The Belles (The Belles #1)(95)

The man halts. His fur hat flies forward. A woman snatches the privacy curtain back and screeches at the man and then at me. The woman sitting next to her joins in the barrage of insults until she sees me.

“Viola!” She slaps the woman’s arm.

“Oww,” Viola says.

“That’s the favorite.” She points.

“No, it isn’t. Couldn’t possibly be.” She leans forward. Her nose scrunches as she inspects me. “Oh my!” She clutches her large bosom.

“Are you going to the teahouse?” I ask. “Can I have a ride? I promise to give you both a beauty token for your troubles.”

“We aren’t, but we’ll take you there. Get in.” She waves me forward. “Help her,” she hollers at the driver.

“I can get in myself.” I gather up my long skirts, step up on the footstep, and slide between the two women.

The squeeze is tight. The man races forward.

“What were you doing, Lady Camellia?” one asks.

“Yes, where is your carriage, my lady?” the other adds.

“I got lost inside the Garden Quartier,” I lie.

“Well, that’s easy to do. It’s quite a mess. All those stores scattered here and there and on top of one another like a messy closet of hat boxes.”

“Yes, it was my first time,” I say.

“Not to worry,” one says. “We’ve rescued you, the loveliest of favorites.”

The women tell me all about the card game they’re about to attend in the city of Verre. They kiss my cheeks and hold my hand and tell me how they won money in the kingdom’s lotteries by betting on me to be named the favorite.

The rickshaw pulls up to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse. I press two beauty tokens into their hands and thank them as they whiz away, full of laughter.

My heart thuds.

I pull my jacket closed to block the wind. I avoid the entrance and walk around the side of the teahouse to the gardens near the veranda. I take off my coat and throw it up over the small railing, then lift my skirts to climb up. A buzz hums under my skin like the arcana.

I duck as servants set the veranda for afternoon tea. I wait until they disappear into the kitchen before darting into the hall. Day-lanterns putter overhead.

I climb the stairs. Madam Claire’s high-pitched voice rings out, so I hide in the nearest room and press my back to the wall.

“Is Ambrosia still resting?” she complains.

“Yes, my lady,” an attendant answers. “She always rests for an hour before tea.”

“I lose three possible appointments in that time. Who said she could continue to do so?”

“She’s slow to rebalance these days.”

Their voices taper off as they move farther into the house.

I inch forward and check the hall, then race up the last set of staircases to my old bedroom on the third floor.

I turn the knob and sneak inside. The room is outfitted in deep reds and oranges like a phoenix’s feathers. Ambrosia flowers wink and bloom from animated wallpaper. The bedcurtains are drawn.

I rush forward. “Amber?” I whisper.

No answer.

I say her name again and open the bedcurtains.

The bed is empty.

Disappointment floods every part of me. I’m near tears. On Amber’s nightstand sit little mortuary tablets for Maman Iris.

“What should I do, Maman?”

I wait for an answer. I run my finger over the mortuary tablets.

Search.

The word drums through me.

I go back to the bedroom door. The noise of the servants in the hallway sends me to the wall. I run my fingers over it, waiting to feel air. Then I push. Bree’s old servants’ quarters are empty. I slip out and up the servants’ staircase. I search every room on this floor, then go to the next and the next until I’m at the very top of the teahouse, the tenth floor.

Madam Claire’s apartments are on the right. Each door is locked but one.

As soon as I open the door, the sound of soft crying greets me. The room is pitch black, aside from one single day-lantern tied to a nearby door hook.

“Who’s there?” a sniffly voice calls out.

I untie the lantern and walk forward.

“Amber? Is that you?” I say.

Something metallic drops with a clatter.

“There’s no Amber here,” a second voice cries.

The soft light of the day-lantern spreads.

A girl leans forward. She has one eye and half a nose. I startle and fall backward with a thud. Another girl reaches for me. The light hits her. Hair grows down the left side of her head—only the left side.

“Help us,” she says.

I scurry away from her as more voices join hers like a chorus.





42


The day-lantern illuminates the faces of the women. Broken. Disfigured. Injured. Silver chains loop around their wrists like bracelets, and jeweled collars tether them to high-backed chairs.

“Who are you?” I say.

A parade of names hits me: Kata, Noelle, Ava, Charlotte, Violaine, Larue, Elle, Daruma, Ena. And Delphine.

Her face is seared into my memory. That night she fixed the woman mauled by a teacup bear.

“We’re Belles, too,” Delphine says. “Madam keeps us locked up here.” She leans into the light; her eyes are lined with dark shadows.