Zo runs at my heels, chasing me like this is a game.
Sophia’s high-pitched shouts hit me in waves as she barks at the guards. Zo’s tiny heartbeat fills my ears like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, followed by the noise of the blood rushing through her small body. I sink to the floor at the dungeon’s entrance. The heat in my hands, the drum of my heart, and the movement of my blood create chaos in my stomach.
Zo climbs into my lap.
“Go away. Go away. I beg you.” My refrain coils around me like a vise. I clamp my eyes shut. A headache throbs in my temples. My cheeks burn.
I slow Zo’s heart.
I can’t stop. I collapse forward, out of breath.
Zo lies on her back, eyes open, heart still.
A hand jostles my shoulder. The servant from earlier gazes down at me. “My lady...” A pair of familiar eyes stare back, but I still can’t place them.
The woman removes the tiny elephant from my lap and places her aside, then helps me to my feet. “What are you doing here? I came to your chambers to make sure you didn’t need anything before bed. I followed you.”
“It was an accident,” I pant. The truth tumbles out: “I was looking for my friend and the elephant—”
“The queen doesn’t keep her most important possessions in the dungeons. Too easy to be plucked.”
I search her eyes. “Who are you?”
“Trust your dragon. He’s been moved.” She lifts Zo’s tiny lifeless body, tucks it under her arm, and leaves me where I stand.
I watch Or as she flutters overhead, dodging coral and butterscotch coronation post-balloons. We head back in the direction we came—to the royal apartments. I run behind her, my hand on Rémy’s dagger, the arcana hissing just beneath my skin, and my nerves ready to help me do whatever it takes to find him. What did she mean when she said he would be too easy to pluck from the dungeon? Is it really so simple to get into this fortress? If he’s not there, then where is he?
The questions pound inside me, in time with my footsteps.
Blood trickles from my nose, and I wipe it away without stopping to pause. My arcana prickle inside my veins, achy and like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Maybe a sign of trouble. We dart back up the stairs and over the gilded walkways. But as we reenter the royal wing, Or turns left, away from the apartments and down another long corridor.
“Why are we going this way?” I ask her, wishing she could answer me.
Worries drum inside me, piling one on top of the other. Have the sangsues gone to waste? Is she confused? Why is she leading me this way?
My exhaustion makes it impossible to think and another nosebleed starts. I know I need to rest and to reset the arcana. I’ve done too much.
Or pauses out front of Sophia’s workshop. The House of Inventors emblem of cogs and gears and chrysanthemums glows in the darkness.
I take a breath and open the door. A sleeping guard is slumped over snoring, two empty bottles of champagne at his feet and new year’s sweets smeared down his chest. I tiptoe past him.
The room holds even more items than it did the last time I was here. Moonlight escapes the glass ceiling, its beams leaving an eerie glow over the space. Beauty-boards perch on easels and litter the floor at the foot of the treatment table. Every wall displays a collection of blood cameos now. The portraits shift and morph alongside the noise of blood whooshing through brass piping.
Or zips ahead, hovering over a closet door.
I untie the single night-lantern from its hook.
Or leaves tiny scratch marks in the wood.
I open it.
My heart does a flip at the sight of him. Rémy is tied up, arms suspended in ropes, head slumped forward. His shirtless body is covered with lashes and brands—the wounds oozing with blood, swelling with infection, and smelling of burnt flesh. The deep brown of his skin is split open. A cut in his lip drips with blood, and his skull is now bald and covered in wounds.
I rush to him. “Rémy,” I whisper, and cradle his head.
He jerks back. One of his puffy eyes opens as wide as it can.
“It’s me.” I pull off my lace-skin mask. “It’s Camille.”
“You here to rescue me?” he croaks out.
“Yes.” I wrap him in a hug, all of my relief with it.
He grunts but lets his head rest in the crook of my neck.
“We’ve got to get you out of here.” I pull away, take out the dagger he gave me, and cut the ropes. His body slumps forward, almost crashing to the floor, but I catch him.
“I can’t leave my family here,” he mumbles.
“We won’t. I promise.” I try to keep my voice from breaking. A pinch in my stomach grows hotter. The pain of seeing him like this threatens to consume me.
I muster all my strength and help him stand.
We hobble out of the closet. I take some dress-making fabric from a nearby table and wrap it around his body. “The guard is asleep.”
Rémy drags himself ahead. “Where are you staying?”
“They gave me Charlotte’s old apartments.”
“Then we should take the—”
“You’re not in charge this time,” I tell him. Keeping him on his feet is taking all the strength I have. I reach down and grab one of the bottles at the guard’s feet. “You’re a drunk courtier who lost his clothes in the game rooms, all right?”
A painful half-laugh escapes his lips.
Or circles overhead. He tries to look up at her.
“I should’ve trusted her,” I mutter. “I would’ve found you sooner.”
Rémy and I ease past the snoring guard and amble into the hallway. I hold his weight on one side and pretend to fuss at him about drinking too much.
The hall is empty aside from a few servants who have just gotten the opportunity to celebrate tonight.
We turn left and right.
