I follow her up the grand staircase. She jingles from a strange set of keys around her waist.
“There are ten floors, with thirty-five rooms on each one. They used to be brimming over with Belles, their ledgers chock-full of courtiers. The queen had the hardest job, sifting through so many talented Belles to select the favorite. The Beauté Carnaval lasted a month when I was a child.”
I run my fingers over ornate banisters. Some doors remain closed, and others flash their themed interiors. Snowy white chaises with chartreuse pillows, jade bedcurtains and saffron drapes, fuchsia walls and garnet tapestries. I imagine each room as the beauty workshop of a Belle. House-lanterns follow behind us. Their tiny whooshing noises echo.
Du Barry never told us why there are so few of us now.
“I wonder if my sister knows how to nurture Belles anymore.” Madam Claire winks at me.
I keep my face blank. Du Barry’s threats still ring in my ears.
Madam Claire shows me the beautiful breakfast veranda and the game salon and tea parlors. “Historically, this teahouse was where the queen and her ladies came, before Queen Ana?s built the palace Belle apartments in the Charvois Dynasty. My family lives on the tenth floor, and your quarters will be on the third.”
We return to the grand staircase.
“Where’s my big sister, Aza? Will we share a room as she trains me?”
Madam Claire stops and pivots around. Her mouth crumples into a frown. “You won’t be needing her help transitioning.”
“But Madam Du Barry said we had a month together. She’s supposed to show me how to do everything perfectly and take over her clients.”
“I sent her home to La Maison Rouge early. She had an unpleasant disposition, if you will. But not to worry, you have me. I’ve been mistress of this teahouse for fifteen years. There’s no one better to show you what’s expected.”
More disappointment piles on top of the growing mountain inside me. I thought I would have an elder sister to rely on—at least for a time. That was what we’d been told.
We walk along the third floor. Servants open a set of doors. Bree and I follow Madam Claire inside.
“These are your chambers”—Madam Claire motions—“and your imperial servant will be in nearby quarters.”
The most enormous bed I’ve ever seen sits in the middle of the room. Velvet drapes hang from gilded posts tied with gossamer bows. The bed is covered in silk pillows made of swansdown, and thick blankets embroidered with the Chrysanthemum House emblem. Flames curl and hiss in a stone fireplace, even though it’s the end of the warm months. Bowls hold floating tea lights and flower petals. Gold-framed portraits swallow the walls. Marble statues of the Goddess of Beauty and famous Belles peek out of every corner. I spot my mother in the long row. I wonder what she’d say if she were here. Would she admit her disappointment? Would she tell me to be grateful?
Bree works with the others to unpack my Belle-trunk. The beauty caisse is lifted to a vanity complete with three mirrors and a series of beauty-lantern hooks. A Belle-book sits on the table, embossed with my portrait and name, and an instruction card from Du Barry demanding that I record everything. Dresses are hung in a closet so big my new bed could fit inside it.
“The Fashion Minister sent a hundred dresses. I advised him that I’d like for you to match the house, so he used the teahouse colors as inspiration.” Madam Claire’s words fade into a distant murmur.
I think of the beauty of the room in which Amber now sleeps. The whole scene with her replays over and over again: the hurt in her eyes and the noise she made as she fell. A heaviness settles into me, like a post-balloon with too much to carry. And even though this is a beautiful room in an even more beautiful house, and I am the second most important Belle in the kingdom, all I see are images of the palace Belle apartments, and all I hear are Amber’s words, and all I feel is that this room isn’t good enough.
“I think you will be perfect here. You already seem to fit with the space.” Madam Claire giggles. “Your skin is the right shade of brown to match it. The designers worked hard to ensure it’d be the right fit.” She runs her hands over the furniture, then leans on the vanity, staring in the mirror. “Oh, dear, I’ve put on too much rouge-stick again.” She rubs at her teeth.
The servants stifle laughter. She clears her throat, and they stop. She looks at me in the mirror’s reflection. “I thought the queen was going to choose you.”
I meet her gaze, and tears well in my eyes.
“Your exhibition was so clever. I rooted for you because it was markedly different from the others. And because you made my sister so mad.”
I bow so she won’t see the smile that her statement inspires. “Thank you, Madam.”
“But Ambrosia is the right favorite for the current royal family,” she says, and the momentary happiness disappears like a popped bubble. “They’ve had enough strife. They need someone who will do exactly as told.”
“I could’ve done that,” I say, even though it feels like a lie.
She walks over and places a hand against my cheek. “Who are you trying to fool, me or you?” She smiles, the rouge-stick now coating more of her teeth, and leans forward to sniff me. “You smell like lavender. How lovely. I’m happy to have you here. Tomorrow we’ll get to work.” She excuses herself, sending in nurses to check my arcana levels.
I climb into the too-large bed and let the nurses poke and prod me. After they leave, I take out the cameo of my mother and set it on the pillow beside me. I trace my fingers over the silhouette of her face, carved from blush-pink stone, glass, and white quartz.
“What should I do, Maman?”
I close my eyes and imagine her beside me. The scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, the sound of her breathing. I listen hard for her voice like it’s only a faraway whisper.
Do what you’ve been asked to do, she’d say.
“What if I don’t want to?”
You must. The queen has made her decision. You weren’t raised to covet the path of others. It allows the God of Envy’s snake to enter your veins.
“I yelled at my best friend.”
You should never let your anger bubble over. It blinds you. It shatters hearts.
“I’m sorry, Maman. I’m sorry I failed. I didn’t work hard enough.”
I wait for her voice. I wait for her to tell me it’s all right. I wait to feel her arms curl around my waist, to feel the soft beat of her heart pushing through my back.
Nothing comes.
I sink down in the new mattress, wishing for an indentation like the one left behind by Maman in our bed at home, and drift into disappointed dreams.
13
Unfamiliar noises and new scents wake me early, and I’m swept into the day. Breakfast on the veranda, and a list of morning appointments.
Mistress Daniela Jocquard, House Maille 7:00
Lady Renée Laurent, House of Silk 8:00
Countess Madeleine Rembrandt, House Glaston 9:00
Lady Ruth Barlon, House Eugene 10:00