“But I can’t leave her.” The sight of her body—another dead Belle body—sends another scream reverberating inside me. She is me. I am her. The aether. And now she’s dead and the poison—my only chance to save us all—gone. The empty poison bottle falls from my hand. The glass shatters, each jagged shard a realization of how careless and reckless this whole thing has
become.
“You have to. Someone is going to come check on her soon if they haven’t been alerted by your screams already. You can’t be here when they do.” She pries me away, almost having to carry me, my limbs heavy with regret and anger and sadness and frustration and most of all, exhaustion.
Hope sputters out of me like the air of a dying post-balloon. First, it was Valerie, and now, Arabella.
How can I ever fix this?
How can I ever make things right?
She hustles me into the apartments. Rémy’s gentle snores alternate with the hiss of the fireplace.
“Sleep,” Bree whispers.
“How can I possibly sleep now?” My breath catches in my throat and my heart races. I put my hands on my head, trying to make everything slow down. I’m caught in a whirlpool. Even too tired to cry. “How could she do that? What was she thinking? I needed her help.”
Bree tries to console me with tea.
I shove the pot away but burn my hand. The pain sears and I ball my fist and bite back another scream.
“You need to sit, Camille. So you can focus.” She forces me into the chair beside the fireplace. “Let me look at your hand.”
“It will—”
“Let me see it,” she urges.
I flash her my palm.
“It will need a little ointment.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even as it throbs.
“You will have to dance tomorrow at Sophia’s ball.” She goes to a recently delivered service tray and begins mixing honey with ice. “The invitation balloon is on the door hook.”
I look over and spot it bobbing—its golden edges glittering in the subtle darkness. The sight of the pretty bauble, after what I’ve just witnessed, is absurd.
“I need to get to the Observatory Deck. I should’ve already gone. They will be arriving in the morning.”
Bree kneels before me and gently coats my palm with her poultice. “You will. You will,” she replies, her voice softening to barely a whisper. “I’ll be sure to wake you, and help you get there. I promise.”
Her vow is a temporary comfort. “Is it true that Amber is here at the palace? Can you get a message to her that I’m here?”
Bree’s face twists. She tears a bit of fabric from a bedsheet and wraps it around my hand. “You rest first.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Have you seen my sister?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Bree stands and backs up.
“Please just tell me. Is she all right? I can’t bear to lose another person I love.” My heart lodges in my throat. “I need to see her.”
“I’ll find out where she’s being held and get her a message,” Bree assures me. “But only if you go to bed.”
There’s no way I can possibly sleep. I open my mouth to argue. Her eyebrows lift.
I stand. My skin buzzes, but the pain in my hand is already beginning to calm. I climb into the bed beside Rémy and lay my head on the pillow next to him without hesitation. The perfume of his skin has seeped into the fabric.
Bree ties a night-lantern to the bedpost hook and draws the curtains around us. “See you in the morning. I’ll be in the servants’ quarters just near the apartment’s tea salon. I’ll keep watch.”
I nod at her, then turn my attention to Rémy. I study him in the soft dark. I run my fingers over his bandages and check them for blood. His cuts are crusting over.
He grunts and lifts his hand to touch mine. “Stop fussing over me. I’ll be all right.”
“Those wounds were deep.”
“I know. I feel the bruises down to my bones,” he says with a grimace as he tries to turn to his side.
“Don’t move.”
“You’re very pushy.”
“Yes, and you must listen to me.”
He smiles weakly, then takes my hand, letting the pad of his thumb trace my palm. “I’m already feeling stronger. I promise.” He stares at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I want to tell him everything, but it’s too much, and I don’t want to burden him. Not while he’s still weak.
“I thought we established that you can’t hide the things on your face.” His brown eyes are full of concern.
“Please sleep. I’ll tell you when you wake.”
His eyelids flutter, heavy with sickness and pain. He outstretches his arm, offering me his shoulder to lie on. I nestle against him and find a spot on the bed canopy to stare at, knowing I won’t sleep much tonight.
