“My nerves were a mess. I did everything Maman . . .” Her voice breaks in half.
I lace my fingers through hers, and they look like twists of butterscotch and vanilla. Amber’s sadness is painted all over her. I bury my own. We both did what our mothers told us to do.
“You did great. Your girl’s hair had perfect ringlets. Maman Iris would’ve been so proud.” At home, Amber lived next door to me on the seventh floor. Her maman would set up tea parties with sugar cakes and marzipan rose creams just for us. Despite the fact that we were thirteen, and a little too old for it, I loved them. I’ll always remember when Maman Iris taught us how to use the bei-powder bundles, and how the chalk-white sprinkles made her skin look like dried-out dirt.
In our Belle-trunks, little stone mortuary tablets are packed alongside our dresses, in memory of our mothers.
“Amber, you did wonderfully.”
“Liar,” Amber says. “You didn’t even watch. I could see you. You had your eyes closed.” She elbows me.
She’s always seen right through me.
“I saw her after you were done.” I’ll sneak a newsreel and watch the whole thing later.
My few childhood memories have Amber in them: tiptoeing into Du Barry’s chambers to see what size brassiere she wore, hiding out in the nursery where people brought infants for their first transformations, placing bei-powder in our playroom mistress’s tea just to see her spit it out, pushing all the lift buttons to get to the restricted floors, breaking into the Belle-product storeroom to test all the latest concoctions. We’ve shared our friendship for so long, I can’t pinpoint when it first started.
“Look at the sky.” I wave above our heads. “It’s different here than at home.” No cypress trees blocking the stars. No hum of bayou crickets or the bleating of frogs. No tiny curling bars on the house windows. No thick northern clouds; just a clear stretch out to the ends of the world.
“The queen was supposed to stand up after my exhibition, Camille. So I would know. So everyone would know. Maman told me I had to be the favorite. There’s no point in being anything else.”
My chest tightens. We were told the same thing. I feel selfish for wanting to be better than her, and all my sisters.
“She didn’t stand up for me either,” I remind her. And myself. “I know you did well, even if I didn’t see it.”
“Yes, but you were spectacular!” She throws up her hands. “I’ve never seen you perform like that.”
“And you were just as good, so stop it.”
“We all did what we were told to do. What was in our dossiers. Except you. Turning the little girl into your mirror image—so clever. And, I didn’t even think to use my ambrosia flower as a little cocoon. It really heightened everything. Made it such a reveal. None of that crossed my mind. Which is my problem. I don’t do the unexpected. You take the rules as suggestions, and go beyond.” She balls up her fists. “Just change their hair and skin color.” She parrots Du Barry’s nasal-toned voice. “Nothing more. Anything else is a waste. . . .” She covers her face with her hands. “It was a show, and you understood that.”
“I made the cocoon so she’d stop squirming,” I say, not wanting her to know that I’d spent a lot of time thinking about how to be better than her, better than everyone. I reach to squeeze her hand, but she moves it to fuss with a flower that’s threatening to drop from her bun. I remind her how she never struggles with the arcana. She earns high marks on each challenge Du Barry assigns. Based on lesson grades, Amber’s the top of our generation, always getting perfect scores from Du Barry. If the decision were based on that, she’d be chosen easily.
“If we could’ve shown the first arcana, I know they would’ve all seen more of your skills,” I say. Amber is exceptional at Manner. She’s able to soften even the voice of a teacup monkey, make the most oafish person charming, and give someone any talent they desire—cooking, dancing, playing the lute or a stringed misen—as easily as donning a different dress.
“I was supposed to be the best. I was supposed to be named the favorite.”
“We all want to be the favorite,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you think I know that?”
Her tone feels like a slap. She’s never spoken to me like this before.
“Ambrosia! Camellia! You know the rules.” Du Barry hitches up an eyebrow. “You’re too old for reminders.”
Amber moves two paces away, and that tiny space feels like the width of an ocean. We’re not supposed to show favoritism with one another. We’re all sisters. We’re all supposed to be equally close. But I’ve always loved Amber a little more than the others. And she, me.
Amber flashes irritated eyes at me. I don’t understand her anger. We are, each of us, in the exact same place right now. Shouldn’t we support one another?
Once Du Barry turns her back, I move close to her again and touch her hand, wanting to fix whatever just broke between us. She brushes away and cuts to the front of the group to stand near Du Barry. I deflate like a post-balloon that’s lost its air, but I don’t follow her.
We cross a series of small golden bridges that crest over the Golden Palace River. Newsies lean out of charcoal-black newsboats with their light-boxes, trying to capture portraits of us. Their animated quills scratch against parchment pads at lightning speed. They shout our names and ask us who we think will be chosen as the favorite.
“You’re a little late to place your bets, gentlemen. You’ll get no hints here,” the Beauty Minister calls out.
We cross the final bridge and stand before the royal palace. The pink marble building stretches up with turrets so high that if you climbed one, you might be able to whisper to the God of the Sky. Sugary white and gold trim each layer. My sisters and I glance up, and it feels like we’re all holding our collective breath.
I lift my skirts and trail the group up a massive staircase, losing count after one hundred steps. The click-clack of our feet pushes my heart to beat faster. At the top, the front door opens like a great mouth, and the grand entry hall swallows us. Jeweled chandelier-lanterns drop from the high ceiling, like spiders with bellies full of candlelight. The walls hold beautiful marble carvings of the stars. I want to run my fingers over them, to feel the grooves, but I can’t reach them through the row of guards at our sides.
We enter a new hallway. The ceiling paintings change as we pass. Animated frescoes arrange and rearrange into different celestial scenes: the gods and goddesses, an everlasting rose, the kings and queens of old, the islands of Orléans, the heavens. I almost fall while trying to crane my neck to look up at them.
“The Belle apartments are in the north wing,” Du Barry informs us.