“I’ll leave in two hourglasses. Prepare a transport,” I order.
“May our threads remain strong and our webs serve us well,” Lady Arane says. “And may you, Camille, trap our enemy.”
The treatment rooms in the subterranean palace resemble a painting plucked straight from the Belle history books in the Imperial Library. Grand pools stretch out in each direction, water ravines sloping through the mouths of massive fireplaces. A constellation of cracks decorate each empty hearth—mosaic images of the gods fractured. Candelabras clutch half-burnt candles bearded with rotten drippings.
Lady Pelletier pushes Charlotte into the first private chamber. She unties three night-lanterns from the back of Charlotte’s wheeling chair, and sets them afloat. They drift about, their pleats of light revealing a long table covered in a blanket of dust. Moth-eaten pillows cling weakly to the remains of their intricate embroidery. Cabinets contain decayed Belle-products.
“Your Majesty,” I say, and turn to her, “maybe we should do your beauty work in the receiving room where your bed lies.”
“I couldn’t bear to do it out in the open with all those people,” she replies.
“We could clear the room,” Lady Pelletier adds.
“No.” Charlotte raises a weak hand. “I can handle a little dust.”
Lady Pelletier starts clearing the table. She coughs as dust clouds explode around her. One of her attendants helps Charlotte from her chair. She wobbles before taking her first step toward the bed.
“Should we lift you, Your Majesty?” the woman asks.
“No.” Charlotte straightens her back and takes a second step.
Padma and I exchange glances.
How will she be ready to face Sophia?
How will the kingdom support her claim to the throne?
I take a deep breath and point to the cabinets. “There’s probably nothing we can use here.”
Lady Pelletier produces a few of the Belle-products Edel, Rémy, and I had stolen from the Spice Teahouse.
“Glad to see those haven’t gone missing,” I reply.
“We don’t like these circulating in our dwellings for fear of triggering old habits and stoking old impulses from our followers.”
Padma takes them from Surielle. She sets out the few Belle-rose elixir vials, four miniature skin-paste pots, and one small bei-powder bundle. “It’ll have to do.”
We unbutton the thin gown Charlotte wears. Gray rises from beneath the brown of her skin, swallowing it. Her bones protrude, and I resist the urge to count her ribs.
Padma and I nod at each other. She coats the princess in white bei powder.
Lady Pelletier tips the vial of Belle-rose elixir to Charlotte’s mouth, easing the liquid down her throat.
“Do you have a desired look?” I ask her.
“Make me look the way my mother would want me to.”
Her request tightens my throat.
“I’ll focus on her hair and face,” Padma says. “And you her skin and body.”
I nod. “We must go slow. One thing at a time.” I remember my first beauty session with Princess Sabine and all the treatments I tried to complete all at once, almost killing her. I hear Ivy’s words and feel the pinch of missing her too. Hopefully I will see her and all my sisters soon.
Padma and I stand on opposite sides of the table. We reach across it and hold hands. Padma’s arms quiver with nerves. I squeeze her fingers tighter and close my eyes.
Princess Charlotte’s body appears in my head—frail, almost gray.
The arcana hisses through my veins with warmth and familiarity.
“You first,” I whisper. “Hair.”
A patchwork of frizzy brown curls sprout from Charlotte’s scalp; the scars left behind from Sophia’s poisoned comb zigzag across the soft flesh, barely healed, but the new growth of hair covers them.
“You next,” Padma says.
“Your Majesty, are you all right?” I gaze down at her.
She nods.
I run my fingers over her skin, deepening the brown so she matches her beautiful mother, Celeste.
Padma fattens her cheeks, the outline of her skull no longer visible. I do the same to her body, thickening her muscles and plumping her frame, fortifying her bones, and giving her the shape of an hourglass.
Sweat soaks through my clothes.
Charlotte starts to resemble the young woman I saw in portraits before she fell into the long, poison-induced sleep.
The doors snap open.