Bells chime through the belly of the palace, snatching us awake. My head pounds after getting only tiny bits of troubled sleep. A voice-box on the side table announces, “Palace on heighted alert! All apartments, chambers, rooms, and persons will be searched before the ceremonies commence. Security measures in place!”
The teacup dragons bolt from the bed canopy, spraying agitated fire. I call their names and try to get them to calm down. Rémy moans as he tries to sit up. The bedroom door bursts open.
Bree dashes in out of breath. “She knows Rémy’s missing, and they found Arabella’s body.” She almost collapses forward. “She’s on a rampage looking for her teacup elephant Zo, too.”
An anchor drops in my stomach. I glance back at Rémy on the bed. I put a hand on Bree’s back. “Are there more guards inside the palace?” I ask. “Do you think they suspect me?”
“No more guards than usual,” she says. “But they’re watching and checking everyone. They will be going through every single apartment, including this one.”
“I have to hide him,” I tell her. “I have to get to the Observatory Deck before the midmorning star. How much time do I have?”
She pulls an hourglass from her pocket. “One hour,” Bree says, “and the ball starts right after it, so you must get ready. She will be expecting you, and if you don’t arrive on time, she’ll suspect something. Your dress is here, too.”
As if on cue, a gold-and-cream post-balloon ambles through the door. Its sides glow with Sophia’s soon-to-be official emblem. At midnight tonight, she will be queen according to Orléansian law. The court will celebrate all day in anticipation.
If we don’t stop her.
The post-balloon’s tail ribbons haul a polka-dotted dress box with a note. The teacup dragons attack the balloon until it crashes to the ground.
I fetch the note.
Corinne,
Ten a.m. sharp.
Imperial Ballroom. We shall celebrate the start of my Coronation and Ascension ceremony and say a final farewell to my beloved sister. Hoping you bring your teacup dragons. They deserve to join us.
—Sophia Regina
I crumple the paper, balling it in my fist. “You have to hide him?” I say to her.
“I know where they won’t look,” Rémy calls out from the bed.
“And so do I,” Bree replies.
I rush to Rémy’s side and help him out of bed. He’s groggy and slow-moving. “Where will you take him?”
“Somewhere safe, I promise,” she says.
“I know how to hide,” he grumbles.
“When you’re not recovering. Please listen to Bree. You both know this palace well. And you’re both so important to me.” I take his hand.
He yanks me close, the strength of his motion a shock. Our foreheads touch. “Be safe. The Observatory Deck is on the top floor of the northern wing. Take one of the chariot lifts.”
I kiss his cheek. “I will.”
I turn to Bree. “I’ll get ready for the party when I’m back.”
She nods.
I pull on one of the simple day dresses in the apartment’s dress salon, part of me wondering
if these once belonged to Charlotte or if Sophia had all traces of her sister erased.
How can she so easily erase a sister?
The pain of losing Valerie—and now Arabella—is seared into my skin like an identification mark never to be removed. I squeeze any tears down inside me. They’re quickly replaced with anger and determination.
Rémy and Bree are gone from the bedroom when I return. I snatch the voice-box from the side table and take it with me, then put the lace-skin over my face.
The hallways swell with bodies—servants toting gift boxes or pushing carts, attendants ushering excited courtiers in the direction of the festivities, royal sweet-vendors advertising their goods. And guards. Guards seem to be everywhere.
I join the chaos and grab one of the chariot lifts taking people across to the different palace wings.
“Where to?” a porter asks.
“Observatory Deck.”
“That’s for palace officials only,” he replies.
“I am a guest of our future queen and I want to make sure her gift is delivered and placed with the others.” I hold it up and lift my chin as if I’m the most important person in the world. “And I would hate to have to complain to her tonight of all nights.” The confident threat beneath my words is enough to get him to close the door and shift the handle.
