A young man kneels beside the Beauty Minister, head down, sword at his waist.
“Camellia, the queen has assigned you a personal guard.” The Beauty Minister reaches out a hand to me. “This is Rémy Chevalier, son of Christophe Chevalier, and a member of the Minister of War’s First Guard.”
He stands, towering over us with broad shoulders and muscles that strain the seams of his uniform. The hard angles of his face have the deep richness of a black calla lily. His lips don’t betray the faintest hint of a smile; rather, they’re frozen in a perpetual scowl. A scar hooks under his right eye like a crescent moon, and I wonder why he hasn’t allowed a Belle to erase it for him. Dark hair is cut closely to his scalp with a single silver stripe down the very center, marking him as a soldier from the House of War.
I nod at him. He doesn’t look me in the eye, choosing to stare at some point above my head.
“He’s been trained to protect you. He is one of Orléans’s finest soldiers. He graduated from the Royal Military Academy with the highest honors. First in his class. Rumor has it he’s favored by the Minister of War himself, and might succeed him one day. He helped put down the Silk Rebellion, commandeered his own men. Very decorated soldier at such a young age.”
He bows after the Beauty Minister’s compliment, but still doesn’t look at me.
“And now he’s here to look after me like I’m a baby?” I say. “Don’t you think it’s a waste of his talents?”
The Beauty Minister laughs and touches my shoulder as if I’m purposefully being funny. “You’re a very important person. Only a talented soldier would be entrusted with your care.”
A muscle in Rémy’s jaw clenches. I wait for his expression to change. Nothing.
“Now, Rémy will accompany you everywhere you need to go, and stand guard outside the Belle apartments at all times. Be sure to heed his instructions.”
“I hardly find that necess—” I start to say, but Ivy reaches forward to squeeze my hand.
“The favorite is always given a proper guard, Camellia. It is tradition, and we are nothing without our beloved customs.” The minister snaps her fingers at a nearby servant. The girl leaps into action. “By all means, move slowly. It’s not as if I have a packed schedule.” The woman rushes forward to drape a white mink coat around the minister, whose blue eyes burn into mine. “I’m not happy to be going through all of this for a second time, so please cooperate, will you? Ivy will give you a palace tour.” She blows air kisses at me, then leaves.
“Come on,” Ivy says.
We walk into the corridor outside the Belle apartments. The Beauty Minister heads in the opposite direction with her entourage.
I steal glances back at Rémy. Irritation and annoyance knot in my stomach. I don’t want a guard. I don’t want another person telling me what to do.
“Stop letting them know how you feel about things. No one cares,” Ivy says.
“Them?”
“You let everyone see you so easily. No one needs to know that you don’t want a guard. Nobody wants to be followed around all day. Not even the queen.”
Her words feel like a scold. “I just don’t—”
“You are now the kingdom’s most important treasure. There are so many things you don’t understand yet. But I will show you.”
Rémy’s heavy footsteps clomp behind us. Morning-lanterns drift through the halls, catching sunlight from long picture windows to carry through darker corridors.
“You are in the north wing of the palace. The Belle apartments face the morning star, the eye of the Goddess of Beauty,” Ivy says.
The hall outside the Belle apartments stretches like a great river I never want to stop floating on. Colorful portraits of the Goddess of Beauty in her various forms cover the walls. Smooth marble floors spread out beneath our feet. The light from jeweled chandelier-lanterns dusts statues with beautiful silhouettes.
She leads me over a glittering walkway. Golden spindles curl into royal chrysanthemums. The palace floors below bustle with moving bodies. Balconies spill over with flowers, chatty men and women, and servants darting from one place to another. Royal vendors push pastry carts that leave buttery and sugary scents in every corner.
“Did you have a guard?”
“Yes. A soldier named émilie.”
“Where is she now?”
“Shipped off to the Spice Isles to protect the southern waters, now that I’m no longer such a valued asset,” she says, then turns left.
We pass through a series of imperial guard checkpoints. Ivy salutes one of the sentries. He smiles at her. “They aren’t so bad once you get to know them.” She moves beneath a golden archway. “This is the west wing of the palace. The residential homes of the royal family are here.”
Guards line the walls like statues.
“This is the Hall of Kings and Queens.” She waves her hands at massive, gold-framed portraits of our many royals, from the very first ruler of Orléans, Queen Marjorie, all the way down to the current queen, Celeste.
We turn right. Walls sparkle with golden plaques that showcase the imperial beauty laws. “This is the Hall of Law and Justice.”
We pass by thousands of plaques, each emblazoned with ornate script.
FINGERS AND TOES SHALL REMAIN AT A TEN-DIGIT
COUNT SO AS TO PRESERVE THE GODDESS OF
BEAUTY’S FAVORITE NUMBER. BELLES SHALL ADD
OR SUBTRACT TO MEET THIS DIVINE NUMBER.
BREASTS WILL BE LIMITED IN SIZE AND SHAPE—
NO LARGER THAN A SNOWMELON.
MIMICRY IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
Du Barry had tested us on these laws until we could recite them on command. The flock must always be guided, and the laws keep their bodies safe. They are not to be questioned. They maintain a sacred order, she’d said.
I stop to read more.
NO MAN SHALL BE TALLER THAN THE SITTING KING.
AFTER CORONATION, ROYAL MONARCHS
MUST SETTLE INTO ONE LOOK TO PRESERVE THE SECURITY
AND SANCTITY OF THE MAGNANIMOUS THRONE.
“Did you help pass the current beauty laws?” I graze my fingers across the cool metal and etched calligraphy.
Ivy turns around. “No, I wasn’t consulted.”
“I want to be part of it all.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” I say. “I want to make the people of Orléans love themselves.”
Ivy continues down the hall. “You are here to make things beautiful,” she says.
“I know,” I reply. “But—”
“The princess’s chambers are ahead,” Ivy says.
Servants move in and out of a set of doors carrying trays and baskets. The princess’s emblem shines on the rich wood—a chrysanthemum blooming inside a jeweled petit-crown. Several other ladies hover outside.
The hall goes silent. Courtiers crowd on both sides of me. Ivy and I pass through the heavy silence like it’s thick mud. Their faces are curious, and behind their smiles is a reminder: they all want something from me.
“I’m supposed to prepare you to serve Princess Sophia.”
“I studied a lot about her, reading papers and beauty pamphlets, even the tattlers. I stole them from Du Barry’s mail chest—”
Ivy presses a finger to my mouth.
“Not a single word you’ve read could prepare you for the real thing.”