I unlatch my beauty caisse. The tiered compartments fan open, exposing a medley of beauty instruments tucked into nooks and crannies. I search for a place to store the pastels. I run my fingers along the ruby-red interior and discover a hidden drawer at the very bottom. A shiver of excitement rushes through my hands. How have I never seen this before?
I gently pull. It inches forward, and I wiggle it until the whole section is out. The tiny cubby holds a lace-wrapped book. I remove the fabric to find a portrait of my mother, who stares up at me from the center of the leather.
Her smile brings tears to my eyes. It’s her Belle-book. I press it to my chest and wish that somehow I could bring her back, like she could be remade from parchment and sinew and ink and memory. The binding is frayed, and the rope around its center barely holds in the contents. Her signature flowers, linneas, are embossed in gold along its spine; the paired blooms curve upside down.
I used to catch her thumbing through the book late at night when I was supposed to be asleep. I remember finally getting the courage to ask her about it. “It’s my beauty book.” She’d rubbed her weak fingers across the rope. “It has all the notes I kept while at court. You’ll start one as soon as you leave here. Never tell anyone you’ve seen mine.”
The memory brings tears to my eyes. I set her mortuary tablets on the desk.
She’s been gone for the entire warm season, and now the windy season is settling over us. We didn’t get to take the rowboats out to see the dragonflies, or walk the perimeter of the dark forest as the Belle-roses bloomed for the last time before the cold crested over them, or taste the mint from our chef’s kitchen garden, or wait for the noses of imperial ships to show up in the bayou.
Don’t cry, she’d said when the other mothers started to get sick and when a few of them died. Everything will be fine. This is the way it has always been.
I put my Belle-book beside hers. I rub my fingers across the etching of her face, then open her book. As I touch her scribbled handwriting, I imagine she’s not really gone—that she’s just out for a few days, visiting an old client that moved from court to the Gold Isles.
I close my eyes and see her before she got sick: rich, flame-colored hair; skin like dove feathers; bright emerald eyes; a tiny, mischievous smile.
I turn the page and discover a folded piece of paper marked with my name. I open it.
Camellia—
My darling, if you’re reading this letter then I know you’ve just started the most remarkable time in your life, and I am gone. Inside this book you’ll find things to help you adjust to the new challenges. Guard it. You’re not supposed to have another Belle’s beauty book. Du Barry forbids it. This was supposed to be burned along with my body. But I need you to have it. I wish my mother had given me hers. I would’ve known more. I want you to be prepared.
I have left you un miroir métaphysique, made from the magnificent crystal of the Glass Isles. It’s a mirror that always tells the truth. At court and in the teahouses, you will find that what you see and feel and hear isn’t always real. People aren’t always who they say they are. This mirror reflects the soul. Use it when you feel lost. Prick your beautiful little finger and drop the blood onto the handle, and it will show you what you need to see.
I love you, ma petit. I’m with you always. The best part of my life was the time I had with you.
With all my love,
Your maman
I wipe away a tear and take the tiny gilded mirror from the inside crease of the book. I look at the glass, but it’s blank, without a reflection. “Strange,” I say.
Miniature roses are etched into the molding, and it fits in the palm of my hand. A thin chain loops through an opening in the handle. Grooved pathways and indentations travel up and around the glass like a series of streams and rivers.
I remove a needle from my beauty caisse, but hesitate to feel the sting. I brace myself for the prick of pain as I poke the needle into my forefinger. A small bead of blood oozes out. I push my finger against the very tip of the mirror’s handle, and the blood pools inside an indentation. The liquid stretches into a long line, as if it’s a rope being tugged forward. The streak courses through the gilded grooves, headed for the glass. It snakes along, climbing higher and higher. The red stream circles the glass and bathes the little roses. They redden, and their thorny stems lengthen and twist into words: BLOOD FOR TRUTH.
The glass fills with an image of me—perfectly applied makeup, Belle-bun without a single hair out of place, eyes that smile. The mirror fogs and empties again before a new image shows. Red-rimmed eyes full of tears gaze back at me. My mouth quivers like it’s about to release a deep sob. Puffy brown cheeks are smeared with rouge and powder. My loneliness feels like a dark cloud that could be trapped and put in a jar.
I go to the vanity in my room and look in the mirror there. My makeup is intact. I gaze back down at the tiny glass and stick out my tongue, but the sad image of me doesn’t change. I cover it with my palm, trying to get rid of this heartsick feeling. I read Maman’s letter again, tracing my fingers along her words: This mirror reflects the soul.
I clean the blood from the mirror, and drape the chain over my head. The cool metal grazes my skin.
I continue to turn the pages of my mother’s beauty book, devouring everything: ink drawings, rouge-stick color smudges, flower petals, and collaged petit-paintings; beauty pamphlets, spintria prices, diagrams of women’s bodies. Well-organized handwriting blocks note lady courtiers’ names, their beauty services and secrets, and tips to tackling unforeseen treatment challenges, like stubborn moles and missing bones.
The pages make a lovely crackling sound as I study the treatment price list from her generation.
SURFACE MODIFICATIONS: HAIR COLOR 45
HAIR TEXTURE 62
EYE COLOR RESTORATION 30
EYE SHAPE ADJUSTMENT 45
SKIN COLOR RESTORATION 40
ANTI-AGING SKIN TIGHTENING 55
DEEP MODIFICATIONS:
FACE:
CHEEKBONE SCULPTING 3,000
MOUTH PLACEMENT AND SHAPE 2,275
EAR PLACEMENT AND SHAPE 2,275
BODY:
LEG AND ARM SCULPTING 3,250
STOMACH, BREAST, TORSO SCULPTING 5,100
HIPS AND REAR SHAPING 5,000
NECK AND SHOULDER SMOOTHING 2,107
HANDS AND FEET ADJUSTMENT 1,200
Du Barry will release her pricing for the season soon. It will be printed in every newspaper, plastered all over every newspaper, tattler, and pamphlet. My nail circles the little spintria symbol, and I wonder how Du Barry and the Beauty Minister quantify the price of beauty. I remember eavesdropping as a little girl while the Beauty Minister and Du Barry spoke in her office about beauty trends and body parts, and how much the masses should pay to be beautiful.
My bedroom door opens. “Lady Camellia,” a servant says.
I put the book back in the base of the beauty caisse. “Yes?”
“It’s time for your first beauty session.”
23
The morning appointment ledger shows:
Princess Sabine Rotenberg, House of Orléans (du sang) 09:00
Lady Marcella Le Brun, House of Millinery 10:15
Baroness Juliette Aubertin, House of Rouen 11:15