The door creaks open.
I hear the soft patter of approaching feet, the whisper of echoing voices. The bedcurtains flutter. My heart knocks against my chest, wanting out. Sweat soaks my gown.
“Lady Camellia,” a voice calls in.
I press my eyes closed.
She jostles my shoulder. I don’t move.
“She’s not waking up,” she whispers to someone else. The woman tiptoes back to the door. “Tell Madam Claire she’s fast asleep.”
I wait for them to go, trying to calm my breath. When all is silent I slide out of bed again and go back to the wall panel.
“Bree,” I whisper.
The door panel creaks open.
“Yes, Lady Camellia. What’s wrong?”
“Are there other Belles in this teahouse?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I saw one.”
“One of your sisters?”
“No, someone else.”
“A big sister?”
“I know every big sister. I’ve memorized everything about them. This was someone else. Someone I’ve never seen before. Her face was mutilated. Her name is Delphine. Can you help me find out about her?”
“Of course.”
A heavy knock pounds the door. “Camellia,” Madam Claire’s voice calls out.
“I don’t want to talk to Madam Claire until I find out what’s going on. Tell her I’m a hard sleeper. One who doesn’t wake easily once in bed. Blame it on the use of my arcana. Quick.”
I slip back into bed and cover myself completely with the covers. Bree hustles forward to the door.
Bree and Madam Claire exchange a series of frenzied whispers.
I lie frozen as Madam Claire inspects me. I hold my breath until I hear the door lock again.
15
Warm days turn chilly, and the trees around the teahouse start to blaze in brilliant shades of gold and orange and red. Madam Claire is always fussing about money, and wanting to compete with the other teahouses for the most business. Clicks from her ivory and cardinal-beaded abacus fill the main hall each morning, and the banging noises of her spintria safes fill each evening. Yet the morning and afternoon ledgers stay impossibly full. She hosts late parties every night. Laughter coils around the chandelier-lanterns, racing along each balcony, only to be undercut by the melody of sobs and cries.
I ask Madam Claire about the other Belles at the teahouse at least once a day, and she sweeps away my questions like dust from a tea table. “Nonsense; you are the Belle of this teahouse.” But the sounds of sliding doors, carriage wheels, and tiny footsteps drift through the house, and each time I leave my room to explore, a servant returns me to where I’m supposed to be.
I think about that Belle’s face and wonder if she was really and truly a Belle. I wonder if Madam Claire is trying to deceive others besides just me. I wish my sisters were here to help me figure it out—especially Amber. If we were home, she would’ve launched a full-scale plan with lookouts and maps and secret meetings. I follow Amber in the papers to feel closer to her, but the stories are confounding.
FAVORITE DAZZLES COURT WITH HER MANNER ARCANA
LADIES COMPLAIN OF THE FAVORITE’S COLOR CHOICES
LADY AMBROSIA RESTORES A MAN’S
FACE AFTER PERILOUS ACCIDENT
THE FAVORITE CAUGHT CRYING AT A COURTIER LUNCHEON
NEED CHARM? THE FAVORITE CAN GIVE YOU
ANY DISPOSITION YOU’VE EVER WANTED
The tattlers and scandal sheets show pictures of a scowling Amber sitting beside the princess.
I think about her every day. I write her a dozen letters that I rip up after finishing, and prepare a dozen post-balloons that I don’t have the courage to send. Stupidly, I wait for a palace post-balloon from her. I check the teahouse mailroom every day, hoping to see their lilac forms.
I receive post-balloons from all my sisters except Amber:
Camille,
The new Belle babies are here. They have sweet little cheeks and tiny cries. You must come home and see them if you can.
Have you started in on our list? Seen all the sights we planned when we were little?
You’re missed.
Love,
Valerie
Camille,
Amber’s been writing to me. She’s having a hard time. I hope you wrote to her, too. Or better yet, try to go visit her.
Love,
Padma
Camille,
One of the little Belle babies looks just like you. She even has the freckle underneath your right eye and the dimple in your cheek.
Their portraits are being painted tomorrow. I’ll steal one of the duplicates and send it to you.
They’re growing so fast. It’s been a week since they were born and they already look like three-year-olds. Did you know we grew so fast?
Love,
Valerie
Camille,
Du Barry didn’t tell us it would be this hard. I’m so tired. Madam Alieas works me for hours and hours. She won’t even let me go into Laussat to explore or see any of the Fire Isles.
We are not blessed by the Goddess of Beauty. We are cursed.
I don’t want to do this.
Edel
Camille,
I can’t sleep. There are so many noises at the Glass Teahouse—crying and screaming late into the night. No one will tell me what’s going on. I’ve never wanted to go home so badly. We always wanted to leave Maison Rouge de la Beauté, and now I just want to go back.
What’s it like at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse?
Hana
I write them back, and I tell Hana that I’ve heard the noises here too, and I’ve seen what looked like another Belle. I send magenta post-balloons out my window.
The days fill with the monotony of lonely work: breakfast, beauty appointments, lunch, more beauty appointments, dinner, dropping off spintria pouches to Madam Claire’s office, a visit from the nurses with the sangsues, and to bed, only to listen to the late-night noises of parties and crying.
This morning the house buzzes with more activity than ever. Every house-lantern has been lit—morning, dusk, and night ones—every chaise and chair fluffed, every door opened to expose the currant red and fuchsia and rich butter yellow of the rooms beyond.
I lean over the balcony outside my room, peering down into the grand foyer. I tiptoe down the grand staircase unnoticed. The melody of preparation hides my footsteps: clinking glass, the jingle of silver cutlery, the clack of porcelain dishes, the grunts and whispers of the servants.
The breakfast veranda is open. Sunlight and a persistent breeze push inside. The golden noses of imperial carriages peek out of the trees surrounding the teahouse. Important people must be somewhere in the house. A servant ushers me to the only seat at the table. I long for the round table at home, complete with my sisters. Plates of petit-waffles, boiled eggs, tiny quiches, grape clusters, and sweet luna pastries are placed in front of me.
I pick over the food. Valerie would love these little waffles, and Hana likes anything and everything with eggs. Amber would’ve asked for a snowmelon. Padma would’ve frowned at the slices of steak shaped like stars. Edel would’ve been difficult and asked for something different—an omelet or sweet toast.
Newspapers rest in stacks. Their headlines pulse and flicker across the pages, calling my attention.