“Camellia!” Lady Arane says. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She clutches a newspaper. “You must go right now.”
She holds the paper out. The headlines scatter. The words torture and guard and Rémy Chevalier scramble.
Chains crisscross over his bare chest. Blood drips down his dark arms, gashes oozing and pulsating.
I rush to her and grab the pages from her hands. The headline reads:
CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD’S TRUSTED GUARD CAPTURED AT PALACE—TO BE EXECUTED IN THE ROYAL SQUARE
I fall back on the bed, all the air rushing out of me. White spots stamp out my vision. Worry and anxiety drum through me.
“Camille, what is it?” Padma asks.
She helps me up, the grip of her brown hands comforting but not enough. I think of Rémy, of his strength, of the fact that he needs me, and I pull myself together to stand up straight.
“She’s right. I have to go.”
“But we aren’t finished—”
“I will send word when I’m safe.” I kiss her cheek, and she pulls me into a hug. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she whispers.
I swallow down tears. Being with her made me feel a little less alone, a little more confident that everything would be all right. But I will see her again. I have to believe that.
In a nearby chamber, I dress quickly, pack my belongings, and gather the teacup dragons. I walk out expecting Lady Arane only to find Auguste leaning against the wall.
“What are you doing here?” I snap.
“I’ve arranged for one of my boats to take you to Trianon. The imperial fleet will grant you safe passage if you sail under my flag. I’ve sent word ahead of my travel plans, and the gift I’m sending to my fiancée—a dragon dealer named Corrine Sauveterre.”
The words thank you can’t form in my mouth.
I nod.
“I’ve already started having the gift boxes made to fit each one of the Iron Ladies,” he adds. “They’ll be beautiful on the outside and—”
“I don’t need to know the details—just that they’re being sent. I need to go.”
“Yes, of course.” Auguste leads me back through the winding network of tunnels. The teacup dragons fly above us, their scales catching the light from the single night-lantern he carries. The melody of their flapping wings and the pounding of our footsteps are the only conversation between us. I constrict like a corkscrew, knots coiling tighter and tighter as the unspoken words are a set of knives twisting inside me.
The throbbing gashes on Rémy’s body appear over and over in my mind, thoughts of him being tortured drowning me.
Auguste’s eyes search for mine in the subtle darkness.
I march forward, picking up my pace. The tunnels grow colder as we snake through them, the outside close. The scent of snow and ice replaces the stench of stagnant water and rust.
He whispers my name.
I ignore it.
He touches my arm.
“Don’t!” I snatch it away.
“I’m sorry.”
“You think that word can fix it?” My teeth clench. “Do you know how small that word is? Too tiny to fix what you did. Too easy to try to sweep away all the things you set in motion.”
“What can I say? What can I do?”
“Nothing. It’s impossible for you to erase this. It would be like asking for the sun to leave the lair of the God of the Sky. Or asking the ocean not to rush the shore.” I run ahead, hoping it’s the right di
rection. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get to the palace.”
“I know there’s nothing I can ever do to make you trust me again,” he shouts out behind me. “But I’ve been trying to do something—anything in my power to right this wrong.”
I stop and whip around to face him. “You gave her exactly what she needed to destroy me! Me and my sisters!”
My voice booms off the cavernous walls. I don’t care who hears me. My anger transforms into something that could live outside of me, a windstorm bursting from my chest made of thunder and lightning and furious rain.
“I didn’t know.” His hands shake at his sides.
“That answer will never be enough. It will never be all right.” My glare burns into him. I wish it would reduce him to nothing, show him how I felt after I discovered what he did to me. “Valerie is dead. Amber and Edel and Hana are under Sophia’s control. Who knows what she’s doing to them?”
“We will stop her,” he says. “I can fix this.”
“I will stop her. I will fix this. I will end this,” I say through clenched teeth.
We lock eyes. The deep brown of his irises is rimmed with red like chocolate malt candies dipped in cherry glaze.
“Are you done?” I shout.
