The handmade beauty caisse Mr. Claiborne made for me rests on the nightstand beside mourning tablets for Queen Celeste. Belle-products sit on tiered trays—miniature skin-paste pots and rouge-sticks and bei powder. Shiny rods lie on a velveteen cushion like cylinders of silver and gold.
I run my fingers over them, then hover above her bed.
“Madam Claiborne,” I say. “It’s Camille. Can you hear me?”
Her chest moves up and down in a soft rhythm. It makes me think of Charlotte—the memory of her body jerking and the sounds of her cough. I try to hold it in my heart like a precious jewel that I never want to lose. She’s out there somewhere.
I sprinkle the bei powder over Madam Claiborne’s arms. I close my eyes. The arcana meet my command. I touch her again and think of Queen Celeste. I deepen her coloring to match the departed queen’s luscious black skin and add a rich gloss to her dark hair.
Mr. Claiborne enters the room. “She’ll love this look you’ve given her.” He gazes down at her. “Thank you.”
“You are helping me, remember? This is the least I could do,” I reply.
He holds up a velvet pouch. “It’s ready. As much as it will be.”
My heart lifts with relief.
“Now, little flower, this tonic is essentially a poison.” He places it in my hand. “Are you sure you still want this? You weren’t completely honest about why you wanted it in the first place.”
“I need to know that if I’m ever captured, I can’t be used. That I can kill the arcana in my blood.”
His jaw clenches, but he nods. “In the Matrand Dynasty during periods of unrest, powerful houses had small armies to guard their land, and many were given tiny poison pellets to ingest if taken prisoner. Information required protection at all costs.” He closes my hand around the pouch. “But please only use it if you must. I’d love to see you again when all of this is over, and I know my wife would like to properly meet you under other circumstances.”
I look down, staring at the swollen veins beneath my skin, pulsing like green serpents as the arcana proteins rush through my bloodstream. I think about all the things that they can do: make others beautiful, grow Belles, and now, change me.
If all goes well, I’ll never be taken or used, never have to ingest his poison, never have to take this risk, but I somehow feel comforted as I slip the vial into my pocket.
The weight of it contains the promise of freedom.
I make my way back to the boardinghouse through a wakening city. The aurous glow of Metairie’s gilt-lanterns freckle the salt-white buildings with golden leaves as they’re lit for the morning. The port bells ring, and the first ships move into the harbor.
Carriages start to fill the avenues and lanes. Many empty themselves of well-dressed passengers. Women parade about in billowing gowns made of fur and wool, wearing headdresses and holding all manner of objects for sale. Men wear frock coats with tails that drag along the snow-dusted streets. Heat-lanterns are miniature suns following behind people. Some disappear into glamorous shops and others stop at sweets pavilions offering cold-season treats: spiced teacakes, chrysanthemum-shaped marzipan, snowmelon meringues, hot beignets piled high with sugar, and bourbon tarts. Tiny wisps of steam trail hot mugs of molten caramel and chocolate.
Passersby wear grim expressions, their lips pursed, brows furrowed, as imperial soldiers swarm the crowds, stopping to interrogate people at random. They rustle up merchants and shoo away Gris beggars. Their heavy footsteps create a terrifying melody, and their black armor glistens beneath the cold blue market-lantern light, severe as a murder of crows. Sophia has deployed her entire arsenal to find us.
I lingered too long at the apothecary. I hurry past vendors shouting slogans through slender brass trumpets.
“The Spice Isles grieve. Get the best mourning cameos of Her Majesty Queen Celeste.”
“Vivant scarves that change color—silk, cotton, wool, even velvet. Only sold here!”
“Get your very own replica of Queen Celeste’s mortuary tablets for your family altar.”
“Invisible post-balloons—undetectable for the utmost privacy. Leas-back insurance guarantee. We have the best price.”
I adjust the mask on my face. Sweat soaks through the lace and velvet.
A trio of guards steps into my path.
