Beautyis the beast in Dhonielle Claytons latest book.
But as Camellia and readers discover her dreams arent all theyre cracked up to be.
Especially, when the Queen asks her to risk her life to help the ailing Princess Sophia.
Credit: Courtesy of Dhonielle Clayton
Check out an exclusive excerptandan exclusive cover reveal plus a behind-the-scenes look at how it came together.
I started cutting out pictures of beautiful people from magazines and pasting them on the wall.
Thats where this came from.
Camillia is part of The Belles.
How did you come up with that aspect of the book?The world came first.
I also wanted to deal with female friendships because in the book they are sisters.
Camillia wants to fix the Belles so they can function in a unit where they both love each otherandcompete.
So thats something really important to me to get across to readers and explore in general.
But that can be a very slippery slope because what if a person cant be pleased?
What if what is beautiful continues to shift and change?
Its the problem I had when I was a preteen.
Other things would come into trend and looking like that means youre beautiful.
Thats where that comes form.
She wants to change herself and be the most beautiful.
Shes a big threat.
Because its a fleeting thing to feel like you were the most beautiful.
So, there are nods to Marie Antoinettes court and also Japanese beauty rituals and customs and geisha.
Its almost like a massive game that has been set up.
Were playing where the deck is stacked against us and we continue to do whatever it takes.
Were willing to do whatever it takes.
Its impossible to stay on top of things.
The Belleswill be available for purchase until February 2018.
But until then you might read the first two chapters exclusively on EW on the next page.
Maybe even a teacup elephant.
But not for us.
Today is our debut.
There are only six of us this year.
My fingertips leave fog teardrops on the paper-thin glass walls.
The carriage is beautiful and clear and fashioned into a ball.
I am a delicate doll poised inside a snow globe.
I am the last in line.
The festival happens once every three years.
They spill over with passengers eager to watch us.
The dying sunlight ashes my own reflection on the glass.
My powdered skin makes me look like an overly frosted piece of caramel cake.
Ive never seen anything like it before.
This is the first time Ive visited the imperial island, the first time Ive ever left home.
Most of them are connected by golden bridges or can be reached by lavish river coaches.
Salty rain, spiced clouds, and a hint of sweetness from the stars.
It all feels like a dream thats held on and lingered past the dawn.
I never want it to end.
I never want to return home.
One minute here is richer than a thousand moments there.
The end of the warm months brings change,Maman always said.
And my life is bound to transform tonight.
The horses tug us forward, their hooves clip-clopping against the cobblestoned square.
A hand thumps my carriage and I catch a sliver of a face.
The square is over owing with bodies.
There are so many of them.
Hundreds, thousands, maybe millions.
Imperial guards push the crowd back to give our procession space to pass.
Theyve all paid to look this way.
The men wear jackets and top hats and cravats in a prism of colors.
Some have hair growing on their faces in neat patterns.
From the blimps above, I bet they resemble candies in a box.
TheOrleans Presssaid strawberry blonde hair and jade eyes are the new windy-season trend.
Hands wave velvet pouches in the air.
The spintria inside creates a tinkling melody.
How much does each pouch hold?
How many treatments can they afford to purchase?
How much are they willing to pay?
Its a reminder of why Im here.
I am a Belle.
2
The carriages stop before the royal pavilion.
Embroidered chrysanthemums coil around its peaks.
I adjust the eyescope lens, and squint to see the king, queen, and their daughter.
They remind me of the porcelain dolls my sisters and I used to play with as children.
They look the same here, though not as worn, of course.
The blimp screens sparkle with her picture.
Tonight shes snowy white like her father, but with peach-pink freckles expertly dusted across her nose.
I want to be the one who makes them all beautiful.
I want to be the one the queen chooses.
I want the power that comes with being Her Majestys favorite.
And if I can be better than Amber, I will be chosen.
Madame Du Barry speaks into a voice-trumpet.
Her voice is thick with authority.
The noise rattles my carriage.
Maman told me that Madame Du Barry likes to maintain a large and intimidating figure.
I am Madame Ana Maria Lange Du Barry, Royal Gar- dien de la Belle-Rose.
She says her of cial title proudly.
The people of Orleans would most likely gasp if they knew we called her Du Barry at home.
The noise vibrates inside my chest.
My entire life Ive wanted nothing more than to be here, before the kingdom.
This tradition goes back to the very beginning of our islands, and to the onset of our civilization.
For generations my ancestors have had the grand privilege to be guardians of our most treasured jewels.
