The Belles (The Belles #1)(45)

I meander through the passages, turning left and right, right and left. Statues stand at sharp corners, and fountains spray rainbow-colored water in the air. Laughing ladies stream past with gentlemen trailing behind them. They smile and point at me, and whisper my name alongside the words favorite and Belle and beauty. Even with the mask, they recognize me.

Jeweled pavilions and gazebos dot garden lanes, serving different teas, coffees, and sweets. Music floats out of some, giggles burst from others, and the scent of sweet pastries mingles with the nectar of flowers. I scan pockets of people, looking for Belle-buns.

The sun sinks fully below the horizon. The night-lanterns are lit. I trample over a wooden bridge that crosses a small garden river, an offshoot of the Golden Palace River that runs the perimeter of the palace grounds. I make another turn and spot Sophia’s dress. The jewels and feathers glow like fluorescent insects in the darkness, and her brilliant hair sparkles under the lanterns.

I crane my neck to see around the hedge. She’s wrapped in the arms of a young man—legs, arms, and lips locked together. Their masks lie on the ground. The green trim of his jacket reveals he’s from the mercantile House of Clothiers, and as such is ineligible to be her fiancé. He claws at her dress like it’s a present he’s desperate to unwrap. She directs his hands, moves his head from left to right, in complete control of his every touch and kiss. My fingers fly up to cover my mouth.

I’m careful to stay out of sight. Her ladies-of-honor fan out around her like a guard, surveying the area, running off people who wander by. Seeing his hands lifting her dress makes my body warm, like I’m preparing to use the arcana. The veins in my arms and legs rise. A curiosity inside me awakens.

I shudder from the ridiculousness of my thoughts. I turn to leave, but step on a branch. It cracks.

I freeze.

Sophia stops kissing the young man. She looks over his shoulder and motions to one of her ladies.

Gabrielle walks forward. “Who’s there?” Her beautiful skin blends into the dark corners of the garden.

I take a deep breath, grab hold of my skirts, and run. I turn left and right and left again without a plan. I hear the girls shouting out behind me. I hope they can’t tell who I am. I don’t stop until my lungs threaten to give out. I might never catch my breath again.

My foot catches on a branch and I topple over in a heap. My legs ache, and sweat collects beneath my mask. I half want to cry, wishing my sisters were with me, but then find myself laughing instead—laughing at the craziness of it all. I think of Sophia’s disheveled face, rouge-stick ringing her mouth and his; her hair, now a chaos of strands; of Gabrielle’s angry expression.

“You’ve gotten yourself into a mess.” A young man peers around the hedge. Tall and stately, with wavy dark hair, his mask is feathered and makes me think of the swallow birds that sailors paint on their ships. He reaches to remove his mask.

“Don’t! You’ll lose the game,” I say. But he doesn’t stop, and reveals his face.

It’s Auguste Fabry. The boy from outside the gate.

“I’m not likely to win it at this point.” He rubs along the beak of the mask and extends a hand to me.

I hesitate. The image of Sophia and the boy wrapped in each other’s arms flashes in my head. I don’t take his hand.

I remove my mask as well. He smiles with recognition, and his eyes pin me in place. A flush of nerves climbs from my stomach to my neck.

“You’re looking at me like I did something wrong,” I say.

“I’m just curious.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be.” I try to get to my feet, further tangling myself in the bushes.

“Why not?” He extends his hand again.

“Do you always take such risks with your life?” I glance around for Rémy or any onlooker before reaching for it, feeling like I’m reaching across worlds, oceans, skies, and realms. The warmth of his palm seeps through my lace gloves. My heart flutters like one of the nearby lantern candles. I will it to slow. Once on my feet, I drop his hand and wipe my palm on my dress as if I can be rid of that feeling.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” he says.

“Neither am I,” I say, even though that’s starting to feel like a lie.

I brush myself off, but the train of my dress snares in the hedge. I work to loosen it, and he rushes to help.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You’re stuck. And you’ll rip your dress if you keep it up.” I tense and shiver as his hand presses against the small of my back.

“Seems like you’re afraid of me,” he says, gently pulling at the folds.

“I’m not. It’s just—”

“I shouldn’t be talking to you. I know. We’ve established that fact.” He frees the train of the gown from the hedge. “There’s only a tiny tear. I don’t know why you all wear these dresses. Too much fabric. Isn’t it heavy?”

“You should try one on.”

He laughs and tosses his mask into the hedge. Pieces of his hair fall along his face, and he tucks them behind his ear.

“I’ve seen a million articles about you in the papers. The new favorite. Your name is everywhere.”

“You mean they have papers where you’re from? Where was it again, the Lost?”

“It’s the Lynx. Get it right, please. Do not insult her. She’s sensitive.”