“The new queen wants this place up and running again,” she yells at someone I can’t see. “There will be more Belles than ever before. All rooms will be occupied like in the olden days, she said. As if she has any idea what the olden days were really like. As if any of us do. Complete incompetence.”
Anxiety thrums through me.
I exchange tense glances with Edel and Rémy. My stomach becomes a storm of nausea. A thin trickle of blood escapes my nose. I grab a handkerchief and wipe it away.
“She’s already trying to decide which of the newest generation of Belles will be favored and placed at the teahouses. They’re still young girls. I went to have a look at them. They barely know how to do anything with Du Barry gone. But either way, I want top pick, so this place has to be in the best shape. I’m learning our new queen likes to be impressed, and I want to show her that this will be the premier teahouse in all of Orléans. Maybe she’ll even let me open up a secondary one to complement it. Now is the time to expand the teahouses. It’ll allow us to serve more people.” The woman’s voice trails off and she disappears from view.
“Your glamour is gone,” Edel whispers. “You have to focus.”
“I can’t,” I reply. “My nose keeps bleeding.”
“Try again,” she says.
“We don’t have time,” Rémy whispers. “We have to go.”
“I’ll lead the way out,” Edel says.
“No, I will,” Rémy replies. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
Edel scoffs and jams the remaining vials of Belle-rose elixir into her already full dress pockets.
Rémy slips into the hall. I hold my breath until he returns. He waves for us to follow. Night-lanterns coast through the halls now, and the sounds of tinkling glass and running water reverberate within the house.
We navigate the corridors as quick and light as mice. The servant door is propped open and the moonlight is a beacon ahead.
We run.
A man steps out of a nearby room. He wears an imperial guard uniform like the one Rémy used to wear. “Hold it right there! No one is supposed to be in here,” he shouts. “Just who are—”
Rémy slams right through him. The impact sends the man flying into a banister, and he passes out from the fall.
“Maybe Rémy’s good to have around after all,” Edel says.
“Keep going,” Rémy shouts.
We tumble down the servant staircase and back outside. Guards stand in the center of the square. They whip around and march in our direction.
“We have to split up to throw them off. Edel, go back to our room and get the teacup dragons and anything else you can’t spare. Camille, go into a shop and wait until they start hollering about the curfew,” Rémy says. “Once you see them harassing people about getting home, the chaos will afford you some cover. Then meet me at the docks. Pier seven. Ship doesn’t leave until midnight, so we have time.”
“But—” Edel argues.
“Listen to him,” I snap.
Edel’s mouth drops open to protest, but she nods.
Rémy squeezes my arm before ducking into the alley. Edel bolts in the opposite direction. I glance around. Many shopkeepers blow out their window-lanterns and close for the night. A chilling panic fills me as I search for somewhere to hide.
I turn to run for the Market Quartier, but guards swarm in as if from nowhere and block my path.
I’m trapped.
I mop the sweat from my brow and try to will my heart to slow down. I take a deep breath and pretend to be an aristocratic lady out shopping past curfew.
“Shops are closing. Start making your way home,” a guard barks into a voice-trumpet. “Only those with curfew passes can remain out.”
I’ve lost my glamour. I fumble with tying my mask. The guards call out behind me, but I don’t stop or change my pace. The aristocratic women wave off their demands, seemingly unafraid. I try to mimic them and fill my motions with their confidence. I fold into a small crowd of people in line at a sweets pavilion. They complain as I push, accidentally knocking their bourbon pies to the ground.
Fardoux’s Teacup Emporium sits in the center of the winding avenue. It’s the only shop still alive with light. Gilt-lanterns dangle above the door like shooting stars caught by their tails. Three WANTED posters stretch across the large glass window: one for Edel, one for Rémy, and one for me.
I turn the doorknob. A bell chimes as I step inside.
It’s empty.
