The room is chaos. I focus my attention ahead, not removing my eyes from Sophia, wishing each glance could leave burns across her porcelain-white skin.
I move forward. Each footstep I take, I use my arcana to create a glamour. The cold pain claws up my spine. I deepen the brown color of my skin, stretch myself a touch to be taller, and darken my hair.
The taste of blood coats my tongue, slivery, metallic, and sharp. I hope I can hold off a nosebleed.
The attendant removes a voice-trumpet from his jacket. “May I introduce Lady Corinne Sauveterre, daughter of Alexandra and Guillaume Sauveterre of the House of Rare Reptilians in the Gold Isles,” the attendant announces. “She has brought you gifts from your fiancé, Auguste Fabry of House Rouen.”
The teacup dragons hiccup fire from my dress. Sophia notices and squeals. I reach the throne platform, my anger threatening to consume me as I get closer and closer to her.
Sophia races down the stairs, her favored teacup pets nipping at her heels.
“Your Majesty,” I say, deepening my voice and bowing as she approaches.
“Welcome to my court,” Sophia says, then turns to her ladies-of-honor. “Ladies, this is our new guest. She’s brought me dragons.”
I bow to her ladies as well.
“This is Gabrielle, Lady of All Things, a princess du sang and my very best friend,” she says.
“This is Rachelle, my new Lady of the Dresses to replace the unfortunate loss of my friend Claudine de Bissay.”
They all bow their heads in mock sympathy.
“And my little Henrietta-Marie, Lady of the Jewels,” she adds.
Henrietta-Marie doesn’t look up from her book.
“Pleasure to meet you all,” I reply.
Gabrielle eyes me with discerning interest.
“Just look at these dragons!” Sophia gushes, reaching into one of the cages to try to pet my little golden Or, but she evades Sophia’s fingers. Sophia’s elephant, Zo, kicks her feet up at me and pushes her tiny trunk at my skirt. She squeals with delight.
I panic. Mr. Claiborne’s warning pulses through me: There’s a natural perfume you have. Different than ours. What if Zo or her teacup monkey, Singe, recognizes my scent?
“Let me see you,” Sophia demands, facing me.
“Of course, Your Majesty. As you wish.” I remove the lace-skin Du Barry gave from my face.
My heart beats against my sides as her gaze combs over me, her odd rainbow-colored eyes full of curiosity like a teacup cat nosing around a room in search of a mouse. Who is doing her beauty work now, and how absurd has it become?
“Do we know each other?” she asks.
“No, Your Majesty. I haven’t had the pleasure to come to court before today.” I bow.
“You are a beauty,” she says.
The crowd claps.
“Though never as beautiful as you,” I add, earning a smile from her.
She blushes. “Of course.”
Zo trumpets at my feet, and I try not to flinch.
“Oh, Zo’s very friendly,” Sophia says, looking at the tiny elephant lovingly. “And it seems she likes you already.” Her eyes drift all the way up me, inspecting each and every inch. “This bodes well for our potential working relationship.”
Singe does a lap around me but keeps his distance.
“You will give me all of those glorious teacup dragons, correct? That’s what Auguste said. My fiancé knows me so well.” Her gaze fixates on them. “You saw the horrifying news about the loss of my other ones? Happened a week or so ago.”
“I did. It was most unfortunate,” I say with mock sympathy.
“Indeed. Most unfortunate. Once the perpetrator is caught, I will make them wish they’d never been born.” She pauses to look out over the crowd of courtiers. “Even though Pearl, Sapphire, and Jet will always be remembered, I must replace them. The Goddess of Love was rumored to keep dragons, so I must have them all, and any others you’re currently tending.”
“That’s not quite how it works,” I say, steadying my voice.
Her court gasps.
“What does that mean?” Her pale blond eyebrow lifts with surprise.
“If you aren’t present for their birth, my breed of teacup dragons must choose their owners. They must deem the person worthy. You see, they’re very noble creatures. Exceedingly rare. All dragons are said to have come from the womb of the Goddess of Love. Their affection, loyalty, and disposition mirror exactly what love should be.”