We sail over the belly of the palace. I keep my eyes down to avoid inviting more suspicion from the man. Below, I spot courtiers stealing kisses in dark corners and newsies rushing over gilded balconies and walkways with their navy story-balloons in tow and crowds of bodies making their way to the Imperial Ballroom. Mourning balloons putter about, complete with Charlotte’s picture. They buzz along the corridors and walkways, leaving a sad trail of tear-shaped glitter and tiny wailing cries. Sophia’s really added all the right touches to convince people of her lies. In a newsreel playing on the sides of the balloons, she describes how my experimentations led to her death.
One follows the chariot and the noise of it stokes my anger. Sophia must go. Our mission must succeed. Finally, the chariot stops at a platform near the very top of the palace.
“The Observatory Deck,” the man announces, opening the door. “Ring the bell when you’re ready to leave and I’ll come back to get you.”
I nod and thank him, then step off.
The deck is a glass bridge that smiles over the western wing of the palace. The walls are made of multicolored shards like a gigantic prism from the God of Luck. It catches the morning sunlight, shattering rays of indigo and ruby and turquoise and canary across a maze of gift boxes. Beyond the glass, post-balloons land on a balcony, one after another.
I scan the space.
Three guards. One on the deck itself. One beside the platform. One in the far corner.
Sweat beads in my temples. I didn’t account for there being guards to watch over the gifts. But of course there would be. To watch for thieves.
I gulp down the sudden swell of nerves rising inside me. Another complication.
A woman with a parchment board and quill hunches amidst the sea of boxes. She glances up. “May I help you?”
“I have a gift for the queen. By the looks of things, it seems like she probably doesn’t need another.”
“Her Majesty loves presents above all else.”
She loves beauty more.
“Guests are not allowed up here. There’s a gift table in the Imperial Ballroom,” the woman says.
I wait for the guards to turn in our direction, but they don’t. Instead, they stand fixed in place. I walk in a zigzag, stepping over gift boxes both large and small, some covered in winter-season flowers and others exploding with velvet bows and silk ribbons.
“I am an important guest of Her Majesty. And I wanted to speak to you because I need my gift to impress. You must have the best sense of what she’s gotten so far.” I lift my royal emblem. I feel terrible about the fact that I’m going to need to hurt her, but I walk closer. A riot rises within me. My heartbeat overwhelms my entire body. My stomach twists with guilt and regret. A sticky sweat seeps out of my skin. “Can I show you the gift, and you’ll let me know if it is good enough?” I ask.
Her blue eyes light up, and a primrose pink sets into the white of her cheeks. “Yes, it would be my pleasure. But quickly, I will get in trouble if you’re found up here. I don’t know how you got the porter to bring you up. It’s forbidden.”
“Our new queen said I could. He was following orders,” I lie, and turn my back to her, set the box down, and remove the lid. She inches closer and leans forward. I wrap my finger around the voice-box, its brass edges warming beneath my fingertips. My hands itch with anticipation.
When I see the blond of her hair, I clobber her with it. She stumbles, croaks, touches her head, then collapses.
I hold my breath and wait a moment, hoping the nerves settle and that she isn’t dead—just asleep for a little while. Enough time for the Iron Ladies to arrive.
One of the guards turns in my direction. “What’s going on over there?”
His voice startles the others into action.
“She fainted,” I lie.
“Show us your identification ink,” one demands.
“You should call for a nurse from the Palace Infirmary.”
They run in my direction.
I gaze down and grab a box covered in holly. Anger collects in my fingertips, the fire inside me loose and uncontrollable.
I grasp for the arcana, my three gifts just beneath my skin, at the ready. I stretch the waxy leaves until their edges are as sharp as Rémy’s dagger at my hip.
These men will not get in my way.
Not now.
Not when I’m this close.
Two of the guards stumble backward with alarm. One clobbers his head and loses consciousness.
“Who are you?” the other one yells.
