Duchesse Adelaide Bruen, House of Pomanders 11:00
The small treatment salon has pale blue walls and a circular shape, like the inside of a robin’s egg. Servants work to fluff pillows and drape blankets across a long table. Bree opens up my beauty caisse and sets out instruments on a silver tray.
A skylight window reveals angry clouds ready to thunder and rain down. It’s as if the sky reflects my insides.
“Lady Camellia,” Bree whispers.
“Yes?”
“Your first clients have arrived in the parlor. Tea has been served.”
“Thank you.”
I take a deep breath and smooth the front of my canary-yellow work dress. Bree squeezes my shoulder, and I flash her a thankful smile.
Madam Claire strides in. “Camellia, darling, how are you feeling this morning?” Rouge-stick bleeds around her smile. She mops sweat from her brow.
I curtsy. “Fine.”
“I trust you slept well.” She rubs my shoulder. “It’s your first day here, so I wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.” Her nose scrunches.
“Because I am.”
She eyes me suspiciously but says nothing more, and we walk together to the adjacent waiting parlor. A little girl marches around in circles. She chases a tawny teacup lion.
“Come here, Chat. Little Chat, come back.” The teacup lion yelps out a tiny roar as the girl yanks its tail. The girl’s jeweled pinafore balloons around her small waist, and the little hat on her head threatens to fall off. She can’t be more than five years old. Her elegant mother grabs at her, demanding she sit down.
“Lady Jocquard and Mistress Daniela, may I present the new Belle of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse at your service.”
I bow. “I’m Camellia Beauregard.”
“I know exactly who you are,” Lady Jacquard replies, waving my Belle-card at me. “And I’m quite excited to see what you can actually do. It will be such a relief to work with an official Belle again.”
“Official?” I say.
“You are the official Belle of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse, Camellia,” Madam Claire says. “I shall leave you two to discuss Daniela’s treatments.”
Daniela climbs into a small wing-backed chair. Her legs dangle, and she clicks her little heels together. “You’re the new Belle?” Her voice is as small as she is.
“Yes.” I sit in the chair beside her. She stares at me with big hazel eyes, and blinks rapidly as if I might disappear.
“Camellia,” she says.
“Lady Camellia,” her mother corrects.
I reach for her hand. “It doesn’t seem like you need any work done. May I take a closer look?”
Daniela jumps up, and I twirl her about like a tiny top.
“Are you sure?” Daniela cups her hand around my ear. “Mother says I’m a complete disaster,” she whispers.
The little girl only needs a few small refreshments—a new coat of skin paste, an eye brightening, reinforcement of her hair texture.
“We could give you a tail, and maybe some whiskers—then you two can match.” I point to the teacup lion licking her leg.
She picks him up and nuzzles her face in his fur. “Really?”
“Nonsense,” Lady Jocquard says. “Her looks have been a mess lately. Can’t you see her eyes and nose? They’ve always been a problem. Her natural template is flawed.”
Daniela’s eyes are a little sunken, like two finch’s eggs in a nest, and her nose hooks left. I want to tell her that Daniela’s little hooked nose gives her character—natural individuality, uncreated by Belles. I want to remind her that Daniela’s bones will always drift back to their original shape, and that some are more stubborn than others. I want to tell her Daniela’s distinctive features make her appear sweet and curious.
“I’d like for you to give her a new, darker hair shade, and work on her face,” Lady Jocquard says. “We might have to discuss giving her a completely new one at some point.”
“She’s a very pretty little girl—”
She scoffs, then lifts a bag from her pocket and jingles it.
A long silence drifts between us. I stare into her eyes.
“I like it when my daughter looks a certain way. She must learn how to maintain herself well. Even at this age.” Lady Jocquard snaps her fingers at her attendant. “Here’s a beauty board I had created. I’d like her skin to be the color of the night sky, but with a tinge of blue. I’m going to dust her with the new glitter sparkle opera singer Geneviève Gareau is wearing. Did you see her in the Trianon Tribune? Just shining. The next trend, for sure. My whole family will be first to do it.”
Her attendant hands it to me. Color smudges streak around an old cameo of Daniela. Hair-texture swatches line the perimeter, boasting an array of types—coiled, straight, coarse, wavy, fine, curly, frizzy, and smooth. The portraits of other courtier children circle hers.
I glance from the board to Daniela, and then to her mother. I wish Lady Jocquard could see her the same way I do.
“I really love how Lady élise Saint-Germain—from House Garlande—styles her twins. You know, they made the newsies’ new child beauty-scopes. Twice. She updates them in the perfect way.”
“Have you thought about leaving—”
She puts a hand up. “I didn’t come here to argue about what’s best for my daughter. I came here to spend money. I can just as easily go to the Silk Teahouse, and make sure all my courtier friends know exactly what type of experience they’ll get here with you.”
My cheeks flame and my heart skips. I stutter out an apology.
“I’d rather you get started. Save the formalities.”
Her words are a slap.
“Yes, of course; off to the bathing chamber first,” I say.
Daniela wants me with her at every step of the process. I lead her to the bathing onsen. Beauty-lanterns glide through the room. Candles float in three small pools: the first is full of rose petals, the second is thick with an infusion of aloe, and the last one simmers with salt, sulfur, and steam. Four poultice rooms line the wall, holding the promise of healing from red clay, oakwood charcoal, amethyst gem, and blue onyx.
Daniela takes a dip in each pool and visits each poultice room just to take a peek. She interlocks her hand with mine as we enter the treatment salon. Her mother follows closely behind.
A long table cuts through the middle of the room like a knife. Servants fluff pillows and turn down blankets.
“She will need more tea,” Lady Jocquard says. “Her pain tolerance is low, unfortunately.”
“Bree, would you mind bringing more?” I ask.
She returns with a tray of teapots, and she pours Daniela a cup. Bree adds three ice cubes to cool it. Daniela gags and tries to spit it out.
“Nope, down it goes.” Her mother pushes the cup to Daniela’s lips and tips it upright. Most of the liquid dribbles down her chin. She wiggles, but her mother’s grip tightens. Daniela’s tea-soaked pinafore is removed. She swings her naked arms and legs all around.
I tuck Daniela into the treatment bed. “Snug as a little bug.”