The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The)

by Dhonielle Clayton

She bows her head. “But of course. Would you like me to call ahead so she can—”

  “All I’d like you to do is prepare the coach.”

  “Yes, sir, Minister.” She scrambles out and to the pier.

  We follow. This time, she doesn’t ask for identification. She barely even looks at us.

  “I should call for a servant to assist with the pedaling. We are closed, so they’re all inside.”

  “Yes, please. I do not want to arrive disheveled and out of breath,” he says.

  She scrambles with the circuit-phone and requests a servant to come to the pier. After hanging up, she gazes at him lovingly. “I adore the new dresses—”

  He raises a hand in the air, swatting away her enthusiasm like an annoying fly.

  The servant arrives in a watercoach. We step onto it and sit beneath an ornate canopy. Heat-lanterns orbit us like bayou birds.

  The woman pedals. A wobbly bow-lantern is a beacon as the snow rushes down from the sky. The teahouse is even more beautiful up close. Porcelain replicas of silkworms are curved into spirals and move as the wind hits the building. I glance back at the pier we’ve left. The small receiving house is blanched by the snow. My stomach dips and knots itself. Will the woman call the house madam and alert her? Will Valerie be removed in the few minutes it took for us to arrive? Will the guards be waiting to arrest us?

  The teacup dragons wiggle in my waist-sash. Maybe they can sense growing fear. Maybe they can feel the worries I’ve been trying too hard to hide.

  Edel opens and closes her fists like she always does when she’s mad or worried. The wind flaps the canopy, stretching its fabric with the threat of yanking it off, claiming it for its own.

  The woman parks the boat and helps us out onto a small pier. Guards hug the teahouse, in perfect formation around its edges like petit plums bordering a sweet cake. Snow collects on their hats and shoulders yet they don’t flinch.

  I try to count them. Twelve. No, thirteen. No, it could be more. I can’t see them all as the snow barrels down. It makes me wonder how many are inside. We would never be able to disarm them all. Are we walking into a trap? Should we have gone straight to the Gold Isles for Charlotte? Perhaps I was too rash in my planning.

  The poison bottle in my pocket feels heavier now with the weight of what we are attempting to do.

  The double doors of the teahouse open before we reach them. A woman greets us in a garish dress that reminds me of parrot feathers. A crown of black hair is braided on her head and interwoven with winter blossoms. “Sir, Minister, to what do I owe this great honor?”

  “Madam Renault.” He leans forward and kisses both of her cheeks.

  “As you know, we are closed at the moment.” She smiles and the rouge-stick on her mouth is painted to resemble a flower in bloom.

  “Ah, yes, I was in the room when the very decree came down from our new majesty. However, I have an emergency.” We enter the foyer and gaze up into the house. The open levels reveal a guard on each floor. “Let me introduce you to Lena”—the minister motions at Edel, who curtsies—“and Noelle of the House of Rare Reptilians.”

  I bow.

  “They are dragon merchants and traders. I plan to present them to the queen as a surprise, but they need a quick beauty touch-up before going to visit with Her Majesty. It’s so close to her Coronation and Ascension ceremony—three days and counting,” he says, pressing his manicured hand to his chest. “I thought it was nothing you and your girls couldn’t handle.”

  I pat my waist-sash and the teacup dragons peer out of it.

  “How lovely,” she replies, then bows her head. “Thank you, Gustave. However, I must see their faces. On the new queen’s orders, anyone who enters this teahouse must be registered.” She snaps her fingers at a nearby servant. “Bring the ledger.”

  I glance at Edel, catching the outline of her eyes. She nods.

  “You would embarrass them by forcing them to show themselves looking not their best,” he replies.

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  The arcana send a shiver over my skin. As I undo the veil, I feel my hair and face change. Edel mimics me.

  The Fashion Minister nods when we reveal ourselves.

  Madam Renault studies our faces. “Still quite pretty.”

  “But not perfect,” I add. “And Her Majesty requires that.”

  She agrees.

  I place the veil back on and let the glamour fade.

  “So...” the Fashion Minster says.