I catch the third as he tries to grab me, forcing the holly plant to coil around his torso. I press one of the thickened leaves at his throat, pushing the pointed edges into his skin. I tell the other guard, “Leave or I will kill him.”
I let the holly plant dig a little harder into the man’s flesh, and draw a teardrop of blood. The other guard’s face pales and he puts his hands up. “I’m just here to watch the gifts. I don’t even want to be a soldier,” he stammers out, then scurries off like a coward.
I turn the holly leaves into a coffin, covering the guard’s entire body until he resembles one of the hedges from the topiary maze on the palace grounds. No one will find him for a while or hear his shouts. I grab the woman’s wrist and hunt for a pulse. It’s faint. I exhale. She’ll hopefully be out for a little bit.
I drop to my knees. The weight of what I’ve done couples with exhaustion from last night.
The sound of post-balloons bumping and thudding the glass is the only melody around me as they beg to be let in, their tail ribbons taut with the weight of their parcels.
I go to the Observatory Deck doors and slide one open a crack. Not enough for a passerby to notice. Not enough to cause alarm. A tendril of cold air cools the clamminess of my skin.
I look out at the horizon at a snow-white sky full of battalions of beautiful gift boxes and post-balloons. Many of the crates are so huge they require ten post-balloons to carry their weight. Ribbons in gossamer and amethyst and emerald and plum ruffle in the wind.
I hope they’re full of Iron Ladies.
I walk with Bree to the Imperial Ballroom in the heavy gown sent by Sophia. The whole palace—its domes, gardens, turrets, spires, and pavilions—is aglow. Snow-lanterns bathe every possible corner with light. Gentle snowflakes dust the shoulders of men and women who dance under the snow-lanterns. People try to point out shapes before they shift into a myriad of new patterns. The cavernous room is thick with men in tuxedos and women in jewel-toned dresses.
With each footstep I take, I wonder what Sophia is going to do. Who is she going to present as Charlotte? Did she capture her sister? Did she kill someone?
I push away any doubt. I have to believe our plan is moving forward.
“Did you find Amber?” I whisper to Bree before she leaves.
“No. Sophia must be hiding her. I’ll keep looking.”
I take a deep breath, touch the emblem around my neck, and hold the glamour in my mind. There’s been no word from Padma or Auguste or any of the Iron Ladies in the last hour. But if Sophia can convince everyone that Charlotte is dead, she will be queen by the end of the day. I can’t let that happen. Even if I have to stop her myself.
“Happy snow. Happy love.” The cold-season blessing flutters through the room followed by kisses and the clinking of glasses. “May the Goddess of Love bless you. May you find sweetness in the new year. And most of all, may you always find beauty.”
The ballroom is a jigsaw of bodies: men in top hats and women in gowns that swish and swirl as they spin in diagonals, dancing to a waltz being played by a small orchestra. Tiers of crème tarts and milk macarons sit on jeweled carts.
Courtiers pass by, locked in the fever of gossip.
“Did you see Colette Durand with her too-dark eyebrows? Looking just like the court jester. She thinks tinting them will work. That trend is long gone. Now, she just reeks of the elderberry juice she used to color them herself,” one says.
“And Aimee Martin smells of skin paint,” another adds. “She could’ve at least gone to the trouble of wearing a pomander or carrying a scent box. She’s even gone and drawn veins onto her neck and face like she’s a walking portrait or something.”
The women burst with laughter.
“Inès Robert needs a skin treatment. She thinks taffeta patches will cover up those pocks,” a third woman offers. “Thank god the teahouses will reopen soon. Our new queen will deliver on her promises.”
“If I had Josette Agulliard’s unfortunate bone structure, I’d have a Belle completely rebuild me from the bones out,” the first says.
Black gossip post-balloons swarm overhead, listening to every word. Imperial attendants use tall poles and nets to swat them away, but they adeptly dodge and soar higher up to the grand ceiling, seeming to revel in a game of cat and mouse.
The Everlasting Rose (Belles, The) Page 25