I flip forward.
Date: Day 3,432 at court
The ministers have been holed up in the Royal Law Room of the Imperial Library for two days straight. Beds were brought in, and they were forced to work through the night on the new set of beauty laws to be passed after Sophia’s Coronation and Ascension to the throne. I sneaked onto the balcony to listen to them argue. I caught some of the rules on the docket:
Citizens will be required to register their beauty work with the cabinet, including but not limited to installation of imperial cameos in every household for monitoring.
Beauty capital (an individual’s ability to present themself) shall be measured with a rating rubric (scores given monthly from the Beauty Minister). High marks will be rewarded by the monarchy, for Orléans will be full of only beautiful things.
No woman shall be more beautiful than the sitting queen.
The debates over a new beauty price list was next on their agenda. The new Minister of Belles, Georgiana Fabry, insisted the prices go up. Beauty lobbyists backed her desires, but other ministers disagreed, claiming it will create disenfranchisement.
The price list was now segmented by arcana.
MANNER:
ALL PERSONALITY ADJUSTMENTS 1,750
TALENT:
TIER ONE PHYSICAL PROWESS 3,750
TIER TWO ARTISTIC 4,270
TIER THREE SKILL 5,980
AURA:
SURFACE MODIFICATIONS:
HAIR COLOR 105
HAIR TEXTURE 126
EYE COLOR RESTORATION 50
EYE SHAPE ADJUSTMENT 60
SKIN COLOR RESTORATION 90
DEEP MODIFICATIONS:
FACE:
CHEEKBONE SCULPTING 4,000
MOUTH PLACEMENT AND SHAPE 3,000
EAR PLACEMENT AND SHAPE 3,000
BODY:
LEG AND ARM SCULPTING 4,500
STOMACH, BREASTS, TORSO SCULPTING 6,100
HIPS AND REAR SHAPING 7,000
NECK AND SHOULDER SMOOTHING 3,000
HAND AND FEET ADJUSTMENT 2,000
AGE:
SKIN TIGHTENING 125
WRINKLE REMOVAL 200
I turn back to the beginning of the book.
Date: Day 2,198 at court
I feel terrible about what I did today. The nurses started taking more of my blood now, too much for it to just be to check my arcana levels. They wouldn’t tell me why. Claimed it was to keep me healthy. When one of the nurses, Zaire, came into my bedroom with her cart of needles and vials, I restrained her and made her tell me what they were using my blood for.
She called me the aether, one of the everlasting roses. I thought back to when I was a little girl curled up in my maman’s lap with one of the storybooks from the library at Maison Rouge. I can still see the cover—a rose with petals of every color and a gilded stem. Its pages told the tale of the Goddess of Beauty’s gardens, and the rare everlasting roses, grown from aether seeds in order to birth the other roses.
I don’t know what this means.
The late-morning headlines pour through the window and interrupt my reading.
“The National, second paper off the presses. Countess Madeleine Rembrant of House Glaston jailed by the queen for stealing Belle-products from Trianon’s premier shop, Sugar Rose.”
“Beauty pamphlets Dulce and Sucré both report that plum buns will most certainly sweep the Glass Isles—maybe the entire kingdom—after famed opera singer Geneviève Gareau sported a full derriere at her last concert. If only the teahouses were open.”
“We should go line up,” I say, wanting to get away from the headlines and this room. I tuck the teacup dragons in my pouch and add Arabella’s Belle-book to my satchel. “We have an hour left.”
Edel shrugs but pulls herself off the bed.
More headlines drift inside, like incessant waves threatening to swallow us.
“Just in from the Orléansian Times, Belles officially labeled property of the kingdom of Orléans, entrusted to its monarch. Hiding them is now considered treason against the crown with the penalty death by starvation box.”
I flinch.
“Property?” Edel says, gritting her teeth.
“We’ve always been that,” I reply, the truth hardening me from the inside out.
“The Silk Post learns that the queen is labeling any and all rumors of her sister’s recovery as false press. She is still planning the funeral and memorial for her beloved sister. Her body is to be presented on the first day of the new year as planned.”
Rémy pulls on his cloak.
“Papers,” a voice hollers from the hall. The thud of the bundle hits the floor outside our door.
We can’t escape the news.
Edel peeks into the hall and swipes them. Her eyes scan over the headlines. “Arabella was right. Here’s the report about our sisters—‘Favored Belles Padma, Hana, Valerie, and Amber locked in the Rose.’” She shows me the pictures. Amber grips the rose-shaped bars, shouting through them, her hair a wild storm around her head. We turn the page, quickly, sending the animated ink scurrying to settle. “But, Rémy...”
Rémy turns from the window. “What is it?”
“Your family,” she stammers out.
He takes the paper from her and scans the pages. His eyes fill with anguish. “I have to go.”
“What is it?” I rush to his side.
Animated pictures of Rémy’s family fill the front page under the headlines:
THE FAMILY OF THE TRAITOROUS IMPERIAL GUARD—ACCOMPLICE TO FUGITIVE BELLES—IDENTIFIED AND TAKEN INTO CUSTODY
His three sisters, Adaliz, Mirabelle, and Odette, are chained and being carted off. His veiled mother follows behind with her head bowed. His father tussles with the imperial guards. The three girls sob, a storm of tears flooding their dark brown cheeks.