I avoid them, making a sharp left into the seedier areas of the market—the part Rémy warned us to avoid. Gris women and men hold signs begging for food, leas coins, and spintria. Others with skin nearing gray and hair poking like straw out of their hats skulk about toting tattered baskets and peddling shoddy wares. Shopkeepers and stall owners chase them away to make the passageways clear for customers.
“Make way for the Orléans Press Corps,” someone yells. “The morning reports are in!”
Newsies swarm the market like the rush of snow flurries that have started to fall. They thrust their papers about, the animated ink scrambling to hold on to their headlines, and their screams assault my ears.
“From the Orléansian Times,” one shouts. “Must be indoors at three hours after sunset! Imperial curfew moved up until dangerous fugitives caught!”
“The Daily Spice Sentinel states if the poor can be beautiful, what’s the point?! Beauty lobbyists petition new queen for spintria increase,” another hollers.
I press my hands to the sides of my head as I rush through the throng of bodies but can’t block out their voice-trumpets.
“The Trianon Tribune first to report. New imperial law decree straight from the Minister of Law and Her Majesty. Any person caught with beauty work that mirrors the looks of the criminals will be fined and jailed.”
“The Imperial Inquirer is holding the most lucrative kingdom-wide lottery,” one boasts. “Place your bets! Guess the date when the fugitive Belles will be caught. Pot is up to twenty thousand spintria for the most accurate prediction. A bonus of five thousand for location of capture.”
“The Chrysanthemum Chronicle has the exclusive—Queen Sophia’s wedding to Minister of the Seas’ youngest son, Auguste Fabry, will take place on the first warm day of the new year!”
The sound of his name is a punch to the chest.
I stop. Bodies shove into me.
“Move out of the way,” one complains.
“Keep going!” another says.
“No standing here,” a third barks.
Memories of Auguste—the clever smile in his eyes, the way his too-long hair always escaped the knot he put it in, the taste of his lips—flood through my arms and legs and stomach, creating a circle around my heart where the warmth of it all hardens like glass ready to shatter.
I remember his touch. I hear him whisper my name. I can almost see him standing there before me in the masses: shoulders arrogant and pulled back, the pitch of his voice full of confidence, and everyone turning to listen to every word he has to say.
The thoughts fill me with rage.
“Get away from my stall,” a cardamom merchant shrieks, startling me. “You’re blocking customers.” She thumps a porcelain spice scoop on my shoulder, and her sharp voice stamps out Auguste’s image like a candle extinguished.
I step back into the crowd. A second wave of newsies gluts the market.
“We’ve got Her Majesty’s favorite paper, the Herald of Orléans. In eight days on the first day of our new year, the queen is to present the body of her beloved sister, Princess Charlotte, before the court and the people of Orléans. It will signal the start of her Coronation and Ascension celebration. The deceased princess will lie in honor and remembrance.”
My heart all but stops. But Charlotte isn’t dead. What body will she present? A look-alike? How will she forge the identification ink on Charlotte’s neck? Or did Sophia find her before I could, and kill her?
No. I refuse to believe that. This is just one of Sophia’s games. Still, dread rattles me. We have to leave right now and find Charlotte before this lie becomes truth.
I hurry down the street where P
ruzan’s Boardinghouse sits. This news bubbles in my chest, ready to spill out. A blimp skates over my head with fluttering silkscreen banners that hold portraits of my sisters’ faces as well as my own and Rémy’s. They sparkle and flash like lightning trapped on parchment, the sky candles creating bright pictures even in the daylight.
Soldiers choke all the alleys. “Out of the way!” they shout.
“There’s been a sighting of the fugitives!” someone hollers.
My stomach plummets. I push through the bodies and sprint up the creaking staircase into the boardinghouse. Other boarders dart to their rooms as the noise of the soldiers grows louder. I leap up the stairs two at a time to the second floor and rush into our room.
“They’re everywhere,” I whisper, yanking off my mask. “They know we’re here!”
