The other girls gape and point at her in awe. I name my little subject Holly, after the flower that can survive even the coldest Orléans snows and still remain lovely. The crowd thunders with applause. The excited rumble fills up every part of me.
She gazes at the reflections of herself, and her mouth falls open. She twirls around like a spinning toy, gazing at her arms, legs, and feet. She touches her face and hair. The blimps drop new screens that capture her image. Her look will only last a month before she fades back to gray. But in this moment, no one thinks about that.
After Holly’s picture appears in the paper and on the newsreels, I hope a childless lady adopts her. I want her life to change so much she won’t recognize it anymore. The people of Orléans love beautiful things. She’s now one of them, ready to be collected.
Her eyes find mine again. They spill over with happy shock, and she curtsies.
I gaze down at my sisters. The moon winks light across the carriages. They stare up at me with heavy eyelids and tired expressions, but clap and wave. Each one of us looks different from the next: Edel is as white as the flowers surrounding her, Padma’s black Belle-bun catches the light, Hana’s eyes are bright and slope in a beautiful curve, Amber’s copper hair looks like curling flames, Valerie’s figure is like the beautiful brass hourglasses Du Barry turns over to time us when we practice the arcana. We’re the only ones in Orléans born unique and full of color.
The crowd shouts a Belle-blessing: “La beauté est la vie.”
The queen lifts a golden spyglass and stares at me and Holly like we’re bugs trapped in bell jars.
The world goes silent.
My breath catches in my throat. I clasp my hands.
The queen sets the spyglass in her lap, and she claps. Her jeweled rings sparkle like tiny stars caught between her elegant fingers.
My heart thuds to the beat of her applause. It might burst with excitement.
She leans to her right, whispering into the ear of the Royal Minister of Beauty. Courtiers lift ear-trumpets, eager to catch any words they can. I wish I could do the same.
The Beauty Minister rises to stand beside Du Barry, and the two of them converse. I’m too far away to read their lips. The princess’s fan freezes in front of her. She glares at me so hard, it burns deep in my chest.
Du Barry motions for me to bow. I press myself all the way to the carriage floor to thank the queen and the Beauty Minister and the crowd for watching my exhibition. My chest heaves as I wait the customary minute to show the utmost level of respect. The queen must’ve whispered good things about me. That’s what I tell myself.
“One more round of applause for Camellia Beauregard!” Du Barry announces. “And for all the new Belles. Before the appearance of the evening star tomorrow, as tradition demands, all will know the name of the favorite. Until then, happy guessing and wagering. May you always find beauty.”
Women and men wave their gambling tokens in the air. The kingdom’s lotteries try to profit from being the first to know the favorite, readying women to cash in any royal tokens earned from the queen for a chance to dine, socialize, or even have a beauty service completed at the palace by the favorite Belle.
Blimps release little Belle-cards that feature our portraits. They shower from the heavens like rain. A smile fills my entire body. I look for my own, but I can’t make out a single detail among the flurry.
My platform lowers. The little girls watch me descend. They hop and jump and wave. The imperial attendants place me, glass carriage and all, back on the wheeled base. The crowd whistles even louder. Fireworks streak across the night sky, creating the emblem of the Belles—a golden fleur-de-lis, with a red rose twisting around its center like a ribbon of blood.
New silhouette banners sail overhead, reminding future customers of our names and faces. For a brief moment, I spot myself high above, my face massive and full of light. My eyes look clever, my smile sly. Well done, little fox, Maman would say if she could see me now. I feel like one of the famed courtiers depicted in the beauty-scopes or painted on Trianon’s promenades and avenue boards.
The previous generation of Belles stands up onstage. They throw their Belle-roses at our carriages. The roses burst open in full bloom, their petals as big as porcelain plates. I wave at the crowd.
I want to stay forever.
4
I used to believe my sisters and I were princesses living in a palace at Maison Rouge de la Beauté. I loved the house’s pointed roof, the four wings, the endless balconies and their gilded railings and silvery spindles, the soaring ceilings full of house-lanterns, the coral-pink salons and wine-red chambers and champagne-blush parlors, the legions of servants and nurses.
But none of it compares to Orléans’s royal palace.
The carriages sit before the southern gate like a series of pomegranates dipped in honey and lined up on a tray. Red velvet covers cloak the glass. Brass handles and glistening wheels sparkle under the night-lanterns. I press my face against the gate. The outline of the palace shines in the distance, stretching out in so many directions it has no beginning or end.
I don’t join my sisters just yet. Du Barry fusses with Edel. I linger near my carriage at the very tail of the procession, wanting a moment to myself. The excitement of the carnaval wraps around me like a pair of arms. Maman’s arms.
An imperial guard patrols just a few feet away. He walks back and forth in circular motions, like one of the wind-up soldiers in our childhood playroom. My legs tremble and my arms shake. I might be exhausted, or still exhilarated. Perhaps both.
The roars of the crowd in the Royal Square taper off, like the winds of a storm drifting out to sea. The blimps and festival-lanterns leave light streaking through the night. It holds the promise of something new.
We will sleep here. The queen will announce the favorite tomorrow afternoon. Everything will change.
“You were better than expected,” a voice says.
A boy leans against the outside of the gates. His jacket and pants blend into the night, but his bright persimmon cravat burns like a flame in the dark. He doesn’t wear a house emblem to identify himself. He scratches the top of his head, loosening his hair from the short knot he wears it in. His smile shines like moonlight, and the soft glow of the night-lanterns smoothes out the hard edges of his pale white face.
I look for the guard. He’s gone.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in just a minute. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“ You should be afraid. Not me,” I say. He could be arrested and spend years in the palace dungeons for being alone with me. Two months ago, the queen put a man in a starvation box in the Royal Square for trying to kiss Daisy, the Belle at the Fire Teahouse. His portrait filled the newspapers and télétrope newsreels. After he died, the guards left his body, and then the sea buzzards carried it off in pieces.