The crowd oohs.
Sophia scowls. “I am a queen. I was born deserving and worthy. My lineage and bloodline make it so.”
“Of course,” I say, and add a little bow to keep her from seeing me seethe. “But the dragons will have their say.”
My words sizzle and crackle in the silent room.
Her rainbow-colored eyes burn into the top of my head. Sweat rises from my skin, cold and clammy. Maybe I pushed too hard, said too much. I swallow and try to hold on to the glamour. A headache blossoms in my temples. The taste of salt fills my mouth. The nosebleed will come any second.
“I enjoy a challenge,” she snaps, reaching for Or’s golden tail. Or lets herself be caressed, then curls back into a corner in the cage. “I always win.”
“You are blessed by the God of Luck, and we will see which dragon chooses you.”
Her mouth parts, but she closes it and grins. “Until then, you shall remain here as my honored guest.” She waves a nearby attendant over. “Prepare the guest apartments in the east wing.”
“Pardon me, Your Majesty, I don’t mean to question your hospitality, but I must be in chambers nearest you. My breed of teacup dragons must acclimate to your scent. Bond, if you will. So that one or two may connect.” I let a clever smile play upon my lips, hoping she takes the bait and puts me in Charlotte’s chambers.
Her eyes widen. “I want them all to love me. So, yes, whatever is necessary shall be. I’m prepared to give you all the leas you could ever want, and spintria, too, if you prefer it.” She turns to another attendant. “Give her my darling and dearly departed sister’s room.”
Courtiers flap their fans wildly as if a flash of warm-season heat stormed through the room.
“I couldn’t possibly stay in Princess Charlotte’s apartments. I am not of noble birth. Would it not be inappropriate?”
“She has passed on.” The lie tumbles from her pink lips without effort. “At sunset tomorrow, I will present her body and we will mourn her officially. I cannot be queen until she is sent to the afterlife properly to be with my maman.” She presses two fingers together and taps her heart, a sign of respect for the dead. The entire room mimics her. “I’m having a pavilion built in her honor on the palace grounds. It is my desire that you and the teacup dragons are as close as can be. I make the rules and I can break them.”
I nod and bow. “As you wish.”
“I do. I do.” She takes my hands; hers are sticky and shaky. I try not to flinch or pull away. The rosewater scent of her sends a tangle of revulsion and rage through me, making it hard to hold on to my glamour.
“Your nose is starting to bleed.” She hands me her own personal handkerchief embroidered with her initials and the House of Orléans emblem.
I quickly wipe my nose, the beads of blood soaking through the expensive fabric. “The cold season and travel have exhausted me.”
“You must rest. The Coronation and Ascension Ball starts the day after tomorrow, and you must attend as my honored guest. You can wear one of my latest vivant gowns.” She whips around to another attendant. “See that she’s settled properly and all her needs are met.”
“You are most gracious,” I reply.
“And you are most welcome to my court.”
I bow.
An attendant rushes forward with a sealed letter. “Your Majesty, this just arrived.”
Sophia snatches it.
I stand up and see the words Gold and Charlotte and spotted before she rips up the note.
> “I have to excuse myself,” Sophia says, rushing off.
My heart pounds in my throat.
I must warn them.
Sophia’s attendant walks me down a familiar hall to Charlotte’s former apartments. The glitter of the night-lanterns and the scent of fresh cold-season flowers and the sounds of nearby laughter hurtle me back into the past. Memories of the night we left slice in like nightmares with each step I take. Rémy carrying Amber. Arabella’s trunk and dragon eggs. It feels like both a lifetime ago and just yesterday—all spinning in my head to the beat of panic.
I need to find Rémy. I need to find Arabella. I need to figure out how to get to the Observatory Deck first thing in the morning. Trembles of exhaustion quiver through me, and the pain of holding the glamour sends more blood trickling out of my nose. I wipe it away as best I can, but it streaks the front of my gown.