  “But we have no Belles here, Your Grace.”

  He takes her hand and strokes it. “You’re not a very good liar. I know you must have one or two at the ready. They tell the cabinet members everything.”

  She leans close to him. “But I’m not supposed to.”

  “Darling, it’ll be our little secret.” He winks. “I’ll be sure to send you over a dress from my new line. A vivant dress that captures the depth and breadth of your beauty. You have been maintaining it well. I have taken notice.”

  She blushes and her severe mouth softens. “I only have one Belle available. The other is, well, you know, indisposed.”

  “One will suffice.” He removes an overstuffed coin purse from an inner pocket in his jacket. “For your trouble.”

  She accepts the money.

  “Please note that they like having their treatments done together in the same room. I know you can accommodate. Your teahouse is rumored to be the best, even better than the Chrysanthemum.”

  She beams. “Those Du Barrys have been running the whole tradition into the ground. There’s decorum and order that must be adhered to. No corners cut.” She snaps at a nearby servant, “Prepare the large chamber on the fourth floor.”

  “You are most gracious, my lady. I won’t forget this favor.” The Fashion Minister grins, offering Madam Renault his arm. They saunter deeper into the foyer.

  My heart drums as we follow behind. The Fashion Minister distracts her by telling her about the low silkworm harvest this season and how it’s affected the production timeline for the queen’s line of vivant dresses.

  The teacup dragons in my waist-pouch squirm as if they’re responding to the nerves cramping my stomach. I pat them, trying to calm their excitement, as I take in our surroundings. Where could Valerie be? Edel does the same, craning her neck to see down darkened corridors.

  An attendant marches out with a young woman. A silver collar studded with diamonds loops around her neck, drops down her chest, and clasps her wrists together. A pillbox hat sits on her head and a short face veil masks her eyes, nose, and mouth with lacy silk. Her skin is the deep crimson of a recently bloomed Belle-rose, ready for plucking, and she has two mouths, a regular one and a small one beneath it.

  Du Barry’s words haunt me: “There will be a favored set of Belles, and a secondary set to ensure that the needs of the kingdom are met. Basic supply and demand.”

  “Why is she chained?” I ask.

  The Fashion Minister eyes me.

  “The queen’s orders. She sent a new government-mandated Belle guide by official post-balloon last week. After those fugitive Belles left the palace.” Her gaze is strong as she searches for eye contact.

  The Fashion Minister loosens the purple cravat at his throat.

  “What about the Belle from the favored generation? We would prefer her,” Edel says.

  The Fashion Minister’s eyebrows raise with alarm.

  Madam Renault pales. “There are no Belles from that generation here.” She tugs the girl forward. “This one is very talented despite what her outward appearance might suggest.”

  The Fashion Minister stares at me, awaiting my response.

  “The queen will be doing away with segregating Belles into favored classes and secondary classes. They will all occupy the same sphere regardless of how they turn out. The new Minister of Belles, Georgiana Fabry, will see to it,” she adds.

  Simply hearing that name—Auguste’s last name—stings.

  “Ada is very
talented,” Madam Renault repeats.

  The girl steps forward. I fixate on the bright red of her skin tone and that tiny second mouth beneath her bottom lip as it opens and closes. I swallow down my burning desire to scream.

  “I will oversee the session,” the Fashion Minister replies. “I am consulting on their looks. Giving them a full makeover to please Her Majesty.”

  Madam Renault grins. “What lucky women.” She walks forward, and we follow.

  We are swept into a treatment room. The vaulted ceiling is frosted with gold and blue, wide arching windows overlook the water, and beauty-lanterns bathe shelves of beauty instruments and Belle-products. The walls are threaded with white-and-gold silk like a tapestry, and tiny perfume blimps cascade above us.

  The memories of a life filled with beauty work and appointments rush back. The ledgers full, Bree helping me with clients, Ivy at my side, the moments with Auguste—and Rémy.

  “The room must be cleared for privacy. Only the Belle and us,” the Fashion Minister says to Madam Renault.

  The servants freeze.