The room’s crackling hearth sends its warmth through the space. Sunset-pink walls hold shelves full of teacup pets in golden cages. Tiny elephants sport painted chrysanthemums on their sides, little hippos wear red bow ties, small tigers and lions play with their pearl necklaces, miniature monkeys throw pastel balls to one another, and a zebra no bigger than my shoe prances through the shop. We learned that many of these animals used to be massive—oftentimes, the size of carriages or as tall as buildings—but the early queens of Orléans bargained with the God of the Ground for more palatable companions.
I find a mirror and adjust my mask, now battered from overuse, bunch my hair into my hood, and smooth the front of my crumpled dress. My outsides can’t reflect the panic of my insides.
“Hoot!” a tiny teacup owl squeaks.
I jump.
The bird waddles across a nearby perch, and its eyes, big as leas coins, follow my every move.
A man pops out from behind a curtain. “Madam, may I take your coat and show you some of our newest pets? We don’t have much time before the guards rush in here and remind me it’s time to close to obey the nonsense curfew. I’ve lost so much business because of it, but I’m so happy you’ve found your way here despite the trouble. I have some excellent arrivals from the imperial island. And ones you can only get here. A sloth to fit in your palm. A panda for your pocket.” The shopkeeper slides from behind a counter, grinning with a perfectly waxed mustache that curls into tiny spirals at the end. He’s powdered and white like a fresh cream pastry hot from the oven. His waistcoat hugs his chest too tight, forcing his stomach to spill out of the bottom. “A honey bear for your boudoir.”
I start to speak.
“Oh, wait. Let me guess. This is my favorite part. Matching teacup pets and owners. And by the looks of you, I think I have the perfect fit. Just in today. One moment.”
He disappears into another room, and I’m grateful. Less time having to talk to him and more time to hide inside away from the guards.
I steal glances at the glass door, hoping the guards have cleared out so I can get to the docks, but they seem to be everywhere. In the windows, the backs of the WANTED posters also hold our images. There’s no escaping our faces, not for any citizen of Orléans. It’s a miracle we’ve yet to be caught. I squeeze my eyes shut and steady my breaths. I think about sneaking back out on the street before he returns. But the guards thicken in number as they shut down the sweets pavilion and step into nearby shops. In only a few moments, they’ll be in here.
“It’s a half hourglass past curfew. All must return home.” The voice-trumpet warning echoes through the shop.
That’s my cue, but there are so many guards on the street I won’t be able to leave without being stopped.
The shopkeeper returns with a tiny Belle-rose-red flamingo.
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t need a teacup pet.”
He frowns. “Then why are you here?”
The stupidity of my statement slaps me in the face. I stutter, searching for a reason. “I need a supply of mice, or better yet, rats. And alive, please. I have a teacup pet at home already that needs feeding.”
“I can’t hear you well due to your mask. Will you take it off? I don’t suppose your makeup needs protection indoors, and I assure you there are no newsies hiding in here ready to snap a picture.”
“I have a terrible and highly contagious illness,” I say, remembering what Rémy told the post-balloon merchant.
He arches back and a deep flush colors his white c
heeks.
“I just need mice or rats,” I repeat. “And then I will leave you in peace.”
“How many? I’ll have to check my supplies. My little snakes have been eating so many lately.”
“A week’s supply for a newborn drag—I mean, lion. Yes, my sweet little lion.” I cringe. I’m making a mess of Rémy’s plan.
“Hmm, teacup lions often prefer pig meat. Mice are full of bones.”
“Give me both then.” I set leas coins on the counter. The purse is so light, I’m afraid if the Fashion Minister doesn’t help us or we can’t sell any of the stolen Belle-products, we won’t have enough left to buy food.
He stares at me a beat too long, then fishes in his pocket to retrieve a quizzing glass. He scrunches his nose and puts it up to his eye to examine me. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Have you come in my shop before? I never forget a voice.”
My stomach binds itself. “Impossible. My husband and I only just arrived today on the queen’s tide.” Sweat drips down my forehead. My pulse races. “And if you would please, sir, hurry. My pet is ravenous after the long journey.”
He grumbles but shuffles into the back.
I glance at the street thinking I should just run out of here while he’s gone, but the guards are hustling people in lines to check them.