His legs grow weaker and his breathing more labored.
“We’re almost there,” I tell him.
The sound of footsteps ahead stops me.
I pull him into one of the salon rooms. He slumps against the wall. I watch as three male guards pass, chasing after three courtier women. Their kissy noises echo, then fade.
I stare at him. Rémy Chevalier, son of Christophe Chevalier, decorated—and now disgraced—soldier from the Minister of War’s First Guard.
“Can you make it? We’re just outside the doors,” I whisper.
He grunts a yes back.
I grip his waist and drag him into Charlotte’s apartments. I lay him across the bed and use the water in the basin to clean the burns on his chest—Sophia’s emblems carved into him. The sight of them flares my anger. He winces each time I touch him.
“What did they do to you?” I ask.
“Everything.”
I rest my hand on his cheek.
He takes it and kisses it. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re covered in blood and burns and you’re telling me not to worry.” I put pressure on a cut on his shoulder.
“I’ve been trained to withstand it.” He turns his head to avoid the wet cloth. “What’s happened since I left you? Did you find Charlotte?”
I hold his head still and continue to wipe away his blood. “Yes. Remember those newspapers you got for us—the Spider’s Web?”
He nods.
“We found the Iron Ladies. Well, they found us.” I choose to leave out the part about the capture. “They have been helping to keep Charlotte safe. They’re on their way here.”
“How will they get inside?”
“The Observatory Deck,” I say with pride. “Via post-balloon.”
He struggles to smile. “Your idea?”
“Yes.”
“But I need to go find the route to the Observatory Deck, so I can get there easily before the midmorning star and make sure the door from the deck to the interior is unlocked and unobstructed. They’ll arrive and wait until everyone is at the Ascension Ball to attack.”
“It’s smart—and unexpected.”
His encouragement fills up the tiny holes of doubt inside me. He tries to sit up but leans back against the pillows again.
“Here. Stay still.”
“How did you get here without her knowing?” he asks.
“Auguste sent me and the teacup dragons as a wedding gift.”
He stiffens.
A silence crackles between us, the noise of the fire in the hearth heightening it.
“You’ve seen him?” Rémy’s swollen mouth purses.
My stomach becomes a tangle of nerves.
“He’s been working with the Iron Ladies. Supplying them with information and help.”
“You forgave him?” he asks.
“I took his help. Now, rest.”
“Go open that door,” he says, then traces a shaky finger along the edge of my face. “I missed you.”
“And I you.” I nuzzle my face into his shoulder and try to hold back the storm of tears wanting to break loose from my chest.
I lie there until his breathing slows and he drifts off to sleep and I know that he’s going to be all right. But before I head back out again to find the route to the Observatory Deck, the bedroom door eases open.
“Camille,” a voice whispers from behind.
I leap up from the bed at the sound of my name. It’s the servant from earlier. The one who took Zo’s dead body.
“It’s me.”
And just like that, I finally recognize her voice.
“It’s Bree.”
I race to her and wrap my arms around her. “I knew it,” I whisper into her hair. “I knew when you were trying to show me around the apartments. Your eyes. I felt it. But I had to keep my disguise.”
“I couldn’t tell you at first. I didn’t want to alert anyone and didn’t think I’d be able to keep it all together,” she says. “But after what happened with Zo... I wanted to get rid of the body first and make sure it was safe.”
I squeeze her tighter. “What happened to you?” I comb over her, touching her cheeks and arms. “Are you all right? I was so worried. They told me they put you in a starvation box.”
“They did, but then when you disappeared from the palace, Elisabeth Du Barry came and got me out.”
“She did?” I say, shock rattling me. Elisabeth Du Barry did something that didn’t benefit herself?
Rémy coughs.
“Who is there?” she asks.
“Rémy.”
Fear flashes in her eyes. “She will know.”
I squeeze her hand.
“She has the guards lash him every few hours. If they find him gone, they will search the entire palace for him.”
“That’s why we have to work fast,” I say. “Do you know where I can find Arabella? I need to see her, then get to the Observatory Deck.”
Bree looks startled by the question. “Well... yes. She’s right next door.”
“What?” I gasp. I glance into a slit in the bed-curtains at Rémy. His mouth is slack with sleep, and the blood on his bandages is drying. His wounds no longer leak fresh blood.
“He will be fine here,” Bree replies. “We’ll close the bed-curtains. Any servants who come in will assume it’s you. I’ll make sure he remains hidden. Give strict orders to the other servants—as I’m a premier servant now—not to disturb you.”
I nod, trusting her.
Knots of pressure and panic tighten throughout my body as I place the lace-skin mask Du Barry gave me back on my face. The anticipation of seeing Arabella again—of having help—is almost too great.
“Let’s go. The apartments are connected.”
We slip through a network of servant corridors. I hold my breath until Bree stops walking. What if Arabella is ill like Valerie? What if she is unable to help?
“Ready to go in?” Bree waves me forward.
My stomach knots. “Where are we?”
“One of Sophia’s tea salons.”
“This is where she keeps her?”
Bree nods.