Rémy pulls me inside and presses a finger to his mouth, signaling me to be silent. He goes to the window, glancing out at the street below.
Heavy footsteps reverberate through the house.
“We have to get out of here.” Edel scrambles to pack our things into satchels.
“How did they find us?” Amber asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe the housemistress reported us,” Rémy says. “Hurry.”
I tie my waist-sash around me and tuck the sleepy teacup dragons into it. Shouts echo through the walls.
“Eye-films in and mask on, Amber,” Edel directs.
I fumble to put mine back on, my fingers shaky with nerves.
Rémy touches my shoulder and nods, his quiet confidence a temporary balm.
Amber jams in her eye-films. “I can’t see anything.”
“Blink and they’ll settle,” Edel replies.
Amber struggles to tie on her mask, her eyes watery, her fingers fumbling. The ribbons rip as she pulls them too tight, but there’s no time for me to help her before we’re slipping into the hall behind Rémy.
“All boarders are summoned to the common room,” a voice commands.
“We’ll leave through the kitchens,” Rémy whispers. “Pull your hoods tight.”
The boarders swarm the space with confusion and chaos, allowing us cover to sneak down a back set of stairs. My heart thumps with each step I take. Soldiers rummage through rooms, flipping up beds and snatching open closet doors.
“Any of you found to be harboring fugitives will face the maximum punishment allowed by the Courts of Justice,” a soldier barks. “That’s fifteen days in a starvation box. The Minister of Justice will not be lenient.”
We ease into the kitchen.
A soldier steps out of the pantry. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
Rémy shoves straight through, knocking him to the ground. Another soldier appears in the doorway behind us. I grab the nearest cast-iron skillet and hit him on the head. He crashes into the table.
“Run!” Rémy yells.
Edel pushes through the back door first.
I stumble out with Rémy at my side. We duck behind a carriage just as a scream cuts through the air.
Amber.
Instinctively, I turn back toward her, toward my sister, toward my best friend. She thrashes about in the arms of two soldiers, writhing in their grip.
“We’ve got one of them!” a soldier hollers. “The others must be nearby!”
The world slows around me.
Amber’s wails pierce the air; each one hits me like the stab of a knife.
I start to go to her. Rémy grabs me by the waist. “We have to leave. We’ve already been seen. The longer we linger, the more of them there will be.”
“No.” I wrestle with his tight grip. “We can’t.”
“Camille, he’s right. We’ll all be captured. And they want you the most.” Edel squeezes my chin, forcing me to look at her. “We can’t help her right now. If we’re taken, too, it’s over. We can’t find Charlotte. We can’t fix all of this. We can’t do anything.”
Tears storm down my cheeks.
“We’ll find a way to get her back.”
Edel tugs me forward, toward the dark shadows of the alley, as the guards drag Amber away and she disappears, like a post-balloon snatched by its ribbons.
We weave through Metairie’s network of markets, moving as far away from the boardinghouse as possible. My heart swells with heaviness. What will Sophia do to Amber? Will she torture her? How bad will it be?
“We need to go back for her,” I whisper to Edel. “We should follow them and see where they take her.”
“She lingered behind us,” she replies. “I don’t understand why she’d do that.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “She was struggling to get her mask on.”
Rémy shushes us. “Not out in the open. Too risky. Whatever happened, we’ll discuss it later.”
I turn to him. “Where are we going?”
“To a place where people rarely ask questions.” He pulls his hood tighter, reassembles his mask around his face, and leads the way forward through the crowd. We venture deep inside, headed for its edges, where the city lanterns darken from blues to plums. The cobblestones trail off. Stalls and shops are pitched at strange and rather worrying angles, each having sunk a little too far into the muddied ground. Signs advertise beauty-scopes featuring nude men and women, products claiming to steal another’s beauty, and tonics with the promise of love, money, and fame.
“Prisms for good fortune when the rainy season returns. Trap a rainbow, get good luck from the God of Luck,” a vendor says.
