“I’m never afraid,” he says.
It’s strange to hear an unfamiliar voice. A boy’s voice. A buzzy feeling settles under my skin. The only other boy I’ve spoken to outside of a treatment salon was the son of Madam Alain, House Glaston, who I caught in the Belle storeroom powdering his face and smothering his lips with rouge-sticks while waiting for his mother to finish her treatments. He wanted to be a Belle. We were eleven and had laughed more than we’d talked.
This boy is more of a young man. Du Barry taught us to fear men and boys outside the confines of a treatment salon. But I’m not scared. “Who are you? You’re not wearing an emblem,” I say.
“I’m no one.” His mouth lifts in the corner. He moves forward, closing the gap between us. He carries the scent of the ocean, and watches me with such interest, it’s as if he’s touching me. “But if you want to know so badly, feel free to have a look at my name. I’ll even unbutton my shirt so you can see the ink better.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. At birth, Orléans citizens are marked with permanent imperial identification ink that not even Belles can cover up or erase. Even if you cut out the skin, the ink will rise again from the blood. Most wear their emblems on their clothing, near the spot where they’re marked.
I watch him with newfound curiosity: the way he tucks the fallen strand of hair behind his ear, the few freckles he has on his nose, how he adjusts his jacket. “Where did you come from?”
“The Lynx.”
“I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“They must not teach you much.”
I scoff. “I’ve had an excellent education. Is it in the south?”
“It’s in the harbor.” He grins. “My boat.”
So he was trying to make me feel stupid.
“You’re rude.” I start to walk away. The argument between Edel and Du Barry is dying down in the distance.
“Wait! I just wanted to see if the newsies were right.” His eyes are a cedar brown, the color of the trees that grow out of the Rose Bayou waters at home. Navy emblems twinkle on his jacket like newly minted leas coins from the Imperial Bank.
“Right about what?”
“They say that you can create a person from clay with your arcana, like magic.”
I laugh. “Like a court magician paid to entertain royal children with fireworks and tricks?” The newsies always call what we do magic, but Maman said the word is too simple an explanation for the arcana.
“So, can you?” He fusses with his cravat until it loosens, and the silk tumbles down his chest like a spill of orange champagne.
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“How does it?” His eyes burn with questions as he takes another step forward.
My heart hitches. “Don’t come any closer.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to murder me?”
“There are laws,” I remind him. “And maybe I should.”
“You follow those?”
“Sometimes.” I fuss with the ruffles of my dress. “It’s forbidden for men to be alone with Belles outside the confines of beauty appointments, or to speak to them unless the conversation relates to beauty work.”
“And what of women? They can be just as dangerous, if not more.”
“The same applies. We’re not to fraternize with non-Belles.”
“Why all the fuss? It seems silly, if you ask me.” He smiles like he already knows the answer.
“Bad things have happened in the past.”
“But they don’t always have to.” He rubs his chin as he studies me. “You don’t seem like a rule-follower.”
A blush rises to my cheeks. “You have a keen eye.”
“I’m a sailor. I have to—”
“Camellia!” Du Barry calls out. “What are you doing back there?”
I flinch at the sound of my name and pivot around. “Coming!” I shout.
The guard returns.
I turn back. “Who are you?”
But the boy is gone. The guard gives me a pointed look, but I rush to the palace gates anyway and look left and right.
Nothing.
“Camellia!” Du Barry shouts again.
I go to the opposite side of my carriage.
Nothing.
Already the memory of the boy feels like a dream you try to remember the very first moment you wake up. Fuzzy, wispy, and out of reach.
5
The Beauty Minister opens the southern gate, prancing forward in a body-length mink coat. She pets the fur with her red-tipped nails; peacock feathers are woven into her dark hair. She points up. A gold-and-white post-balloon dances over her head. The House of Orléans’s emblem blazes on its side. The queen’s personal post correspondence.
“Welcome, my lovelies; I am Rose Bertain, House Orléans, and Royal Beauty Minister to our great kingdom. I have a message from Her Majesty.” She slices the back of the balloon with a hooked letter opener. Glowing sparks spray from its rear. She pulls out a tiny scroll boasting the queen’s wax seal.
She breaks and unravels it, then reads:
“My Dearest Belles,
Welcome to my home and the capital of your beloved kingdom. Each one of you was so beautiful tonight. I think the Goddess of Beauty watched proudly from the heavens above. I look forward to determining the best placement for you. Thank you for your divine service to this land. May you always find beauty.
– HRM Queen Celeste Elisabeth the Third, by the Grace of the Gods of the Kingdom of Orléans and Her Other Realms and Territories, Defender of Beauty and Borders.”
I hold my breath until the Beauty Minister finishes reading the queen’s title.
“Shall we go inside?” she says.
“Yes,” Valerie blurts out a little too loudly. We all laugh. Her light brown skin turns pink.
Du Barry and the Beauty Minister lead us forward onto the imperial grounds. Guards flank our sides. We walk down a sloping promenade and along curving pathways, headed for the palace.
Night-lanterns wander overhead, leaving footprints of light in front of us. I pass by bright green lawns and ornate trees trimmed into shapes favored by the gods, flowerbeds that burst with scarlet Belle-roses and snowy lilies shimmering like blankets of red and white stardust. Royal beasts parade along the grass—cerulean peacocks, rosy teacup flamingos, and fire-red phoenixes.
Amber looks back at me. I stick my tongue out and race up to her. “You did so well,” she whispers.
I try to pluck a flying bug from the waist-sash around her sunset-orange gown. She sweeps it up and sets it free.
“So did you.”
Her pale nose scrunches. The angles of her face curve into a perfect heart shape. Her complexion is as smooth and delicate as a piece of the fine porcelain from the formal dining salon at home. The Belle-makeup she wears makes her skin look even whiter. A slight wind pulls her ginger hair out of place. Her high bun looks like a split peach on account of the color. “I messed up with the skin. It turned out too bright.” Her eyes shimmer with tears.
“It was fine.” I trip over my dress skirts, but she catches me. I feel so light and so tired from using the arcana.