and a short face veil masks her eyes, nose, and mouth with lacy silk. Her skin is the deep crimson of a recently bloomed Belle-rose, ready for plucking, and she has two mouths, a regular one and a small one beneath it.

Du Barry’s words haunt me: “There will be a favored set of Belles, and a secondary set to ensure that the needs of the kingdom are met. Basic supply and demand.”

“Why is she chained?” I ask.

The Fashion Minister eyes me.

“The queen’s orders. She sent a new government-mandated Belle guide by official post-balloon last week. After those fugitive Belles left the palace.” Her gaze is strong as she searches for eye contact.

The Fashion Minister loosens the purple cravat at his throat.

“What about the Belle from the favored generation? We would prefer her,” Edel says.

The Fashion Minister’s eyebrows raise with alarm.

Madam Renault pales. “There are no Belles from that generation here.” She tugs the girl forward. “This one is very talented despite what her outward appearance might suggest.”

The Fashion Minister stares at me, awaiting my response.

“The queen will be doing away with segregating Belles into favored classes and secondary classes. They will all occupy the same sphere regardless of how they turn out. The new Minister of Belles, Georgiana Fabry, will see to it,” she adds.

Simply hearing that name—Auguste’s last name—stings.

“Ada is very talented,” Madam Renault repeats.

The girl steps forward. I fixate on the bright red of her skin tone and that tiny second mouth beneath her bottom lip as it opens and closes. I swallow down my burning desire to scream.

“I will oversee the session,” the Fashion Minister replies. “I am consulting on their looks. Giving them a full makeover to please Her Majesty.”

Madam Renault grins. “What lucky women.” She walks forward, and we follow.

We are swept into a treatment room. The vaulted ceiling is frosted with gold and blue, wide arching windows overlook the water, and beauty-lanterns bathe shelves of beauty instruments and Belle-products. The walls are threaded with white-and-gold silk like a tapestry, and tiny perfume blimps cascade above us.

The memories of a life filled with beauty work and appointments rush back. The ledgers full, Bree helping me with clients, Ivy at my side, the moments with Auguste—and Rémy.

“The room must be cleared for privacy. Only the Belle and us,” the Fashion Minister says to Madam Renault.

The servants freeze.

“But it isn’t protocol,” Ada replies, sounding just as we once did when clients wanted to break the rules.

“It will be today,” I say.

“The servants must stay,” Madam Renault replies. “House rules. I do hope you understand.”

For the briefest moment, I think Madam Renault might be protecting Ada. I know what can happen when we’re left alone with the wrong client. Prince Alfred’s disgusting face invades my memory. I still wish I could see him stuffed into a starvation box for attacking me.