“Wish dolls sold here. Best in the marketplace!” another shouts through a voice-trumpet. “Best in all of the Spice Isles. Exact your revenge. Or make your dreams come true. My pins will unlock it all. I’ve collected the metal myself from the Goddess of Death’s caves!”
“Care to know your future?” A masked woman cuts off my stride.
I almost slam into her. Glass beads dot the veil she wears, and her mask is etched with a curious pink flower. She lifts it and whispers, “A new year and a new moon is coming. The threads of danger slowly thickening. You should draw from my cards.” She fans them out, exposing their hand-drawn faces.
I flinch. Spiderwebs stretch across them. Why does it seem like spiders are following me everywhere this morning?
“No, thank you,” I say, sidestepping her to keep up with Rémy and Edel.
“There is anger around you. I can lift it,” she calls out behind us. “Come back.”
No one can get rid of this fiery cloud.
Rémy heads for a salon that can’t make up its mind if it’s a teahouse, a shop, or a limestone mansion. A tiny door holds a porthole-shaped window and red sill-lanterns sit behind two pairs of windows like glowing eyes. The lip-shaped sign RED VELVET SALON flaps from a gust of wind.
“Is this...” I start to say.
Rémy clears his throat and doesn’t meet my eyes. “A place where no one will search for us. And if they did, the soldiers would be easily distracted.”
“Smart,” Edel says, patting him on the shoulder. “I knew you were good for something.”
He stiffens. “Wait here.” He pulls his mask tight and vanishes up the stairs.
A nervous tremor pulses through me. I look around, alert with adrenaline. Women push a variety of pavilion carts advertising the strongest bourbon pies and the savoriest meat skewers and the perfect ale to warm one’s belly. Men and women stumble in and out of the buildings along the street—some holding bloated purses ready to gamble in the card salons, and others looking for love and companionship. Many readjust their masks to cover garish makeup and hold on to their face embellishments, the trend of jewel-embedded skin very popular here. Gris beggars rush to every available person asking for spare leas and spintria.
“We need to go look for her,” I repeat.
“No,” Edel spits back. “I’m not risking my life for Amber.”
“She’s your sister!”
“She’s your sister.” Edel crosses her arms over her chest. “As far as I’m concerned,
she’s changed.”
A few newsies parade through with their voice-trumpets. Their shouts hit us in heavy waves.
“Buy the Daily Orléansian for exclusive first pictures of construction on Queen Sophia’s new prison being built in the middle of the Royal Harbor,” one cries out.
“Power of Belle blood discovered.”
Edel and I freeze and lock eyes.
“Royal scientists give first interviews about the breakthrough to the queen’s favorite newspaper, the National.” The newsie waves around a reel. “Watch it now.”
“Disgraced Guardian of the Belles, Madam Ana Maria Lange Du Barry missing. Report just released via the Orléansian Times.”
The sound of Du Barry’s name sends a shudder through me. I step forward to buy the paper, but Edel grabs my arm and shakes her head. I stand frozen beside her as the newsies’ headlines hit us one after the other. “Did you hear that? About Du Barry?”
“She could be found at the bottom of the Rose Bayou for all I care.” Edel points up. Blimps skate overhead with silkscreen banners holding our pictures. No longer Amber’s portrait. The leas reward has doubled.
The sight of it makes my heart somersault.
It happened so fast.
“We should buy the papers, then go back for Amber. I know you and she have never been the closest, but she—”
“I saw what she did,” Edel says.
“What?”
“A leaked newsreel circulated after Sophia’s lady-of-honor Claudine died. I watched that arcana challenge Sophia made the two of you participate in at her dinner party. The tattlers had it until Sophia threatened to shut down the press and made them come before the Minister of News.”
The memory of that night hits me in waves:
Claudine’s vacant eyes.
Claudine’s slack mouth.
Claudine’s dead body.
“I saw how she acted. She wouldn’t stop. She was the same old Amber. Always needing to win. You tried to stop her. I saw the pain on your face.”
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 3