I call their names. They dive toward me and tuck themselves back in my waist-sash.
“They’re beautiful,” Auguste says.
I don’t acknowledge his compliment. I don’t even look at him.
Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Mouth pressed into a frown.
He leads us to an entry flanked by guards. They nod and let us pass. Tunnels branch off in several directions. The remnants of decadent spaces are laid open: skeletal chair frames, broken tables, blankets of dust. I can imagine the cavernous halls filled with light and warmth and bodies and laughter.
We reach a set of doors, and a guard opens them. An old receiving room sprawls out before us. Gold-flecked walls soar to our left and right, touching at high ceilings and lofty peaks. The space is divided into sections—a bedroom, a workshop, and a parlor. Cerulean healing-lanterns leave blue-tinted streaks scattered about. A dark-haired woman hunches over a worktable mixing liquids into vials and pressing herbs along parchment paper. The massive fireplace roars with light beside a bed.
The woman looks up at me, her piercing eyes so pale and gray they shine like silver coins. Deep wrinkles ring her colorless mouth, and gray streaks her hair and lingers right beneath her skin.
Lady Zurie Pelletier. The dead queen’s beloved.
“Camellia.” She rushes to me, wrapping me in a hug. She smells of medicinal pastes. “What are you doing here?”
“Camellia is here to help,” Lady Arane answers before I can.
Lady Pelletier pulls back and inspects me, cupping her warm hand beneath my chin. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
Lady Arane removes her cloaks and orders her Iron Ladies to post at the doors with the other guards.
Lady Pelletier takes my hand. “You’re the reason our Charlotte is awake. You must meet Her Majesty now that she can speak.”
Hope springs to life inside me. I realize I didn’t fully believe until now. She sweeps me forward to the bed and pulls the curtains back. A night-lantern escapes the bed’s canopy. “My darling, we have an important visitor,” Lady Pelletier says.
Charlotte glances up from reading a book. Her eyes are bright, yellowed by the lantern light and glistening with sickness. Thin brown curls spread over her frail shoulders, and the once bald patches on her head have started growing back in. Lady Pelletier leans down and kisses her forehead.
“Your Majesty,” I say with a bow.
Charlotte’s eyes drift over me, taking me in. The teacup dragons climb from my waist-sash and onto my shoulders. She marvels at them, and me.
“You look different from the pictures,” she replies, her voice soft and so very different than Sophia’s.
“Better or worse?” I ask.
A smile plays across her lips. “My sister has a way of making everyone look bad in the papers—and Wanted posters.” She reaches out a hand to me. I slip mine into hers, and her bony fingers feel like a pile of twigs. “I owe you my life.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Better but still weak,” she responds.
Lady Pelletier stares down at her, stroking the top of her head. “We’re doing whatever it takes to get her strong for the days ahead, for her to take her rightful place.”
Charlotte takes a deep, labored breath, air rattling in her chest.
“We will get you well, petite.” Lady Pelletier pats Charlotte’s hand, then turns to me. “Your sister Padma has been using sangsues to draw the remaining poison out of her.”
My heart flickers. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the next room, resting. I’ll show you.” Lady Pelletier sweeps me from Charlotte’s bedside.
I follow her into a bedroom reminiscent of our apartments at Maison Rouge. A large bed sits in the back corner beside an open window. Behind a silkscreen, Padma sleeps in a smaller bed, her black hair a mess over the pillows like a spilled ink jar.
I almost trip over my dresskirts as I run to her. “Padma!”
She wakes with a jump. Her sluggish eyes brighten. “Camille!”
I almost fall into her arms, enveloping myself in the scent of her—flowers and powders and home.
I hold my breath to keep from crying, then my words rush out in sputters. “Are you all right?”
She looks fine. Tired but fine. Nothing like the condition in which we found Valerie.
“Yes, I am well,” she replies. “And you?”