  “But it isn’t protocol,” Ada replies, sounding just as we once did when clients wanted to break the rules.

  “It will be today,” I say.

  “The servants must stay,” Madam Renault replies. “House rules. I do hope you understand.”

  For the briefest moment, I think Madam Renault might be protecting Ada. I know what can happen when we’re left alone with the wrong client. Prince Alfred’s disgusting face invades my memory. I still wish I could see him stuffed into a starvation box for attacking me.

  The Fashion Minister flashes her a weak smile, then looks at us with distress in his eyes.

  “The least you can do is give us privacy while we prepare,” the Fashion Minister states. “Go fetch us tea or something, and bring a food cart. I’m famished.”

  The room empties, doors closing behind Renault and the others. Edel starts to speak, but the Fashion Minister shakes his head and points to the doors. We spot the shadows of feet just outside of it. Then he raises a finger up to the ceiling.

  Confusion mars Ada’s face.

  “Enigmatics,” he whispers. “Ada, if you’d please prepare.”

  She nods and rushes around checking the details like Edel and I would: making sure adequate beauty-lanterns float about, setting out pots of Belle-rose tea on the table, adding pastilles to melt on chafing dishes to fill the room with a lavender scent, draping a large table with pillows and linens. As she works, I trace my fingers over the fleur-de-lis Belle-symbols etched onto each item in her sparkling beauty caisse and ponder how different our lives were only a month ago.

  I remember the first time my sisters and I sneaked into the Belle-product storeroom. After the house had gotten quiet, we’d stolen night-lanterns and dragged them to the back of the house. The room’s wonders had unfolded to us for hours: perfume atomizers and color crème-cakes and rouge-sticks and powders and kohl pencils and golden vinaigrettes and pastilles and potpourri and oils and sachets. The room smelled heady and sweet, and we’d fallen asleep there after powdering ourselves all night. Du Barry made us write one hundred lines each as punishment.

  I search Ada’s face for something, anything that resembles the connection I have with my sisters. Can we trust her? Will she be happy once we reveal ourselves? Or will she turn us in?

  The risk churns in my stomach.

  But we have no choice. We must tell her of our plan. But as the Fashion Minister has pointed out, Sophia could very well be listening. Why hadn’t we planned for this? I don’t even have a spare piece of parchment on which to scrawl out a message. Then I remember another treatment room, another moment I needed to communicate in silence.

  “Undress,” I say to Edel. “I have an idea.”

  I know there is confusion in Edel’s glare as she stares from behind her veil, but she obliges. I wave Ada closer.

  “I want to show you a technique that we both enjoy and would like you to use,” I tell her.

  Edel disrobes and climbs into the bed.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Just get on with it,” Edel mumbles, the frustration stewing just under her words.

  I grab a bei-powder bundle, then sprinkle it over Edel’s back, coating it evenly with a makeup brush. My hand wobbles.

  The door slides open and another servant slips in.

  “We need hot towels,” the Fashion Minister orders. “Bring them now.”

  The woman turns back around and scurries out.

  I push my shoulders back and wave the brush in the air to get Ada’s attention. In the bei powder along Edel’s back, I write a message.

  Where is Valerie?

  I lift my veil and she sees my face.

  Ada gasps and falls backward into a teacart. “The favorite,” she whispers.

  That word cuts across my skin. The Fashion Minister reaches down and puts a hand over her mouths.

  “They’re always listening,” he reminds her.

  “Don’t say a word,” I whisper. “I promise we’re here to help. We need your assistance.”

  Ada nods and the Fashion Minister eases his hand off her mouths. She quickly wipes away my message and writes, Near Madam.

  I snatch a rose from a nearby vase, then write: Take us.

  Her eyes fill with fear, her hands trembling at her sides, but she nods.

  “I’ll stay here and distract the servants,” the Fashion Minister tells us. “But be quick.”

  Edel throws her gown back on, and Ada leads us out through the servant entrance. The house is near silent. We tiptoe to a back staircase.

