The Belles: Chapters 29–40

The din of gossiping voices fills the room.

The room dissolves around me: the women and their flapping fans and raspy whispers, the queen's strong gaze, Sophia's frustrated sighs, the noise of the newsies' pens, the gentle flutter of post-balloons and lanterns, the roiling boil of anticipation.

I give her my sister Valerie's gorgeous voluptuous shape.

"Camellia, very lovely," the queen says, giving me an appraising look.

My days settle into an ebb and flow like the crystal-blue waters of La Mer du Roi crashing onto the beach below the Belle apartments.

I imagine Auguste on Amber's treatment table and almost laugh. His antics definitely would have gotten under her skin.

Her coughing subsides.

"I've tried it all," she whispers tersely.

"She thinks you can do miracles. She takes your power as a sign that the gods haven't forsaken her child."

She's a dream specter racing past the naked trees, her red hair a flame against the darkness.

Rose vines push from their pots, curling and lengthening to create a thick and thorny arbor over our heads.

My thoughts are a tangle of Ivy's words; the queen's request; Sophia's tinkling laughter and her worries about being beautiful; how the queen spoke about Sophia as selfish, jealous, and spiteful; and the ways in which Sophia and I are alike.

When I went to her chambers she had all the papers strewn over her tables, the ink scattering and reassembling, hollering their scandalous headlines.

"I need to make sure I take fashion to a new place, too. My mother is not a very fashionable queen. Her dresses are always rather dull. I will commission gowns the likes of which the world has never seen."

"Will we be having lunch, Your Highness?" I ask tentatively.

The room's wonders had unfolded to us for hours: perfume atomizers and color crème-cakes and rouge-sticks and powders and kohl pencils and golden vinaigrettes and pastilles and potpourri and oils and sachets.

The room had smelled heady and sweet, and we'd fallen asleep there after powdering ourselves all night.

I brace myself for the Beauty Minister, Du Barry, or even Sophia herself, with a reprimand for trying to soften Sophia's manner without her consent.

He bows and then shows me each frock one by one, much to Elisabeth's chagrin.

He bows and then shows me each frock one by one, much to Elisabeth's chagrin.

She scowls as they're presented like delectable pastry treats.

Night-lanterns oscillate with bright colors.

Bubbly, jewel-toned liquid fills their glass flutes and tumblers.

Men chase women down corridors, and laughter and spirited chaos ensue.

I search Sophia's eyes, trying to understand why she's making me embarrass Astrid in front of all these people. Is this retribution for attempting to change her manner during our session?

Gabrielle hands Astrid a scandal sheet called Sir Daniel's Dastardly Delights. The vulgar words race along the page as if they're afraid of all the candlelight in the room.

The pictures morph into a dozen lurid scenes, and capture the salacious rumors circulating the kingdom this week.

The pictures morph into a dozen lurid scenes, and capture the salacious rumors circulating the kingdom this week.

There's the slovenly way you—and your sisters, I might add—carry yourselves, and embarrass Orléans, and your merchant house, Le Nez.

"Your Highness, I couldn't possibly. I don't have my caisse, the Belle-rose tea, my accoutrements," I say in a panic.

If you hear from her, tell her she should return to the teahouse immediately; otherwise, she will be treated as a fugitive, subject to punishment in accordance with the laws of our great queen and country, and held in contempt by the Minister of Law.

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

A line of rickshaws sits, ready to carry important passengers into Trianon or beyond.

I lift the heavy brass knocker. Its echo booms. A stout woman answers.

Courtiers haggle over prices and admire trinkets.

The scent of fire brings back Maman's funeral and the flames that engulfed her body, smoldering the bed of Belle-roses, tearing first through her silk dresses, and then her skin and body.

When I think too hard and my eyes get all blurry, I still see those tiny sparks flickering off the pyre like fireflies as Maman's body disappeared, and my old life evaporated.

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.

She pulls back a gauzy curtain and ushers me into a small alcove.

Display boxes feature first-edition beauty-scopes, framed pictures of gardiens, Belle-cards from past generations, and ancient beauty tools marred by age.

Her gifts behave erratically. Almost backward. Instead of removing wrinkles, she creates them. Instead of softening one's manner, she worsens it. Instead of making her clients beautiful, she distorts them.

I will work with her to reverse this. Or to control the manifestation of the dark side.

"We've paid the attending servants in your apartments for their discretion."

I want to see the kingdom ostracize him.

I wonder if I can add youth to the queen's organs, so she can live forever and Sophia will never have to become regent queen.