“Better now!” I tell her. Trembles vibrate through my arms and legs, and I fight to hold on to her, to never be taken from her. A fissure rips inside me, all the worries and stress pouring out of me, all the anger and disappointment and frustration. She strokes my hand. I wish she would tell me everything will be all right like our mamans used to.
But she can’t.
We sit in my tear-soaked happiness.
“I saw the news about Amber, then about Edel,” she says, pulling back. Tears coat her eyes, which are the same color as mine. “Do you think they’re all right?”
“I don’t know.” I wipe my wet cheeks. “They’re being held in the Everlasting Rose. No telling if they’re being tortured, if they’re surviving whatever experiments Sophia is doing on them.”
I open and close my mouth a few times, trying to find the words to tell her what happened to Valerie. But nothing comes out.
Lady Pelletier approaches. “Camille.”
I look up from Padma.
“It’s time for our nightly meeting. You both must come with me. We’re going to put our plan into action.”
The war room is like a decayed honeycomb. Faded paintings of the great battles in Orléansian history bleed along the walls. Weapons hold rust and cobwebs. Guards are stationed around the room beside every door and window.
The Iron Ladies, Auguste, and Lady Pelletier gaze at a map of Orléans spread across a wooden table along with small replicas of the kingdom’s fleet. Newspapers sit in mounds. House emblems are organized under labels—SOPHIA SUPPORTERS or SOPHIA OPPOSERS. A variety of merchant and high houses straddle the line between the two categories.
“More and more pledge support every day.” Lady Arane stands, pointing at the royal emblems. “We have two days to get Charlotte to the palace. I say we arrive at the Royal Square and make a spectacle. Our regent queen loves a show above all else.”
“We could lure her out of the palace,” adds Surielle.
Violetta claps in agreement with this statement.
“We cannot march into the Royal Square with an army,” Lady Pelletier replies. “She will just take Charlotte.”
“We have the numbers,” Surielle says. “We can make a huge and impressive showing. Hundreds alone in Trianon await our call. We can move others in from the isles and cities.”
“I agree with Lady Pelletier that this isn’t the way,” Auguste replies. “She’s got her trap set. She’s told the world that Charlotte is dead. She plans to present a body and she will. Not many have seen Charlotte since she fell into her unfortunate slumber. They will buy into her lies. They already are. She’s used the news and the newsies to her advantage. The Orléansian Times ran a poll yesterday and many love her. They will believe that whatever body she trots out is Charlotte.”
“But the moment Charlotte shows her face and allows inspection of her identification marker, the world will know the truth,” Surielle says.
The table grows quiet.
“What is the truth in Orléans?” Lady Arane says, then turns to me. “You and your sisters spent your entire existence altering appearances, shifting reality, catering to the most shallow whims. This world was born out of a rotten, poisonous seed—and now, the framework is laced with it. Everyone spends all their time trying to look like something else. The masses will believe what is presented to them, as long as it’s compelling and beautiful. Thanks to you, they no longer have any idea what’s real—what’s true.”
Her words sting and rattle me, the truth of them pressing beneath my skin as I begin to understand exactly what she thinks of us. Padma
squirms at my side. I attempt to get the conversation back on track.
“Sophia will expect us to make a big show,” I state calmly. “She will have planned for it. She is most likely counting on it. I think we should be like a whisper.” I use the Fashion Minister’s words, the image of his smile cascading through my mind.
“I agree,” Lady Pelletier replies, leaning across the table and pulling out the map of the palace grounds. “I’ve known this child my whole life. She craves spectacle and assumes everyone else thinks the same way she does.”
“I’ve been told there’s only one way into the palace now,” I say, boldly repeating Arabella’s warning about the main entrance.
“You’ve heard...” Lady Arane replies with suspicion.
“I have my own supply of information.” I sit up a little straighter.
“Camille is right,” Auguste says. “It’s not known to the public, but the northern entrance to the palace serves as the checkpoint in and out. The other three gates have been closed citing ‘repair’ and are being closely monitored. She has plans to have them shut permanently once the construction on the Everlasting Rose is complete.”