I remember the depth of their smiles and the sound of their voices and how they gazed at Rémy like he would be their hero forever.
Rémy immediately starts packing the few things he’s amassed since being on the run.
“You can’t leave without me changing you,” I say.
“I don’t like being changed and there’s no time,” he says.
“You have to. The guards will capture you the second you get to Trianon, if not sooner.” I quickly prepare the bed for beauty work, pulling back the sheets and fluffing the pillows.
“And you need food,” Edel adds. “I’ll go buy some bread, nuts, and hard cheese. Things that should last you.”
My heart is warmed by her willingness to put aside their rivalry and help him.
“No. I’ll be fine,” he replies. “All your money will be gone....”
Edel is already out the door.
“Your image will be plastered all over, and more prominent than the old Wanted posters, now,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I’m leaving you and Edel my maps. I have them all committed to memory. They’ll help you navigate every inch of Orléans. The ink updates as the master maps in Trianon are updated.” He heads for the door.
I grab his arm. “You’re not leaving here unless I change you.”
Rémy stares me down, but I don’t budge and finally, he sighs. “You know all of this is unnecessary, right? I know how to stay undercover. I have that hair powder to cover the stripe.”
“I need to do this,” I tell him. “I need to do what I can to keep you safe.”
I light a fire in our tiny cookstove and fill a small, chipped teapot with water from our room basin. The noise of the hissing flames and the gurgle of bubbles smothers his protests. I take out the caisse Arabella packed for us and retrieve dried Belle-rose leaves to steep into the pot. My hands work fast setting out all the beauty instruments we have—a set of miniature skin-paste pots, metal rods, and charcoal pencils. I combine them with the items we pilfered from the Spice Teahouse. The small collection isn’t even a fraction of the supplies we once had.
My eyes close and I remember the shelves upon sh
elves of beauty products at Maison Rouge and the Belle-apartments. The scent of pastilles and wax and candles fills my nose, and I’m almost back there.
But when I open my eyes again it’s just this small room.
“Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.”
He grumbles but complies. The heavy thud of his boots hitting the floor sends a nervous shiver through me. We’ve been cooped up in small spaces together for all these days, and I’ve never seen his feet. Or any of him for that matter. He’s only allowed me to use the hair powder to cover his silver stripe.
I turn around to give him privacy as he undresses but can still feel his each and every move. A tiny fire sparks in my stomach.
The bed squeaks as he climbs into it.
“Are you ready?” I bring over a cup of Belle-rose tea and set it on the nightstand.
“As much as I will be.” He’s tucked himself under the quilts, and his long dark arms lie on top of them.
I laugh.
His brow furrows. “What is it?”
“You’re too far under the blankets. How am I supposed to work on you?”
“Oh.”
“Just lie across the bed and drape the cover over...you know...”
“I know,” he says quickly.
I wait.
“Are you going to turn around?”
“Shy, are we?” My cheeks flame.
He sighs.
I pivot my back to him. My heart flutters like the tiny candle inside the night-lantern between us.
“Done,” he replies.
His long legs dangle over the edge of the bed like great brown trunks of muscle threaded with streaks of gray. But he’s beautiful without his clothes on, even marbled with the sad color.
“What will you do?” he asks.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing if I could help it, but I’m guessing you don’t take no for an answer.”
I touch the scar that hooks under his right eye. His skin is warm and soft.
“I’d like to keep that,” he says.
I pull back quickly. “It’s pretty distinguishable.”
“It’s been with me since I was born. Well, according to my mother. It was part of my natural template. It reminds me of her.”
“All right.”
“I like my skin color. The darker the better.”
“Anything else?”
“Longer hair, maybe?” he says.
“I’ll give you little girl ringlets.”
The edges of his mouth curve into a reluctant smile.
I wink at him and coat him with bei powder. The white flakes cover him like sugar dust on a molasses tart. I smooth them across his limbs with a brush. He watches my every move, his stare intense and like he’s trying to listen to my thoughts. My hands shake with nerves.
I close my eyes. The arcana awaken easily, rising to meet my call. A rush of heat lifts from my stomach, and it feels like it’s both my gifts and something else. My blood races through me. Beads of sweat dot my forehead. The veins in my body pulse, and my heart picks up its rhythm. I pretend that I’m home in the safety of one of the Aura lesson rooms. I pretend that all that’s happened never came to pass. I pretend that Rémy is a regular customer here to see me for a routine session. His form appears in the darkness of my mind.
I darken his hair to the color of midnight. I lengthen the tight curls into long coils, then knit them together like soft yarn until they fall over his shoulder in a thousand tiny ropes. I deepen the brown of his skin color.
I stare down at him and a smile erupts through me. I can still see him inside this new outer form. I didn’t want to lose all the things I loved about the way he’d chosen to look.
He bites his bottom lip.
“I’m finished. Need tea for the pain?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” he replies.
“But you’re scowling.”
