“No,” I say.
We race around squealing, scattering like beautiful marbles cast in all directions. I follow one of the perfume blimps down a hall. Gold-framed portraits of past favorites line the walls. I stop in front of my mother’s. Her bright eyes stare back at me. I imagine her drifting from room to room. I imagine her creating one beautiful person after another. I imagine my face beside hers.
I step into a chamber. By the look of the space, it must be a treatment salon: a series of cabinets stretch to the ceiling with drawer labels like ROSE CREAM, SWANSDOWN PUFFS, OILS, and POMADES; portraits and canvases sit on easels; ladders click left and right as servants stock supplies; cases hold pigment-paste pots in every skin color imaginable; baskets contain bundles of candles and wax blocks and pastille cakes and metal instruments; a potbellied stove lurks in the distant corner, boasting trays of hot irons and steam curlers; a large table is covered with fluffy pillows and towels.
Hana peeks her head in. “Camille, c’mon,” she says. She drags me out.
The Beauty Minister leads the group through another set of doors. “This way, my girls. Here’s the sleeping chamber.” Six canopied four-poster beds are lined up and draped with rich tapestries the color of our signature flowers. The floor is covered in plush rugs. A fireplace roars with light and warmth. “The extra beds will be removed, of course, after the naming of the favorite.” She walks ahead again and two doors open, leading us outside onto a terraced balcony. The royal beach sits below; the waters of La Mer du Roi are crashing along the shore, and imperial ships drift down the coastline. Some ships are docked at the palace pier—alive with light and late-night merchants and markets. Du Barry hovers behind us.
It’s better than I ever imagined, better than I dreamed. Behind us, the golden tops of three palace pavilions catch the moonlight.
“I daresay this is one of the best views in the whole palace,” the Beauty Minister declares before leading us back inside. She points down a hallway. “The bathing onsens are toward the end of that corridor, and the treatment salons and recovery rooms.”
“How many in total?” Padma asks.
“Eight grand apartments, all interconnected. Many years ago, the queen would invite the teahouse Belles to come here for treatment parties. She would provide beauty services for her favorite courtiers, and they’d try out new trends and experiments. They were quite the affair.”
We follow her back to the main salon.
“Each and every favorite has stayed here. This is truly hallowed ground,” she says.
I shiver, thinking about Maman walking through these rooms.
I envision how I will make the apartments my own: by replacing the white candles with beeswax ones for a honeyed scent; swapping out heavy drapes with thinner curtains to welcome the sun; having the bed moved closer to the balcony doors so the ocean sounds can help me drift off to sleep; bringing the desk inside the bedroom so I can look out over the terrace while I write letters and send post-balloons.
I circle the furniture, letting my fingers drift over its plush cushions. I stop at a bassinet hanging from a set of delicate ceiling chains. “Will the favorite have to change infants?”
“Very rarely, a royal will use her beauty tokens for her child, bypassing the nursery chamber at La Maison. It’s quite unusual, but it happens.” The Beauty Minister snaps her fingers at a servant, and the woman springs into action. “While on the subject of beauty tokens, there’s very beautiful craftsmanship this season. I chose the artisan myself from the House of Smiths.” She claps her hands together. “The keys to beauty.”
Two servants present dainty skeleton keys nestled onto a velvet board. They glitter like fallen stars tucked in place.
“Very clever, Madam Minister,” Du Barry says.
“The newsies just loved it. You may receive a token like this from men or women at court. They are worth more than spintria. Only given out by the king, queen, or princess, or even the favorite herself at times. My office tracks them.” The Beauty Minister waves away the servants.
“I loved the hand tokens, too,” Valerie says, “from two seasons ago.”
“Those used to be my first loves,” the Beauty Minister says. “Until the keys.” She knocks on the wall behind her. “One last important thing. In addition to Ivy, our past favorite who will be here for a month to help the favorite transition . . .” A hidden door cracks open to reveal a small office drowning with circuit-phones that look like endless rows of candlesticks. Their tinny sounds ring out. A sliding ladder clicks along the wall. Receivers dangle from their bases like temple bells.
Out pops Elisabeth Du Barry, Madam’s daughter. Du Barry beams at her. Her face is long and narrow like a grain of rice, and she wears her hair cut into a mushroom-shaped bob. No amount of beauty work will erase the sour expression she always has on her face.
The Beauty Minister scrunches her nose while inspecting Elisabeth’s features. “Miss Elisabeth Du Barry will also be stationed at court,” she says without enthusiasm.
“I’ll be in the circuit center,” Elisabeth says with a sniff. “I answer the phones and book the beauty appointments for the Belles at the teahouses, and also for the favorite. I take orders for Belle-products and arrange the court delivery balloons.” She pauses and clucks her tongue. “People are phoning nonstop.”
At home, whenever Elisabeth speaks, we pay no more attention than we do to the stray teacup cats. She’s always liked to tell lies about the other islands to scare us, and will do anything else she can to make us feel inferior.
Edel groans. “I thought we were rid of her.”
Padma pinches her. I try not to laugh.
“Elisabeth is to be obeyed in my stead. I’ll be back and forth between home and court,” Du Barry says. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Madam Du Barry,” we say in unison, like we’re little girls in her lesson room again.
“Well, girls.” The Beauty Minister moves underneath a tapestry depicting an ancient map of Orléans. “Look how far you’ve come.” She points to the very top corner, where golden embroidery outlines our island and its old name—Hana. “I’m delighted you’re finally here. Relish this night, for the world—yours, mine, the kingdom’s—shall change tomorrow.”
Du Barry gives her a round of applause, and we all join in.
“See you first thing.” The minister saunters out, her mink trailing behind her.
“Young ladies, wonderful display of talent tonight.” Du Barry rests her eyes on each of us in turn. “Even your big sisters were mightily impressed. They look forward to helping you with your transitions once you learn your placements tomorrow. Several remarked how a few of you may not even need a full month with them to acclimate to court and teahouse life.”