She giggles. “Are you going to make me beautiful? What will you do?”
“It’s a secret.” I cup my hand near her ear. I feel the hugeness of her smile. “You’re already very pretty. I’m going to make you the most beautiful little girl in the whole wide world.”
She gasps, and turns to whisper in my ear. “I’d like that. Maman would like that, too. She would stop being so worried all the time.”
“I hope so.” I fluff her pillow. “Time to get started. You ready?”
She nods. I examine Daniela’s features. I run my fingers through her stiff hair; the strands remind me of hay in the carriage-house stables at home. The brown color is dull and ashen at the roots. A million looks flash through my head, like a deck of cards being shuffled.
“Are you going to do it?” Daniela asks.
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep my hands from trembling. “I’m thinking. Close your eyes.”
“But I want to see,” she protests.
Lady Jocquard paces around the bed. “Do what the Belle says, now.” Her voice makes me jump.
I close my eyes. I block out the noise of Lady Jocquard’s heels. My body warms like I’ve swallowed a blazing star. Maman said that we are made of stardust, of the Goddess of Beauty herself, and to envision the arcana like a comet zipping through us.
Her voice guides me. Be gentle, go slowly. Children require a light touch. You were born knowing how to do this.
The veins in my body swell. They rise in my hands.
Daniela appears in my head like a painting: doughy skin, dull hair, sinking eyes, crooked nose, long face. Bree and I coat her limbs with bei powder and darken her skin. I place a mesh marked with quadrants over her face. I paint a new color on a single strand of her hair. I imagine a raven sitting on Daniela’s shoulder, and I blacken her hair to match its wings. I tug lightly on the strands, forcing her hair to grow, and soon it tumbles over her shoulders in coiled ribbons.
“Ow.” She winces. Sweat beads dot her forehead. She bites her bottom lip and bursts into tears. I rub Daniela’s shoulder. Tears stream down her cheeks, wetting the mesh.
“Maybe we should stop for a bit?” I say to her mother.
“No, she’s fine. She always does this,” her mother says. “She’s going to be the most beautiful little girl now.” She holds Daniela’s arms down, but the little girl starts to kick and scream. The shrill sounds hit me in my chest. Servants rush forward to help Lady Jocquard pin her in place.
I try to work faster. I fine-tune her hair, placing a nice wave in the strands, adding a shiny gloss like Padma’s black hair, and thickening it in the crown. She hollers even louder. She shakes her head left and right. The mesh falls to the floor.
“I need her head to remain still.”
“You stop it this instant. I will send Chat away immediately to be stuffed like a doll,” Lady Jocquard scolds. Daniela freezes and whimpers. Lady Jocquard cups Daniela’s head, firmly holding it in place.
I pull her eyes a little out of their sockets, like spoons lifting eggs out of a cup-server. Her screams turn cold and sharp as ice. I flinch at each crescendo. I straighten out her nose into the perfect slope. The bone pops and cracks. Bree holds a handkerchief to the base, and a small stream of blood trickles out. I smooth out the break.
“Hush all that noise, Daniela,” Lady Jocquard hollers. “Quit carrying on like that. You’re becoming an embarrassment.”
“I’m done,” I say.
Daniela’s cries turn to hiccups. “It . . . I . . . it . . .”
“Wipe your face,” Lady Jocquard says to her. “And someone bring a mirror.” She snaps her fingers at Bree.
Bree scurries off and returns with a mirror. I help Daniela sit up. Her skin is warm to the touch. Daniela gazes into the mirror. She pants, but flashes me a pained smile.
“See?” Lady Jocquard hovers over Daniela. “Simply gorgeous. I love it.” She gazes up at me. “You’re such a talent. Much better than the others at this teahouse.”
“Others?” I ask.
A servant clears her throat. The two of them make eye contact.
“What did you mean, Lady Jocquard?”
“The last Belle here,” she explains.
“Lady Camellia,” the servant starts. “Your next client is here.” She leads me forward as Lady Jocquard continues to talk.
“Job well done. You can be sure I’ll tell Madam Claire,” she says as the doors close behind me.
14
The rest of the day zips by like a lightning flash. Women come with their beauty boards, attendants, and friends. I alter bodies, change hair colors and skin tones, give a man a songbird voice, erase age-lines, and try to reassure frantic courtiers about how beautiful they are. Finally, I crawl into bed, every part of me exhausted.
But my arms and legs buzz with the fervor of the day, and I can’t sleep. I thumb through hand-drawn Belle-cards, searching for mine. Portraits of my smiling sisters—and past generations of Belles—are set in circular frames.
I am in the middle of the stack. My face stares back at me: smiling eyes, a Belle-bun full of camellia petals, a rosy blush set in brown cheeks, and the Belle-emblem stamped on my chest. Beneath the picture, calligraphy script announces my full name—CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD—and my best arcana: AURA. The assignment space says CHRYSANTHEMUM TEAHOUSE.
I cover it with my thumb. I want to scratch it out and write favorite. When I turn the card left and right, my tiny portrait winks. I comb through them again, staring at my sisters’ faces, missing the sound of their laughter and the noise of their company. I linger on Amber’s, and her eyes hold a glimmer like she has a secret. Her Belle-bun looks like flames wrapped up in a bow. When you rotate her card, she smiles. I trace my finger along her mouth, wondering if she’ll ever smile at me again.
I tuck the stack under my pillow. Servants blow out all the night-lanterns in my room except for one. They close the bedcurtains. I stare up at the canopy and wait for my dreams to sweep me away. Maman always said, Dreams remind us of who we are and how we feel about the things around us. But my mind is a frantic mess of worries that pull me awake each time I drift off. Will Amber forgive me? Will I be able to help the people of Orléans discover their beauty and make my mother proud? Will I be able to accept that I’m meant to be here, instead of at the palace?
The shuffle of heeled feet and the hum of tiny cries drift through the house. I listen for a few moments, thinking it might be a servant. The cries continue.
I pull a robe from the closet, then walk to my bedroom door.
It’s locked. I wiggle the doorknob. It opens, but not from my side. A sleepy-eyed servant stares back at me. “Lady Camellia, how can I help you?”
“There’s crying. What is it?”
“I didn’t hear anything, miss.”