“That’s not the reason.” He sits up. The heavy sound of his breathing extends between us. My heart flutters like a trapped bird. He smells like ink, leather, and me. His breath hits my shoulder, sending a tickle down my spine. Thoughts of him jump around in my head like bubbles in a champagne glass: his hands around my waist, his nose buried in my hair, the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth.
I shudder.
“What’s wrong?” His gaze pins me in place, then slides around me, hugging all my edges. His eyes almost swallow me whole, moving from my face, down the lines of my neck, and slope of my chest where the mirror sits, awaiting all his questions.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Use the mirror,” he says.
I press a hand to my chest. “I already trust you.”
“Just do it, so you’ll never ever question it.” He runs a finger along the path of the chain on my neck, his finger pressing into my skin, leaving behind a trail of heat.
I pull the mirror from beneath my dress, then prick my finger with a pushpin from my beauty caisse. He watches as I rub the blood in the mirror’s handle. The grooves soak with it. The liquid climbs to the top, bathes the roses, and the glass fills with an image of his face—kind eyes, a perpetual half-smile, and a creased and serious brow. I can feel him—his strength and loyalty, his selflessness and protective instinct, his affection for me. The overwhelming power of it surges through me.
“What do you see?” he asks, searching my face.
“I don’t want you to go.” My voice breaks. Silent and unruly tears breach the fragile wall holding them in.
I wipe them away.
He looks at me, then reaches his fingers to my face, his hands heavy yet gentle. I don’t flinch. I don’t move away from his touch. His thumb catches a tear beside my mouth. He doesn’t stop wiping until they stop falling. The warmth of his hand seeps into my skin.
“You make me feel safe,” I say.
He leans forward. “And you make me feel the same.” His whisper gets tangled in my hair. “But safety is never permanent. I suppose like beauty, it’s unpredictable.”
More tears well in my eyes. Different ones this time. I don’t know what this wild feeling is. I want him to touch me again. I want him to kiss me. I want to know what that feels like. A seam inside me starts to rip, taunting me with all that could happen if I let him in.
“I have to go,” he whispers. “You will be fine without—”
I touch his face, then press my mouth to his, shoving those words back in, and knowing that we can’t be together, knowing he has to leave, knowing that our joke about being married was just that—a joke. Still, a blush blooms in my cheeks.
He freezes.
I pull back. My heart does a nervous tumble. His eyes gaze into mine.
A pocket of silence encapsulates us, the edges of it expanding and stretching throughout the room.
Neither of us moves.
I search his eyes for the answer to the kiss. Would he ever want me in that way? Have I crossed a line with him? Did I misinterpret what I saw in the mirror? Am I allowed to have these feelings?
I open my mouth to try to say something. The words I’m sorry tumble out.
He runs his hand along the curve of my neck and cups my face in his hands. I sink into him. He kisses me gentle and soft. All the worries about whether he wants me drift off like post-balloons.
We kiss until our lips tingle.
“I don’t want you to go.” My voice drowns with fear.
“I don’t want to go either.” His mouth softens and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “But I have to.”
“What if it’s a trap?” I ask.
“Then I’ll work my way out of it.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“I know the palace inside and out.” He pushes back one of my frizzy curls. “You should find Charlotte, get your sisters, and meet me there. We can end this together.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering.
“You’ll always know I’m safe.” He fishes three leeches from
the perforated jar and puts them along his forearm. “Send the gold dragon for me. She’s my favorite.” With his other arm, he removes a small sheathed dagger from his pocket, the handle white as bone and encrusted with pearls. “Keep this on you always. Even when asleep. Use it without hesitation.” He puts the belt around my waist and buckles it. “And lastly, these.” He takes his leather-bound maps from his pocket. “Carry these. They will reveal the details of each city you go to. They were developed by the Minister of War himself.”
“Won’t you need them?” I ask, removing the leeches as they tug and gorge on the blood in his thick veins.
I open the caisse of sangsues and remove a small empty jar. I use a tiny quill to label it with his name, put the leeches inside, then tuck it back into the compartment beside the leeches Arabella sent.
“I’m going to the palace. I know that place. Trust me.”
I lean forward and rest my forehead against his.
We look at each other as if there’s a rope suspended between us throbbing and pulsing, pulled tight by our shared circumstance. He flashes a smile so devastating and heartbreaking, one that tells me that this might be the last time we see each other.
I kiss him until we run out of breath.
Through the bedroom window, I watch Rémy disappear into the midday crowds. People shift around his broad shoulders and tall frame in an almost synchronized rhythm as if they know he’s important. He strides forward through the world unafraid that there might be someone hunting him around every corner. He doesn’t glance back even though I wish he would.
I need to see his face one more time. In case it’s my last.
My worries congeal into a lump in my throat. I try to follow him with my eyes for as long as I can. The memory of his mouth buzzes along my lips until it’s replaced by a terrible feeling like a too-tight hug. The desire for him to stay tugs at me. A tiny voice whispers: Rémy leaving is a bad idea. This is what Sophia wants.
But I know he can’t stay. His duty is to his family. Without them, there’d be no him.
Edel bursts back in the room with a small parcel. “He left? And without his food?”
I burst. Tears stream down my cheeks. She sweeps me into her arms.
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 10