I hold my breath until he returns with a small cage of sleeping mice and a paper-wrapped parcel.
“Thank you,” I say, checking the guard count outside the window again.
“They’ll be quiet for a while. I’ve given them a little lavender-infused cheese.” He eyes me again. “You seem so familiar to me... but I can’t place it. My wife would say it’s the brandy. The weather has me indulging.”
I grab the cage and parcel. I turn toward the door, but he cuts off the path.
“I think I know you.” He scratches his beard. “You have the shape and voice of...”
“Geneviève Gareau. Yes, I know. The famous opera singer. The princess’s—excuse me, I mean, now, the queen’s—favorite artist.” The word favorite almost burns my tongue. The arcana hiss beneath my skin, ready to protect me. My eyes dart all around. “I get that a lot since I, sadly, copy a lot of the most popular beauty looks. I should probably be more creative.”
The door snaps open behind the shopkeeper, startling him.
“I’ve been looking for you all over,” Rémy says. He wears a garish hat that covers most of his head and cups his cheeks. “Please excuse my wife, she has a penchant for teacup pets.” He slides his arm around my waist. Heat ripples out from his touch. “I can’t let you out of my sight, it seems. You’ll get us both fined for being out late, and this poor man will get a business infraction for keeping the shop open to cater to your whims.”
I scowl at him, and he winks.
The man steps to the side and eyes Rémy with curiosity and suspicion.
“Have you spent our entire fortune and gotten everything you need?”
“Yes.” I nod.
“Thank you for taking such good care of her.” Rémy does a little bow and opens the shop door.
“Wait!” the shopkeeper yells behind us.
“Hurry up, wife,” Rémy says with a sheepish grin.
A smile bursts across my face. He can’t see it behind my mask, but I wish he could.
Rémy and I dash out of the shop and into the nearest alley. I suck in a deep breath and hold Maman’s image in my head again. The arcana in my veins turn cold and piercing, worse than the gathering wind around us.
He lifts his mask, his eyes comb over my face as if searching for me.
“It’s still me.”
He shrugs, then peeks out at the street, noting the number of guards.
“Ready?” I say, taking his hand.
He nods.
We lock arms, ease back into the crowd and right past the guards, headed to the pier.
The sea looks almost black from the ship’s portholes. The dark stretches out like a blanket. We could sail to the end of the God of the Sea’s ocean and be in the caves of the dead before we knew any better. Edel and I huddle in our steerage-class seats paid for by three complexion-crèmes we’d stolen from the teahouse. We are desperately trying to hide inside our thick hoods to keep warm. Rémy stands close by, jaw clenched, watching every person who passes.
Edel moans in her sleep, the sea’s rough current making her sick. I pull her hair back and stroke her sweaty neck. The five teacup dragons curl in my dress skirts, the heat of them like tiny coals. I wonder how Fantôme is faring, and I miss her presence. Her being so far away kicks up a thousand worries.
I add another pair of leeches beneath Edel’s jaw, hoping it’ll rebalance her levels and battle the seasickness.
“How long’s the trip to the Silk Isles? I should get her something,” I whisper to Rémy.
“It’s the second port stop. Carondelet is about two more hourglasses,” he says. “We’ll arrive as the sun rises.”
I stand up, steadying myself against the low slanted ceiling.
“I’m coming with you,” he replies.
“We can’t leave her alone.”
Edel swats at me, only semi-awake. “Go. I’ll...be...fine....”
Rémy and I walk slowly through the narrow aisles, trying to hold ourselves straight as the ship rocks like a cradle caught on a stormy current. Cold air blasts me as we reach the top deck. I lift my mask, welcoming the air beneath its lace and velvet threads. It has kept me safe up until now, but it’s starting to suffocate me. The deck spreads out long and flat. Carriage-shaped cabins sit in rows like jeweled plums along a center promenade. Rich courtiers sleep in comfortable beds or peer out of windows through eye-scopes at the ocean expanse or the stars above.
A midnight sky looms over us, full of warning and promise.
“Fresh barley water for seasickness,” a vendor calls out.