The attendant pauses before a set of apartment doors. Charlotte’s royal emblem is now absent, the wood naked, her presence erased. Mourning balloons carry cameo portraits of the “deceased” princess and her royal emblem. They carry tiny sound-boxes hissing out wails and cries every few minutes.
“Are you all right, my lady?” the attendant asks.
“Just tired.”
“Time to rest.”
I am ushered into the foyer, where a kneeling servant awaits.
“Lady Corrine, I leave you here to become acquainted with your chambers and your appointed help while staying with us.” She turns on her heel before I can reply and leaves the room.
“Good evening,” the servant says while standing. “May your new year be sweet!”
Her voice sends a shiver across my skin and stirs up thoughts of Bree buried deep down inside. It feels like shaking a snow globe. “And also yours,” I reply. “What is your name?”
Her ponytail is a ribbon of honey down her back. I start to ask her if we’ve met before, but this is supposed to be my first time at court.
She looks up. Her eyes large and stretched, her skin dotted with star-shaped freckles. She looks like a doll from a shop window in Trianon.
She sets down a tray. A teapot, cup, and plate of sweets sits on top of a spread of newspapers and magazines. “I thought you might want something to read... and there’s a note.” Her voice drops an octave.
My heart knocks around in my chest.
“The queen’s rooms are nearby. Hopefully, close enough for the teacup dragons to familiarize themselves with her scent.” She launches into a detailed explanation of all the things I will find in these lavish apartments and shows me down familiar corridors. I don’t care about any of it anymore.
I nod at the eager woman, trying to pretend I care, trying to keep from running straight out of here to find Rémy. The scent of Charlotte lingers despite the perfume blimps drifting about. Just days ago, the ceiling was filled with cerulean healing-lanterns and a large four-poster bed containing her sleeping body.
“The bathing onsen is down the left corridor.” She points. “And a small library to the right.”
I gaze into the darkness of those halls, thinking of Rémy and Arabella, both tucked away somewhere in this expansive palace. Close yet so far away.
“Her Majesty has—”
Another trickle of blood escapes my nose. “Thank you. I must lie down and put my teacup dragons to bed,” I say, cutting her off.
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” She bows. “Do you need additional help?”
“No,” I reply, more clipped than I intend. “I’m just so tired from the journey.”
“Understood.” She nods and slips out.
I let the glamour fade and unhook the teacup dragons’ cages from the dress. They eagerly stretch their wings, inspect the room, then settle on the perch of the bed canopy. Fantôme and Eau quickly fall asleep.
I push my hand into the dress pocket and remove the poison bottle, which I set on the vanity before removing the cumbersome dress. I unpack Arabella’s Belle-book, Rémy’s maps, the bottles of sangsues, and the case of eye-films.
Despite exhaustion, I rush to the room’s desk and find parchment and ink.
I write to Padma:
P,
She knows that Charlotte is alive. She has been spotted in the Gold Isles.
Get in the air as soon as possible.
Love,
C
I whistle to Poivre and feed him one of Padma’s leeches. “Find her. You’re the fastest.” I open a window and look out on the palace grounds. The Golden Palace River is filled with newsie boats and jovial courtiers singing and laughing and guzzling champagne.
I nudge the red teacup dragon out.
He disappears into the mass of wish-lanterns and post-balloons floating up to the sky. I turn to Rémy’s maps. They almost hiss as I flip the pages and wait for the ink to settle. I trace my fingers along the drawings as they reveal each wing and its various chambers. My eyes droop with sleepiness, but I try to focus and search for the Observatory Deck and the dungeons, my heart torn about what to do first. I need to figure out the best way to get to the deck tomorrow so I can make sure Charlotte and the others can enter through it. If my plan doesn’t work, there’s no way in. But Rémy is somewhere in this palace being tortured.
I pace around. My hands shake at my sides. The indecision is a landquake inside me. If I find Rémy first, he can help me make sure that the Iron Ladies can enter.
My heart squeezes, giving me the answer to my question.
I have to find him, then I’ll go to the deck.
I flip through the maps until the dungeons are shown beneath the receiving room.