She turns to her left and motions to the previous generation of Belles.
All eight of them sit in high-backed chairs, and hold Belle-rosebuds in their hands.
Black lace veils mask their faces.
The favoriteIvywears a glistening crown on her head.
This is the end of their time at court.
They will return home once they train us.
But then one day, the servants packed the older girls things.
I remember reading about the older Belles in the papers after they left.
I have their of cial Belle-cards tacked to my bedroom wall.
I want to be Ivy.
I have always wanted to be her.
I will be a vessel for the Goddess of Beauty.
I hold the dream inside my chest like a breath I never want to let out.
And now, it is my pleasure to present the newest genera- tion of Belles, Du Barry announces.
A shiver of anticipation makes my heart threaten to burst.
My hands shake, and I drop the eyescopes.
The driver pulls the netted covering of owers from my carriage.
Im revealed to the crowd.
I grab the fans from my lap.
Their latches fall open, exposing the fans primrose-pink pat- tern.
I cover my face, then ap and twirl them together so they utter like a butter ys wings.
I toss them above my head and catch them effortlessly.
The hours of lessons pay off in this moment.
Whistles and shouts rise up from the throng.
I look to the left at my sisters carriages.
Were all lined up like a row of eggs in a carton, moving in time with one another.
Crimson lanterns oat into the air.
Fish jump from nearby fountains, changing from ruby to teal mid-flight, teasing onlookers.
Their leaps hold the promise of our powers.
The square explodes with cheers.
Little girls wave Belle-dolls in the air.
Many men and women are sporting monocles to have a closer look at us.
I smile and wave, wanting to impress them, wanting to be good enough to be remembered.
Du Barry presents Valerie first.
Her carriage rolls forward.
I close my eyes.
Dont watch them,Maman had said.Dont ever covet their use of the arcana.
Envy can grow like a weed inside you.
Be the best without trying to be better than the others.
I shift around in the carriage as the demonstrations continue, with Hana following Valerie.
Pained moans cut through the noisy square like silver knives as the little girls endure their transformations.
I wince as the cries peak and fall, and the onlookers cheer at their crescendos.
Some of my sisters receive louder reactions than others.
The roar deafens me at times.
I love my sisters, especially Amber.
Shes always been the one I loved the most.
We all deserve to be the favorite.
Weve worked so hard to learn the art of beauty.
But I want it so much theres no room inside me for anything else.
My eyes feel like theyve been closed for an eternity before my carriage trudges forward again.
Imperial attendants approach, and their gold uniform buttons catch the lantern light.
I lock my legs in place and focus on my balance.
The men march me to the center platform.
I try not to be nervous.
I know exactly what Im supposed to do.
I whisper to myself: I will have the best showcase.
I will receive the loudest applause.
Ill be named the favorite, just like Maman.
I will get to live at court.
I will get to see the world.
I wont make any mistakes.
Ill make people beautiful.
I say it over and over again like a prayer until the rhythm of the words erases my fear.
The men turn a lever.
Gears clink and clang and wheeze.
The platform under me rises just above the crowd.
Plush royal boxes sit on stilts high above.
Faces look up in wonder and anticipation like Im a star caught in a vase, ready to explode.
I turn a tiny lever on the carriage floor.
The glass ceiling above me cracks open like an egg.
The nights warm air skates over my skin like soft fingers, and it tastes even sweeter up here.
If I could bottle the tiny winds, theyd turn to sugar dust.
I feel close enough to grab one and stow it away in my beauty caisse.
The square grows so quiet, and the sounds of the ocean swell.
The people of Orleans gaze up at me, the last Belle to demonstrate her talents.
Du Barry didnt prepare me for what its like to be stared at.
There are so many pairs of eyes, all different shapes and colors.
Du Barry winks at me, then taps her full lipsa reminder to smile.
The crowd believes I was born knowing how to make them beautiful.
They dont know how hard Ive worked to perfect the traditions and master the arcana.
They dont know how hard Ive struggled to learn all the rules.
Now, it is my pleasure to present our final Belle, Camellia Beauregard!
She fills the syllables of my name with pride, triumph, and magic.
I attempt to hold onto that, and use it to combat my worries.
Light shines everywhere: the lanterns and blimp screens and sky candles and a bright rising moon.
I face a semicircle of smaller platforms.
Three to the left and two to the right.
Seven-year-old girls stand on them like jewels on velvet cushions.
The other Belles have created tiny masterpieces.
Its my turn to transform a girl.