I harden into stone as his shoulders shrug forward. “You’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, and even more so when you’re mad.”
His compliment stirs into the fire inside me. “And you’re still an ass who thinks charm and compliments are bandages.”
“No, just sharing the truth.” His voice breaks. “If I have to... and if something happens, if things don’t go as planned... I will make sure no harm comes to you, and that... she doesn’t survive as queen. Neither you nor your sisters will ever suffer again. I’ll do whatever I can to make this right. You have my word.”
“And it’s worth a grain of sand.”
“I know, but you have it nonetheless.” He tries to take my hand.
I pull it away from him. “Just make sure you hold up your side of the deal. Make sure Padma and Charlotte and the Iron Ladies get to the palace safely. That’s all I want from you. I will take care of Sophia. I will take care of the rest.”
“Understood.”
We start walking again. He makes a left at a fork in the tunnels.
Nothing is left between us.
Auguste’s boat, the Lynx, skims the top of the ocean like the dragonflies that soared across the Rose Bayou back home. I wander around his private chambers. Sea-lanterns hang from hooks, and his desk is tucked into a corner. Maps cover the walls between the porthole windows. The scent of him lingers everywhere. The teacup dragons all nuzzle on a large horseshoe-shaped couch in the center.
I remember when I first met Auguste outside the palace, and he smugly reported that this was his boat. The memory is a hard lump in my stomach. I want it to burn a hole straight through and take with it all the memories of him.
The darkness outside the windows suddenly lights up, the sky filling with sparklers and star-shaped wish-lanterns as the God of the Sky and the Goddess of Beauty receive the kingdom’s desires. It must be midnight. A new year has arrived.
“Happy days to come.” The new year’s blessing drifts down into the office from the deck above.
“The Year of the Goddess of Love always brings something sweet.”
I hear the clink of glasses and more cheers.
I plop down on the couch with the dragons. They tuck themselves into the folds of my skirt and release tiny snores. I close my eyes and think back to this time last year. I spent the whole day making candy houses with my sisters. We lit tea candles and sat them inside our little creations, then placed them at the windows of Maison Rouge to call forth blessings from the God of the Ground. He’d find sweetness in this house and leave behind his goodwill and a fortune box for each sister. At midnight, our mamans had given each of us a wish-lantern and a slip of parchment to write down our heart’s desires. I’d scrawled along mine: I want to be the favorite.
That wish is now a nightmare. So much has changed in just a few months. All those little girl hopes evaporating—wish-lanterns destroyed by winds. If only I’d known what my life would become.
I jam my eyes shut to prevent angry tears from falling. The smooth rocking of the ship lulls me to sleep, my body sinking deeper into the softness of the couch. But soon I am snatched into violent dreams.
I’m falling through the sky. Cold air catches every fold and layer of my dress, ballooning it like a pavilion bell. My limbs flap around me, unable to help me slow down. I fight to open my eyes, the wind pushing tears down my cheeks.
I look ahead and spot a shock of red hair like the crimson tail ribbons of a festive kite.
Maman.
I scream her name, but the syllables are lost in the howl of the gale.
We tumble forward, the speed of our bodies accelerating.
I try to catch her. I try to stretch out my fingers to grab the end of her dress. But she’s just out of reach.
The dark tangle of the forest behind Maison Rouge lies ahead, the thick branches ready to engulf us, every naked skewer primed to stab through our insides. I scream and thrash about as Maman crashes into the boughs, their black fingers piercing her flesh.
“My lady,” a voice whispers.
My eyes snap open. I leap to my feet, hand on Rémy’s dagger.
Auguste’s guard thrusts a pale orchid fortune box at me. “For you. Sweet days to come and good fortune.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little embarrassed.
I take it, the paper soft and supple, almost like skin, and slip it into a secret compartment in my waist-sash. It will be the only fortune box I’ll receive tonight.
“Who is it from?” I ask.
“Mr. Fabry,” he replies.