  “This only goes to the sixth floor. The seventh is where she resides. We go up there when we’ve made a mistake and need a ‘talking to,’ as she calls it,” Ada whispers. “It’s Madam’s office.”

  We follow behind her with our lightest footsteps. The upper floors are filled mostly with a maze of treatment salons and tea-rooms, but I spot a dining room and game parlor. Unlit lanterns litter the floors. I grip the rose stem so tightly the thorns push into my palm, but the pain is a tiny cut in comparison to the anger rushing through me.

  “How old are you?” I ask Ada.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happened to your face? Were you hurt?” Edel asks, examining the deep red flush that lingers beneath her skin, and the tiny mouth beneath her bottom lip.

  “No. It has always been this way.”

  I’ve lost track of which floor we’re on when suddenly Ada’s breathing quickens, and her pace slows. Ahead a man sits in front of a lift, head down reading a newspaper. We press our bodies against the walls, out of sight. His limbs are thin as the bayou reeds from our home island, and his pale skin mirrors the snow falling outside the windows. He whistles softly. The headlines jumble as he quickly turns the pages.

  “Stay behind us,” I tell Ada, then turn to Edel. “Let’s trap him using this rose. We’ll turn it into a cage.”

  Edel nods with a smile.

  I close my eyes and the arcana wake inside me. My fingertips tingle. The rose blooms in my mind. I use the second arcana, Aura, to locate its life force; it’s weak from being cut and put in a jar of water. Both Edel and I work together to push the rose to grow—the stem splitting into two and slithering along the floor like a pair of thorny snakes. The petals swell to match the man’s size.

  He shifts his paper down and jumps to his feet, but before he can move forward in our direction, the stem curls around his ankles and the petals swallow him in a red cocoon. His shouts are muffled and his attempts to run thwarted by the binding stems.

  “How did you do that?” Ada asks.

  “Just how you use the second arcana to grow a client’s hair or stretch their muscle tissue,” Edel replies.

  Ada inspects the massive rose prison we’ve made as we file into the lift, clearly amazed. She jerks a lever forward. The gilded box sails upward.

  “What do we do if she’s up here?” Ada’s eyes stretch
with worry.

  “The same thing we just did to him.”

  She smiles. “I want to learn how to do that.”

  “We will teach you,” I reply.

  The set of apartments is empty and dark aside from a single day-lantern hooked to the wall. Edel unties it.

  “Now, where did you say our sister was?” I ask.

  “Whenever I came up here to be scolded she’d take me to her parlor room. That’s where I saw Valerie the first time. There’s a bedroom.” Ada leads us to a door crested with the Silk Isles’ emblem—the silkworm entangled with a royal chrysanthemum.

  I push the door open slowly. It’s a cross between a tearoom and a small library. High ceilings hold glass windows that gaze down into the belly of the house, with each floor a decadent layer on an expensive cake. Tall ladders slide along mahogany shelves and sets of staircases spiral up to a balcony with more books. Velvet armchairs and tufted couches circle an enormous table littered with replicas of royal emblems sitting on a map of Orléans.

  “What is this?” Edel asks Ada.

  “She’s always plotting and planning and tracking which important people live where. Which courtiers or merchants frequent which teahouses. I’ve heard her on the circuit-phones. She wants to run all the teahouses. That’s her goal.”

  Beneath the subtle light, the emblems are luminescent and show who has the power in this world. It is only a handful of people.

  “This way.” Ada pushes through a plain, almost hidden door. Behind it, the room is small, its walls bare, and a bed consumes most of the space.

  Its occupant is Valerie.

  Edel and I rush to her side. Cerulean healing-lanterns leave strips of light over her face. Vases of flowers ring the bed. Her tawny-brown skin is tough and pruned.

  “Valerie?” I whisper.

  I touch the wrinkles along her skin. I want to smooth them for her, restore her face to what it once was. But I remember what Ivy said when I wanted to do the same for her—It will damage your arcana. I stare at the slope of her nose and the once rosebud shape of her lips and the chestnut of her hair. I can’t help but touch her chin.

  “What happened to her? What did that woman do?” Edel asks, her voice filling with rage.