“Sailor cakes straight from the hearth. Red bean, pork, and saltfish,” another offers.
I buy a cup of barley water for Edel. The purse of leas given to us by Arabella is about empty. Twenty coins left. We’ll run out of money by tomorrow. The Fashion Minister has to help us. We need a cushion. We can’t only rely on the hope of selling more Belle products.
Very few people walk along the ship’s promenade. We find a corner to stand in.
“Look,” Rémy points out. “You can see the lantern-houses along the coast.”
The tiny pinpricks of light glow like trapped stars in the distance.
“It’s beautiful,” he says.
“Nothing is beautiful anymore.”
“She wins if you let her take everything. Even momentary happiness.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again. I don’t know if I want to be now that I know all these things.” I shiver as a gust of wind hits us.
He steps closer. Warmth radiates from him like a heat-lantern. “There are people in this kingdom who have had to live with worse.”
I scoff.
He leans closer; his voice drops an octave. “I’m not trying to be an ass, but think about what you read in the Spider’s Web. Many have dealt with the ugliness of this world for a long time.”
“You don’t understand.” A flare of anger erupts inside me.
“I will probably never fully understand, but I’m seeing new things, too. Parts of this kingdom that I never knew existed. I didn’t know what life was really like for you, for Belles. They taught us you were here to serve—like us—but always made it seem like you weren’t real. You were poppets and dolls to be used—not people. That we weren’t the same.”
I squeeze the nearest railing. The cold presses through my gloves.
“There are so many lies,” he says.
I don’t want to talk to him about this anymore. The teacup dragons stir in my pouch. “Maybe we should go back down to Edel. They seem cold,” I say, trying to still the movements, but they clamber out of the pouch.
Rémy helps me secure them; gently tucking their small head
s back into the waist-sash. The feel of his strong hands makes me want to lean into him, want to kiss him, want to erase all the worries and responsibilities—only for a moment.
His eyes find mine, the connection a thread thickening between us.
The dragons squirm again. I break eye contact and glance down. “No flying right now,” I whisper hard.
Rémy tries to block me from the view of others on the ship’s promenade.
Poivre wrestles from my grip and bolts over my head.
“Oh no,” I say, trying to wave him back.
Rémy points up. “But look who it is.”
Fantôme circles one of the ship’s bows like a tiny cloud lost from the sky. Poivre chases her, a burst of red flame.
I whistle. Fantôme soars down to me and licks my face with her hot tongue. “Good girl. I’ve missed you, petite.” A silver ribbon is tied around her neck like it’s a bow and she’s the present.
Rémy catches Poivre and slips him back into my waist-sash. He squeaks, and a hiccup of fire escapes his mouth, catching Rémy’s finger. Rémy curses at him.
I attempt—unsuccessfully—to hold in a laugh.
Rémy’s scowl melts into a grin.
I undo the ribbon around Fantôme’s neck, and she dives into my waist-sash, reuniting with the rest of the teacup dragons, and the new one, Ryra. They nuzzle each other with recognition and start to tussle playfully.
I use some of Edel’s barley water and sprinkle the post-balloon, so it’s easier to see.
I rip open the back of it and fish out a note, a pair of half-dead sangsues, and a book.
A Belle-book.
It’s inscribed with arabella flowers.
I hand it to Rémy, then fumble with the scrolled note, struggling to open it.
He reads over my shoulder.
Camille and Edel,
I understand why you needed a confirmation.
The answer to your questions:
1. My miroir métaphysique.
2. I fed one of your old sangsues to Ryra.
Watch the headlines in the morning. The early bird newsies will break the story that Sophia has taken Padma, Valerie, Hana, and Amber to her prison. But they aren’t there. She brought them to the Royal Infirmary at the palace for a medical examination, but they were only here for five hourglasses’ worth of time before she had them scattered all over Orléans again, reopening the teahouses secretly. Valerie is in the Silk Isles, Padma is at Maison Rouge, Hana in the Fire Isles, and Amber is in the Glass Isles. I don’t know how long they’ll stay there. Or if she’ll continue to move them around like chess pieces.
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 8