I imagine a sleeping Sophia passed out, smelling of champagne and macarons and flowers, and Arabella being forced to tend to her beauty work. Bree fumbles with her keys until she finds the right one. She jams it in and turns. The door opens. A chill drifts down my spine.
The room is tiny and dark with a single night-lantern whizzing about and a low fire in the hearth.
“Arabella?” I whisper.
Bree closes the door behind us. “We have to be quick. One of Her Majesty’s favorite and most loyal servants oversees her.”
I nod and tiptoe closer to the bed.
“Arabella?”
No answer.
I inch back the bed-curtains. Arabella lies there, propped up on the pillow. Her arms and neck are covered with sangsues, the little leeches pulsing black, then flushing red as they fill with her blood and share their proteins. The skin on her face is creased like parchment and so thin and pale that all the veins are visible beneath her skin. Her brown pigment has lost its depth and richness. My heart aches at the sight of her. It’s even worse than I feared.
I reach out to touch her, my hand hesitating and pulling back like she’s a stove too hot to touch.
“Arabella,” I say a little louder.
She stirs and her eyes pop open. She presses back into the pillows.
“It’s me, Camille.”
She wipes her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you. I tried to get to you earlier when I heard the announcement that Corinne Sauveterre, famous dragon merchant from the Gold Isles, had come to see the soon-to-be new queen. But they never let me leave these chambers, no matter what I do or say.”
“What has she been doing to you?” I ask, as Bree brings over a tumbler of fresh water.
“Draining me of blood to send to the Everlasting Rose...” Arabella says.
The cruelty of the name still twists like a knife inside me. Arabella sips at the cup, and water dribbles out the corner of her mouth.
“To grow more Belles.” She sighs and leans back into the bedding, waving the water away. Bree takes it, shooting me a nervous glance, and I squeeze her free hand.
“She did the same to Valerie until she had nothing left. And now she’s dead.”
Arabella shrugs, as if this news doesn’t surprise or bother her. “She’s been experimenting,” she says. “She brought your other sisters back to the prison after the Silk Teahouse burned down. All except Amber.”
“What do you mean? Where is she?” My heart rises in my chest threatening to bubble up.
“She’s here,” Arabella says.
I gasp. “At the palace? How? Why?”
“I don’t know. But I heard her voice the other day. I thought, at first, that it was a recording or something for the newsreels Sophia has been orchestrating, but it’s been more frequent. I can’t do Sophia’s beauty work anymore—and she won’t allow any of the other Belles from the unfavored generation to work on her—so I knew it would be just a matter of time.”
My eyes dart around the room as if Amber were hiding beneath a beautiful piece of furniture.
“She has my focus on the few Belle babies here as she tries to find out how the favored generation is born. Her scientists have made so many mistakes. So many Belle babies have already died.” She gathers her strength, sits up, and reaches for me. “Let me show you the favored Belle-pods.”
I turn to Bree. “Watch the door, please.”
She nods and takes up watch at the front of the room, clutching her hands nervously.
Arabella’s entire body quakes as I help her slide open the door to the next chamber. The night-lantern follows us, illuminating hundreds of glass cradles etched with tiny golden roses. In each, a brown baby floats. Small hourglasses affixed to each pod are marked with animated ink that snaps across the glass with the labels first cycle, second cycle, and third cycle.
I gasp. “They look like me.”
“And me,” Arabella adds. “Eventually, she wants to sell them to the highest bidder. Enable Belles to be kept like teacup pets and also use our blood to make beauty products.”
“We can’t let this happen,” I say. Arabella takes my hand and squeezes it. The skin of her fingers is so thin, and her bones feel like sticks. “I can take care of these babies and ensure no more will be made.”
I take my hand from hers and drop it into my pocket where the poison sits.
“What is that?” She takes it from me, fingering it, her watery eyes tracing its details.
“It takes away the arcana.”
Her mouth falls open as her eyes find mine. “How?”
“It hardens the arcana proteins. But the amount has to be right, otherwise it could cause death.” I watch her examine it as if its secrets lie on the edges of the bottle. “What if we both drank a bit of it, so that neither of our blood could be used to make more Belles?”
The heat of the question radiates between us. Arabella uncorks the bottle to sniff it. My heart skips.
“Be careful,” I say, remembering the rapid destruction of the blood cells in Claiborne’s optic-scope. “I believe I could also make sure that the aether of the next generation couldn’t be used either.”
She puts a drop of the poison on her finger and tries to inspect it.
“Arabella...”
She takes a gulp.
“No!” I grab the empty bottle from her.
Arabella’s eyes bulge. She coughs—a gurgling, ragged sound. Her skin wrinkles in a blink, line by line covering her forehead to her cheeks to her throat, the brown shriveling like dried-out clay.
“Arabella!” I scream.
Her body hits the floor.
I can’t hear the screams being ripped from my mouth. My ears clog and spots stamp out my vision. But the piercing rawness of my throat is real.
Bree claps her hand over my mouth and her other arm around my waist. “We have to go. Someone has probably already heard you.” She tugs me away from Arabella. “Sophia will discover you’re here.”
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 24