The Belles by Dhonielle Clayton

They ask us to reset their milk-white bones. They ask us to use our gilded tools to recast every curve of their faces. They ask us to smooth and shape and carve each slope of their bodies like warm, freshly dipped candles. They ask us to erase signs of living. They ask us to give them talents. Even if the pain crescendos in waves so high it pulls screams of anguish from their throats, or if the cost threatens to plummet them into ruin, the men and women of Orleans always want more. And I'm happy to provide. I'm happy to be needed. p12

Gender

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. p24

"...And not to worry, girls, there's nothing I haven't seen." p68  These kind of statements have always bothered me. Something worth discussing? Including consent and what people are expected to give up, without actual consent, when they decide to be involved in certain things.

Discrimination


I'll just have one of her people"-- she points a sticky finger in my direction-- "fix me right up. Slim me down even smaller next time, so I have more room to grow." p150

Love it

The librarian returns with open scrapbooks. "I thought you might find these interesting. Mostly reputable, but there are a few tattlers and scandal sheets in there, too. They often hint at the truth at times, but never tell anyone a librarian told you that," she says, setting down three in front of me. p321

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