“Yes,” Edel accidentally calls out, before clapping a hand over her mouth. The Beauty Minister smiles at her.
“My lovely, you will be at the Fire Teahouse in the Fire Isles,” she says.
Edel curtsies.
“Hana Beauregard.”
Hana snaps upright. Her hands dig into the folds of her dress as she walks out of her gazebo. She doesn’t look at the Beauty Minister; her eyes are fixed on the ground. A few cherry-blossom petals fall from her Belle-bun. She takes in a large breath.
The Beauty Minister scans the Belle-card. “You will be at the Glass Teahouse in the Glass Isles.”
Hana exhales, claps her hands together, then bows.
“Padma Beauregard, you will be at the Silk Teahouse in the Bay of Silk,” the Beauty Minister says.
Padma’s chin drops to her chest. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she does her best to wipe them away. A sob escapes her. She covers her mouth. A nearby servant rubs her back, and whispers something to her.
Two blimps linger over the Beauty Minister’s head, chasing each other in a perfect circle.
This is it.
I look at Amber to my left. She winks at me. I blow her a silent kiss and cross my fingers for both of us. I tell myself: If it isn’t me, then I’ll be happy it’s her. I hope she feels the same. I ignore the tiny voice inside me that whispers, You’re lying.
The Beauty Minister reaches for the cards displaying our faces. I stand up straight and ball my fists in anticipation of what she’s going to say. The girls watch and wait.
“Camellia Beauregard,” she says.
I walk forward. Fear and excitement climb over me like vines. My palms itch. My face feels flushed. I don’t know whether I want to vomit, shriek, or both. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.
“You’ll be at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse in the Rose Quartier of our Imperial City of Trianon.”
My cheeks flame and I know they’re red as strawberries. My heart plummets into my stomach with a crash. Sweat streams down my back. “But . . .” I start to say, before Du Barry glares at me.
I bow and return to my gazebo. My chest heaves. I might never be able to catch my breath again.
The queen stands. The Beauty Minister turns to her.
“Ambrosia Beauregard.” The queen stretches out the syllables of her name.
Amber steps forward—eyes gazing ahead, shoulders back, slight smile on her face—looking exactly how Du Barry trained us to. Gracious. Alert. Always ready.
“You have been named the favorite,” the Beauty Minister announces. The word explodes through the room like a cannon.
I put a hand over my mouth.
The queen claps. “Ambrosia is the favorite.”
A servant dumps out Amber’s basket. Coins splatter on the floor and make a golden mountain. The court cast many bets for her.
I can’t take my eyes off Amber.
The queen smiles at my sister. My heart shatters like a glass mirror, the tiny shards shooting out into every part of me, cutting at my insides, spreading pain. They will never be put back together.
Du Barry keeps her arms crossed over her ample chest. She gives me a satisfied look.
I am not the favorite.
The words smash into one another inside my head.
I am not the favorite.
Hands reach for me. Lips kiss my cheeks, leaving smudges of rouge-stick behind. People swarm in a thousand directions. Women squeeze my hands. They tell me how excited they are to book appointments with me at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. People applaud, lights flash, arms pull me into hugs and twirls. Some whisper that they thought it should’ve been me. Newsies flock around, shoving voice-trumpets in my face and pestering me with questions about Amber and my opinion about the queen’s selection of the favorite.
I bite back tears. I push them down with too-sweet champagne.
Amber is surrounded, her ginger Belle-bun a tiny crest above the crowd. Du Barry gives an interview about what she was like as a child: studious, deferential, loving. The Beauty Minister tells royal listeners what criteria the ministers and the queen used to choose the favorite this season: disciplined, dutiful, responsible. My sisters bounce around in their beautiful dresses and speak to other courtiers and newsies.
The room swirls around me. The queen’s words ring out—Ambrosia is the favorite— alongside the racing thrum of my heart.
11
The evening whizzes by like the spinning of a newsreel. My sisters dance and laugh and give interviews and kiss cheeks and eat sweets. We have our portraits painted and talk to our big sisters—the previous generation of Belles. I hide in an adjacent tea salon to avoid the newsies until we return to the Belle apartments. Amber doesn’t come with us. She lingers in the Grand Imperial Ballroom surrounded by well-wishers and courtiers, who clamor for her attention.
I watch the doors. I wait for her to walk in.
Belle-trunks are lined up in the middle of the main salon like coffins. Servants fill them with beauty caisses, new dresses and shoes from the Fashion Minister, the latest Belle-products, and sangsue jars.
Hana peers into her trunk. “We’re not going to be together anymore.”
“Is it time already?” Padma whines. “I don’t want to go yet.”
I don’t either. The pinch of it comes sweeping back, and I’m near tears. I face the wall and pretend to admire the tapestry map of Orléans.
“The carriages will be here soon.” Valerie collapses into a nearby chaise. Her dress rips, but she’s too tired to look down at the fishtail train that’s threatening to fall off.
“And I saw our big sisters leave another apartment in traveling cloaks,” Hana says.
A pause settles over us. Tears well up in Padma’s and Hana’s eyes. Edel’s cheeks flush. Valerie sniffles. I look away. The uneasy silence feels suffocating.
“I’m ready to get this over with.” Edel throws her shoes into her Belle-trunk.
Servants present trays of fizzy water overflowing with raspberries, snowmelon slices, strawberries, and limes. Carts hold late-night treats: petit-waffles, sugary syrups, fried sweetbread and chicken, and luna pastries. Three télétropes project pictures on the walls. The magic of the night flashes all around us, but I feel only disappointment. A sad tremor lives inside my chest, and my arms and legs buzz with the memory of not being chosen.
“Where’s Amber?” Valerie asks.
The sound of her name feels like a sparkler explosion.
“Gloating somewhere, no doubt,” Edel says.
“I haven’t seen her since the dinner.” Hana opens the doors of the Belle apartments to peek out.
“She probably has a dozen things to do now,” I mumble.
“I didn’t want her to win,” Edel states.
“That’s terrible to say.” Padma gives her a playful shove.
“Why do you think the queen picked her?” Valerie asks.
“Because she’s always perfect.” The words slip out heavy and hard.