The Belles: Chapters 41–52

After lunch, we ride in a procession past the royal hourglass. It wears a coat of ice and snow, its diamond-like sand swirling inside like an impending storm.

Bree stokes the small fire and places more pots of tea on the iron rack.

I laugh and join the conversation, hoping to quell his suspicions.

Imperial guards clear the shops Sophia chooses to visit—Prima's Petticoat Palace, Gascon and Duhart's Fichu Forge, Lady Cromer's Brocade Bonanza.

Tailors, dressmakers, and merchants try to woo her with free gifts for her ladies, or offer pastries and champagne.

"I can't even conceive of the thought, Your Highness," I reply.

"I would consider a dress that would change throughout the ceremony and reception. Not just in color, but in shape. Something that will morph into all your favorite dress cuts. A ball gown for the ceremony, a slim silhouette for the receiving line, a flounced skirt for dancing—but without you ever having to leave the party."

A woman snatches the privacy curtain back and screeches at the man and then at me. The woman sitting next to her joins in the barrage of insults until she sees me.

I let out a guttural scream.

I seethe with anger.

"And if you or anyone else gets in the way of that, you will be repurposed," she threatens haughtily.

He looks crestfallen.

"The kingdom of Orléans is ruled by queens; the crown is passed down through the women of your family. Queens ensure the proper governance of the kingdom and maintenance of its well-being."

She leans in so close she could kiss me if she wanted to. "Wrong!" The word pelts my face.

"Did you see how quickly she followed orders? How she didn't question me? They were supposed to teach you that. Du Barry was supposed to teach you to have reverence and respect for your queen."

"It looks like you've broken those fingers. The last two. Treacherous work, being a Belle at court, isn't it? Fixing up spoiled little girls and boys."

Du Barry warned that you were stubborn and a bit unruly.

The arcana refresh.
The arcana rejuvenate.

Rémy takes his place outside the doors, and I close my eyes to drift in and out of a fitful sleep.

The food has a peculiar smell. Pungent. Flowery. Strange.

The poison chokes my veins like a vise.

I know they're full of parchment that hold questions and tattlers replete with speculation about what happened to me.

The circuit-phones blare.

"I can't have my ladies rotting on the vine," Sophia says. "So I've decided to arrange suitable mates for each of them before my own nuptials."

"Are you scared?" Amber garners a laugh from the table.

I gaze up at Amber and wonder if this is really just a ploy to help get us out of here. If she's just playing along, or taking this seriously.

I will be replacing the Beauty Minister when Sophia is queen. And I sent my very handsome and charming son to ascertain the secrets of the Belles.

Clear vats shaped like cradles hold floating babies.

The meager food I've eaten rises in my throat.

If the bars were made of wood, the planks would soften and become malleable; when I opened my eyes, the wood would be nothing but chips in a pile, to be used for kindling.

The flavors are rancid on my tongue, but the sustenance is welcome in my stomach.

Obsidian mourning-lanterns leave their sad and solemn light throughout.

Black calla lilies and roses burst from pots and line trellises that ring the room.

Sweat drips down her ruddy cheeks.

Her eyes spill over with tears, her fear palpable.

Rivulets of blood skate down her limbs.

Other guards hack at the vines with their swords, but it only makes them grow back thicker and bolder.

He shoves me through dank passageways and down slippery staircases.

I find every imperfection: her wispy hair, her hollow cheeks, her sallow skin, the too-slow beat of her heart.

He hands me a sausage roll. "All they had. Pick around the meat. Smelled a little rancid."