The king and queen nod at Du Barry.
She waves her hand in the air, signaling for me to get ready.
I glance up to the heavens for strength and courage.
Blimps crisscross above me and block the stars with their plump forms and silhouette banners.
The last platform lifts directly across from mine.
It completes the set of six and creates a perfect half-moon curve.
Her hair and skin are as gray as a stormy sky, and wizened like a raisin.
Red eyes stare back at me like embers burning in the dark.
I should be used to the way they look in their natural state.
But the light exaggerates her features.
She reminds me of a monster from the storybooks our nurses used to read to us.
She is a Gris.
We can save them from a life of unbearable sameness.
They ask us to reset their milky white bones.
They ask us to use our gilded tools to recast every curve of their faces.
They ask us to erase signs of living.
They ask us to give them tal- ents.
And Im happy to provide.
Im happy to be needed.
The girl fidgets with the camellia flower in her hands.
The pink petals shiver in her grip.
I smile at her.
She doesnt return it.
She shuf es to the platform edge and looks down, as if shes going to jump.
The other girls wave her back and the crowd shouts.
I hold my breath.
If she were to fall, shed plummet at least forty paces to the ground.
She scoots back to the center.
I exhale, and sweat dots my forehead.
I hope she earns a fewleasfor the stress of participating in this exhibition.
Enough for her to purchase a square of bread and a wedge of cheese for the month.
I hope to make her beautiful enough to receive smiles from people instead of fearful whispers and frenzied glares.
I dont remember being that small, that vulnerable, that terrified.
I flip launch the beauty caisse beside me.
These items mask my gifts.
Keep them wanting more.
Show them what you truly aredivine artists.
Three scarlet post-balloons, carrying three trays, oat up to the little girls stand.
One sprinkles little white flakesbei powderall over her, and she ducks as it coats her like snow.
It sloshes and dances near her mouth.
She refuses to have a sip.
She swats at the cup like its a nagging fly.
The crowd cries out as she nears the platform edge again.
The last post-balloon chases her with a brush smudged with a paste the color of a cream cookie.
Onlookers attempt to convince her to drink the tea and wipe the brush across her cheek.
Her constant squirming could spoil my exhibition.
A surge of panic hits me.
Every time I imagined this night, I never thought my subject would resist.
yo stop moving, I call out.
Du Barrys gasp echoes through her voice-trumpet.
The crowd goes silent.
I take a deep breath.
Dont you want to be beautiful?
Her gaze burns into mine.
I dont care, she yells, and her voice gets carried off by the wind.
The crowd erupts with horror.
Oh, but of course you do.
Everyone does, I say, steadying my voice.
Maybe shes starting to go mad from being gray for so long.
Her sts ball up.
Her words send a shiver through me.
I paint on a smile.
What if I promise itll all turn out well?
Better than you expect?
Something that will make all of thisI wave at our surroundingsworth it.
She nibbles her bottom lip.
A post-balloon putters back up to her with tea.
She still refuses it.
Her gaze finds mine.
I promise you will love what I do.
She reaches toward the post-balloon, then pulls back like it will burn her.
She looks at me.
I smile and motion for her to tug it forward.
She grabs its golden tail ribbons, then lifts the teacup from its tray and sips.
I examine her, noting the details of her small, undernourished frame.
Fear ashes in her red irises.
Her body shakes even more.
Now, take the brush, I gently goad her.
A blimp shines a sky candle over the carriages, and I catch my reflection in the glass again.
A smile creeps into the corner of my mouth as I see myself.
I abandon Du Barrys instructions: the snowy skin, the black hair, the rosebud lips.
An idea leaves behind the warmth of excitement.
It will be unforgettable.
It has to be.
I close my eyes and picture the girl inside my mind like a small statue.
Id give my room servant Madeleine bright sea-glass-green eyes when the red seeped in.
I am ready for this.
I summon the arcana.
My blood pressure rises.
I heat up like a newborn re in a hearth.
The veins in my arms and hands rise beneath my skin like tiny green serpents.
I manipulate the camellia flower in the little girls hands.
The stem lengthens until the tip hits the platform, like a kites tail.
She throws the bloom, and inches away.
The ower quadruples in size, and the petals lengthen to catch her.
The crowd explodes with claps, whistles, and stamping.
The noise turns into a rolling boil as they wait for me to reveal her.
I will be the best.
It will be perfect.
I love being a Belle.
I say the mantra of the Belles:
Beauty is in the blood.