I stir Or from her perch. “I need your help.” She yawns but perks up. I take the last of Rémy’s leeches and hold the writhing creature between my fingers. This is my last connection to locating him. “We need to find him, little friend. Don’t let this gamble be a waste.”
I pull on my cloak and the lace-skin again, and grab a night-lantern by the tails. I listen for the noise of servants before exiting the chambers. Adrenaline propels me, or maybe it’s delirium from exhaustion.
Or flies in a circle above my head.
“This way, girl.”
The teacup dragon hesitates.
“This way out.”
Her big eyes grow large as glass marbles.
“Why are you confused? I will get us to the dungeons, and then, you take it from there.” I whistle. She finally obeys, diving into the corridor.
I take out the map and navigate my way from the palace apartments to the receiving room. Jeweled chandelier lanterns hold frosted candles. Animated frescoes shift through the portraits of queens and kings, goddesses and gods. I used to love everything about this place—the bustling, beautiful bodies headed to the game rooms and tea salons, the scent of sweets escaping the golden carts of the royal vendors, lavish furniture spilling from every room.
But now, I see it for what it really is—a beautiful shell masking rottenness.
I skulk through the halls, hiding as guards patrol and courtiers stumble about looking for the exits to the Palace River piers or the carriage-house. Or drifts ahead, sometimes circling back as if she wants to return from where we came. I direct her to move forward.
Cold-season chrysanthemum trees grow up from the belly of the palace wing, their branches almost finding me as I race over the gilded walkways from one side of the palace to another. Empty chariots glide along the lattice cables. I race down a massive set of stairs and make a left at the entry fountain. Gleaming leas coins litter the bottom like drowned stars. It would almost be peaceful and settle the erratic beat of my heart, if I wasn’t so terrified.
Footsteps invade the quiet. The doors of the receiving room swing open as I pass by.
I panic and find a dark corner to hide.
Servants carry a palanquin with a sleeping Sophia sprawled over the cushions. Her hair hangs in a tangled nest; her rouge-stick is smudged all around her mouth. Her teacup monkey, Singe, rubs her cheek. The heady
scents of too much champagne and perfume linger as she passes.
Zo trots behind the small procession, trying to catch up with the palanquin. The miniature animal pauses, spots me, and cranes her neck. I duck deeper into my hiding place, but she trundles over and puts her little feet up on my nightdress. She wears a tiny jeweled crown that matches Sophia’s. Her toenails are painted a bright mulberry. She sniffs my dress with her tiny gray trunk. I feel her fluttering heartbeat on my leg as she tries to climb it.
I try to shove her away. “Go on, now.”
Or hisses at Zo, but she doesn’t back off. Instead, she traces her slimy trunk along my wrist, sniffing the perfume ointment wiped there.
I push her away and lose the tail ribbons of my night-lantern. It drifts off.
One of the imperial guards yells, “Who is there?”
I turn back to the map and dart down the nearest corridor. Zo marches behind me making a tiny trumpet noise like an alert.
The guards pause, Sophia’s palanquin perched on their shoulders.
This is it. I’ll be caught, and all because of Sophia’s ridiculous pet obsession.
“Shh. Go.”
Zo’s trumpeting grows louder, threatening to bring the entire imperial guard my way.
“Fetch me my beloved,” Sophia shouts, her voice thick and heavy with champagne. “Do it now!”
I glance back down the hall. Sophia slaps the nearest guard across the face, then spits on top of his head. Revulsion pools in my stomach. The desire to hurt Sophia bursts inside me. Her evil, sadistic face flashes in my head like a télétrope reel.
Her laugh.
Her smile.
Her voice.
I think about squeezing her skull until it collapses, her hand until it breaks, her heart until it stops.
I see nothing but her.
I hear nothing but her laugh.
I feel nothing but the pain of her breaking my hand.
Rage churns in my heart.
Angry tears storm down my cheeks.
My vision blurs. My skin warms. My body prepares to use the arcana. I can’t make it stop. I fumble with Rémy’s maps, my tears soaking the parchment as I try to see the ink-drawn diagrams. I scramble to find one of the entries into the dungeons as I dart ahead.
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 23