I suddenly want to shove it back into his hands, but he smiles at me like he’s so happy to deliver this pretty box. I don’t want to offend him.
“We’ll be docking in Trianon in less than an hourglass. Prepare to disembark.” He bows, then exits.
I tuck each one of the sleeping teacup dragons into my waist-sash. They fit like small jewels in their favorite compartments. I ruffle the long layers of my travel dress, pull on my cloak, and affix a veil over my face.
I call the arcana, letting the three gifts rush to my fingertips.
Just in case.
The city of Trianon appears in the distance, its outline glittering and the city-lanterns tiny pinpricks of light like stars in a dark swath of sky.
I will burn it all, if I have to.
“Take Lady Corrine to the address as instructed,” Auguste’s guard orders a carriage driver.
The royal pier sits away from the busy port. The remnants of wish-lanterns scatter along the cobblestoned streets and skim the harbor waters like debris coughed up by the God of the Sea. Ivory streaks scar the early-evening night sky as the fireworks taper off and those celebrating the coming of the new year have most likely had their fill of sweetbread and champagne and chocolate coins.
A gale freezes my cheeks, joining the deep chill shooting through me as I hold a glamour. The port guards don’t even flinch as I climb into the carriage. Eyes straight ahead, arms at their sides, bodies frozen in place.
Strange.
“May your threads be strong,” Auguste’s guard whispers to me. I don’t have time to ask questions before he closes the carriage door, and the horse clip-clops forward.
The space is cold and empty, the fireplace absent of wood and the small servants’ quarters vacant. I cover myself with a veil, let my glamour disappear, and wipe the small trickle of blood from my nose. Carefully, I inch back the drapes covering one of the carriage windows.
The pier market is desolate, blue-lanterns snuffed out, stalls boarded up, and the twisting lanes empty. Wooden booths sit at the market entrance marked CHECKPOINT. A guard shouts through a voice-trumpet: “Invite-only into the imperial city of Trianon. Have your papers ready!”
The carriage slows, and a pair of guards approach. Their shiny black uniforms and the gray stripe down the middle of their hair make me think of Rémy.
I hold my breath and close the curtain.
I hear low gravelly voices.
An anxious hum ruptures through me—the wonder of how long it will take me to find him and what condition he might be in and if he’s all right... and still alive. I brush that thought away.
The carriage moves forward again. They didn’t even inspect it. Auguste’s word holds such a great deal of power. Even though I would have preferred to live my entire life without seeing him again, I must admit that Lady Arane made a wise choice in taking his help.
We enter the Garden Quartier, where shops sit like stacked pastry and hat boxes, one after another, so high they disappear into snow-swollen clouds. Gold blimps circle overhead like fat, sun-kissed raindrops. Animated ink whips along their middles with a message—Smile! Look Your Best for the New Queen Because She Is Always Watching! Light-boxes drop from their bellies and flash beams of light every few seconds.
Sophia has eyes everywhere now.
The carriage pauses at another checkpoint, then moves forward. The driver taps the wall, and I flinch as he slides back a panel. “Prepare for arrival, my lady.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, adjusting the veil over my face and taking a deep breath.
It all begins now.
Finally, the carriage stops before a closed shop called Larbalestier’s Bawdy, Bodacious Bowlers, Bonnets, and Mischievous Millinery. Post-balloons float behind the windowpanes carrying all manner of hats—bowlers, pillboxes, ferronnières, miniver caps, toppers, bonnets. The oscillating movement oddly soothes the rapid beat of my heart.
I enter. A bell chimes. The foyer smells familiar—roses, charcoal, and sugar.
Home.
I spot bundles of Belle-rose flowers tucked into the brims of many of the display hats.
“Hello?” I call out.
Tables are littered with supplies. Shelves hold proud hats that resemble jewels in the subtle darkness. An abacus sits on a ledge; the red and white beads catch the lantern light. The cashier table is spread over with newspapers.
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 21