The mention of the prison sends a shudder through me. The images of the Fashion Minister and the Beauty Minister are ever present in my mind. I can’t close my eyes without seeing the anguish in their eyes and the pain in their faces. So many people are suffering, and it’s up to us to end it.
Lady Pelletier taps her finger on the table. “We should go in through the queen’s tunnels and bypass the single checkpoint.” She turns to me. “That is how Arabella smuggled you and Amber out after you woke Charlotte.”
Lady Arane purses her lips and considers. “The element of surprise....Hmmm...”
“Sophia has discovered those passageways,” Auguste interjects, sucking all the hope out of the room like air in a pierced post-balloon, sending it plummeting to the ground. “As Regent Queen, she was briefed on the tunnels, as is protocol.”
“We don’t have time to send someone to find the right way in and report back. Once the coronation happens, Orléansian law is clear. We will have to topple the entire cabinet,” Lady Arane says.
“Maybe it needs to be erased and remade!” someone else shouts.
The group explodes with opinions. Their voices agitate the teacup dragons in my waist-sash. The various ideas swirl around me, none of them settling or feeling like the right thing to do.
I wish Rémy were here. His quiet determination. His ability to see all aspects of a problem. His ability to present his ideas and then listen to others patiently, without arguing. His ability to remain calm. My brain is a chaos of thoughts on how to get into the palace, growing louder over the arguing voices. Only one thing is clear—one or all of us will have to walk straight through the front doors of the palace. What kind of person would Sophia be unable to refuse? All the moments spent with her shift through my mind—her insatiable desire to be the most beautiful, to be feared and loved by all, and to have the most attention in every single room.
I let the irritable teacup dragons out to explore. They knock over the house crests, making a mixed-up mess of the Iron Ladies’ chart—those they have identified as Sophia supporters and opposers.
The door slides open. A guard pushes Charlotte into the room in a wheeling chair.
“Your Majesty,” Lady Arane says.
Everyone stands to greet her.
“So happy to have you join us.” Lady Pelletier rushes to her side and places a hand on her cheek, then moves her to join us at the table.
“I could hear you down the hall. But this person you speak of...” Charlotte begins to say, her voice wobbly. “It doesn’t sound like my sister. Not the one I knew. Sweet, always in pursuit of adventure, a lover of gifts and trinkets, and full of laughter. My mother used to tell us stories of our births. My sister loved hers. Maman said there were shooting stars the day she came, and she was destined to bring light. But all I’ve seen is darkness since I’ve woken.”
“She is changed.” Lady Pelletier takes the princess’s hand.
“I’ve been reading about what has happened in Orléans since I’ve been asleep, none of it good.” She sighs and leans back in her chair. “The world has twisted her. Warped her.”
“More than just that,” I say, but no one looks up, and they launch back into sharing their various plans. Their voices rise over one another, each trying to drown out the next, each thinking their idea is better, more sound.
“We can alter the course the world is on,” Lady Arane says, striking the table with confidence. “We can make sure Charlotte is queen.” She looks at the princess and steadies her voice. “The rightful queen.”
“I need more time to recuperate. If Sophia is as bad as you say, I’ll need all my strength to do what needs to be done,” Charlotte replies.
“Queens don’t rule alone. You will have counsel and support,” Lady Pelletier assures her. “We will make sure you’re ready. This is what your mother would want.”
“Do I look like a queen?” she asks the table.
Her eyes gleam with sickness beneath the night-lantern light. A soft cloth swaddles her head and her hands fight stillness, tremors moving them without her control. The light brown of her skin fades, gray seeping in along the edges of her face.
“We thought bringing Camille here could help with that,” Surielle interjects. “She will make sure you appear strong.”
Everyone turns to face me.
“Yes. I will make our rightful queen appear healthy and formidable,” I tell them.
“And then what?” Charlotte asks. “How are we to enter the palace?”
