The Beauty Minister sighs. “The favorite gets what the favorite wants.” She leads Ivy, Rémy, and me out of the apartments, on the long walk to the princess’s chambers. But the trip feels shorter this time. Servants move in and out of the doors, carrying trays and baskets. Laughter escapes into the hall.
“Sounds like she’s in a good mood. This bodes well for the day.” The Beauty Minister checks her tiny pocket hourglass. “Her toilette ritual is set to begin in just a moment. You’re right on time.”
“You’re not staying?” Panic crackles inside me.
“No, my dear. Not today. You must bond with Princess Sophia. Soon you will be completing all the beauty work for the entire family.” She knocks on the doors. “Just be your charming self. And you have Ivy here to help, and Rémy will be right outside.”
“Not that he’s any comfort,” I whisper.
Ivy thumps my arm. Rémy glowers at me.
“Now, now,” she says. “That’s not what he’s trained for.”
A servant opens the massive set of doors. I squeeze my hands together to keep them from shaking, and hold my head high.
The Beauty Minister steps inside. I follow, with Ivy on my heels.
The boudoir is a jeweled caisse: all pink, cream, and gold, with the scent of roses wafting through the air, and three crystal chandeliers. Jeweled beauty-lanterns sail overhead, dusting the room with the perfect amount of light. Courtiers mill in and out of an adjacent tea salon, loitering until the ceremony begins.
The details of a proper toilette ritual for a queen and princess took weeks and weeks of studying and endless days of exams from Du Barry. But the particulars of those lessons vanish from my memory as I soak in the enormity of this room. Alive with movement, teams of servants lug large sofas and toilette tables and gold-tiered stands of macarons and tarts. They arrange items on beautiful brocade cloths under the careful watch of a trio of well-dressed ladies. Lavish necklaces coil around their throats like collars, displaying their house emblems. Each emblem contains a chrysanthemum twisted inside the symbol of their high house to represent their relationship to the royal family.
They turn their attention to us. A flush climbs up my entire body. They whisper behind fans and glance at me. I tell my heart to slow down.
At the back of the room, a large screen is hooked around the silhouette of a claw-foot bathtub. A waist-high barrier isolates it from the rest of the space.
“Your Highness,” the Beauty Minister calls out.
“Yes, Madam Minister,” the princess’s voice echoes.
“I have the new favorite, Lady Camellia Beauregard, here.” She pulls me in front of her and drums her red-polished nails on my shoulders. “And the rest of the noble crowd eagerly waits outside your doors.”
Water sloshes as the princess climbs from the tub. Servants rush to her. The screen is removed. Flushed pink and tangled in a web of towels, she’s dressed in a bathing gown and doesn’t look like the Imperial Princess, heir to the House of Orléans. She looks more like a little girl ready to play dress-up. Her appearance is different again—pale white as a snowflake, with hair almost a mirroring shade, and bright blue eyes. She smiles sweetly at me. I relax a little. Everything will be fine.
The princess waves me forward. I lean over the barriers and she kisses both my cheeks, leaving a warm wetness behind. “So nice to see you again.”
I bow all the way to the floor. “Happy birthday, Your Highness.”
“Thank you,” she says.
The Beauty Minister clears her throat. “I will leave you here, Camellia, to get acquainted and witness the toilette ritual that only befits a princess and future queen. I’ll see you later this evening for the royal games and banquet.” The boudoir doors open, the Beauty Minister disappears, and a swarm of women floods inside.
I study them: most are princesses from the royal family—nieces of the king and queen—and a few girls and women from high houses. When courtiers receive their appointments, their portraits fill every newspaper and beauty pamphlet. The monarchs shower favored families with land, titles, gifts, and notoriety.
“Pay close attention,” Ivy whispers to me before slinking backward into the growing pack of onlookers.
The women organize themselves by rank and wait patiently for their roles to begin. A few men squeeze into the group.
A massive vanity is carried into the center of the room. Large mirrors reflect the beauty-lantern light. Enameled caisses expose glistening Belle-products, crested with rich, sparkling Belle-emblems. Glass canisters hold colorful liquids. Golden pins poke out of a pink velvet cushion. Carts hold tiers of pastries frosted in rose-petal pinks and pearly whites and apple reds, flutes overflow with jewel-tone liquids, and sugar-dusted strawberries and pomegranates sit in glass bowls. Vases spill over with flowers in a rainbow of colors.
Sophia is led to a cushioned seat before the vanity. The towel on her head writhes. Out pops a teacup monkey.
“Singe,” she cries out. “How’d you get in there?”
The tiny monkey jumps from table to table as servants attempt to catch him. The ladies-of-honor screech until he’s safely returned to his small golden cage.
“Why must you have that creature with us in the boudoir?” one of her ladies says.
“Singe has a mind of his own,” Sophia replies.
“The femme de chamber,” an attendant calls out. A petite woman steps forward with an open book in her shaky hands.
Sophia gazes down into the pages of wardrobe choices. She plucks a sparkly pin from the cushion and pushes it into the pages. She does this three times. The group of women oohh and ahh at her selections. A maid shuffles in with a screen. Sophia steps behind it and disrobes, dropping the wet bathing chemise on the floor.
Servants bring in her garden dress, parading it in front of the onlookers, who fawn over it.
The attendant steps forward. “Lady Gabrielle, princess du sang, and first lady-of-honor to Her Royal Highness, please step forward.”
Sophia’s dress is handed to Lady Gabrielle, who ducks behind the screen.
“Camellia, my ladies will introduce themselves, won’t you, girls?” Sophia calls out.
Lady Gabrielle steps into view once more. Her eyes are bright, her skin the color of the warm fudge my sisters and I used to steal from the kitchen.
“I am Lady Gabrielle Lamballe, a princess du sang, from the House of Orléans. Her favorite cousin.” She throws the room a smile. “I am the superintendent and first lady-of-honor. I call myself Lady of All Things.”
“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” I say as I curtsy.
From lessons on royal society, I know Gabrielle advises the princess and oversees the other ladies.
“Seeing you up close, you really are quite beautiful. The papers were right, for once.” Gabrielle stares me up and down. “Most Belles are incredibly boring. Like the last one. What was her name again?”
“Her name was Ambrosia,” I say. The words sound too hard. Too protective.
Gabrielle recoils like I’ve poked her.
“We call her Amber,” I add to soften it.
“Yes. Amber. Dull as plain vanilla.” Gabrielle smirks. “You look like you might be entertaining.”