I close my eyes and see Sophia on the throne, her teacup pets racing around her as she tortures women standing on dress blocks. I see the Sophia from my dreams, laughing and sneering beside her imperial blood cameos. I see Rémy and Edel and Amber and Valerie. An idea surges through me, the hope of it blazing bright and revealing what I must do from the pits of my heart.
“I will be her wedding gift,” I say, my voice slicing through the room, pouring out louder and sharper than I intended.
“What did you say?” Lady Arane demands.
“I will march through the front doors,” I announce.
“Excuse me?” Surielle asks.
“Auguste, you will write to Sophia and tell her you’re sending a dragon dealer to the palace in honor of the upcoming Coronation and Ascension. She needs teacup dragons for her menagerie. They’re lucky and auspicious. She will be able to meet several and pick one.”
“That doesn’t solve the issue of how we will get inside the palace. One person can’t topple an entire kingdom,” Lady Arane fires back.
“But one person can start a fire,” I reply. “Sophia loves nothing more than a beautiful gift. You just said so, Your Majesty.” I gesture at Charlotte. “One of the newsies said Sophia is reopening the skies to receive offerings in celebration of her coronation. You are adept at moving cargo no matter the method of transport. So send your entire army in a set of gift boxes via post-balloon. They’re being collected on the Observatory Deck, I believe. Someone get the latest papers.”
Lady Arane lifts a suspicious eyebrow and looks at Auguste. “What do you know of this?”
“That it’s brilliant,” he replies.
I don’t let his compliment make me smile, though his confidence in my plan strengthens it. I sit up a little taller and push my shoulders back.
“I remember going there as a child to look at the stars through the gigantic optic-scopes with my father,” Charlotte says.
“Violetta, go get the papers,” Lady Surielle orders.
Violetta nods and scurries out.
The table stares at me, waiting, anticipating. I will my thoughts to settle into coherent shapes. I take a deep breath and continue. “I will make sure the doors from the Observatory Deck to the inside of the palace are open so you can come down into the palace. And that whoever watches over the gifts... cann
ot effectively do so anymore.” The words are thick on my tongue. My willingness to harm a stranger feels so easy and wrong, and not a choice.
“The Ascension Ball starts after the midmorning star in two days. It’s an all-day affair according to the latest papers,” Surielle says. “If we arrived that morning, we’d be able to infiltrate easily. The palace will be in the chaos of preparation.”
“We will forge special masks for the occasion and join them only to...” Lady Arane rubs her fingers under her gray chin, considering my proposal. “Yes, yes, I think I like this.”
“But the question is...” Surielle perks up. “How will you just march into the palace without being recognized? Your face is plastered all over the kingdom.”
I close my eyes.
The arcana are a small throbbing tendril under my skin, a reluctant thread buried deep that I pull to the surface with an angry tug. A cold prickle crawls up my spine.
I hold a portrait of Maman in my head.
My body changes.
Everyone gasps.
I hold a portrait of Lady Arane in my head.
My body changes.
I hold a portrait of Surielle in my head.
My body changes.
A headache pulses in my temples. Blood trickles down my nose.
“What... how... ?” several voices say.
Padma stands, slipping her hand in mine. “How did you do that?”
I lose the glamour. She gazes at me, her eyes brimming with questions. “I’ll teach you. Edel taught me.”
I wipe my nose, then turn to the table. “I know Sophia. I have experienced her torture. I know what to do.” I clasp my hands together. “Your Majesty, Padma and I will work together, if you feel well enough, to make sure you look strong and beautiful to face her and the people of Orléans.”
“I will stay and help Charlotte travel,” Padma offers.
A hush comes over the room. Lady Arane cups a hand over her mouth. Excitement thrums in their veins—I can feel it.
“Are we all in agreement?” I ask, the power of the bargain swelling around me.
“Yes.” Auguste stands.
“Yes,” Charlotte replies. “That is what we must do. We will plan to arrive by sundown before the ceremonies begin. We will meet you on the Observatory Deck.”
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 20