The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(13)

The dream darkness fills with smoke and ash, the world burning around me like a rose set aflame, each petal shriveling and whitening, furious at being stripped of its color and perfume. The cameos of her courtiers appear along the walls, shifting and morphing within the angry fire. The frantic pulse that lives inside her ripples out like waves, crashing into me, while the screech of her laughter pierces the silence like a thunderclap.

I wake up soaked every time.

“Can’t sleep?” Rémy asks, his heavy whisper bouncing off the walls like a skipping stone across the bayou waters at home. He shifts in a high-backed chair beside the door and lights a small night-lantern, setting it adrift in the room. His rich brown skin glows when beads of light find him.

“How can you?” I sit up and pull my sweat-soaked curls into a low bun before they start to frizz. Beside me, Edel turns over and sighs in her sleep.

“I barely sleep. You know that,” he replies.

I sigh. “Right.”

I gaze out the window. The sky looks like it’s in mourning—the dark streaks of blue mirror tears and the gashes of purple bruises. Maybe the heavens are troubled by what’s happening below. “What time is it?”

“The evening star rose about two hourglasses ago. Only a few more until dawn,” he says. “Want some tea? Maybe it’ll help.”

“Yes,” I reply.

I slide out of bed.

Rémy quickly stands and turns his back to me. “Tell me you’re changing next time.” His shoulders tense.

The cotton sleeping-gown hugs my edges. “Yes, all right,” I whisper, blushing. We’re still finding the rhythm of being in small spaces together.

I slip on my traveling cloak. “I’m ready.”

He inches open our door, so it doesn’t groan.

We tiptoe into the hall. Shabby night-lanterns pockmarked with holes and covered in nets of dust struggle to reach the ceiling or to provide us with light.

“The kitchens are empty right now,” he reports, leading me down a back set of stairs. Deep snores escape from behind nearby doors and mask the noise of our footsteps. The red sill-lanterns have been extinguished, and the ladies of the house have all gone to bed. We’ve only been here a few hours, but Rémy has started a detailed ledger of their movements.

Thin walls allow the wind to find its way inside. Its icy, sharp fingers send a shiver through me.

“Are you cold?” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“Do you hear everything?”

“I guess you could say that. My maman used to say I could even hear the smallest mouse pee.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I laugh, then try to swallow it.

His face lights up like the time I saw him talking to his sisters. He lets out a deep chuckle, full-throated and from the very bottom of his stomach. It vibrates across my skin. It’s the sort of laugh that makes you sit up and pay attention and wish you were always the one to laugh with him.

I think about how long I spent hating him, and blush with regret.

We arrive at the kitchen. He motions for me to wait, then ducks inside, stalks around in the dark, and reappears tugging the strings of a night-lantern.

“No creatures waiting to eat me?” I ask with a smile.

“Looks fine,” he says. “And I’m shocked you stayed put.”

“I guess I’ve learned to listen.”

“Or to trust me.” He leads the way and sets the night-lantern afloat. A fire burns low in the hearth. A monstrous stone stove hulks in the corner like the fire-breathing bayou bird Maman used to tell me stories about as a child. Jars of bits and bobbles and thingamabobs clutter the shelves. Shoddy cabinets hold cracked glass panes. Dishes are stacked in perilous towers in a sink. Remnants of the cook’s stew sit in a pot on the long worktable, calling out to any critters looking for a meal. A stack of night-edition newspapers blinks their headlines.

“You walk like you own the land beneath your feet.” His laughter fades, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “Like my sisters. I could always tell when one of them would enter the house. I knew them by the sound of their footsteps. Mirabelle, quick and light, always a little too excited. Adaliz, heavy and demanding, ready to order someone around. Odette, jumpy and timid, looking for something coming around every corner.” He sighs.

“You miss them?”

“Desperately,” he replies. “I’m used to being away on assignment or for training. But this feels—”

“Different,” I say.

He nods.

“What do you think they’re doing?”

“Getting prepared to celebrate the new year despite being worried about me,” he says. “They’re also anxiously checking the newspapers and watching the reels every day.”

“I should’ve never dragged you into this,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“If I recall, I got myself into it by helping you escape.” He smiles.

“You could be doing so many other things right now.”

“Like what?” he says as I lean back against the kitchen counter.

“Taking your sisters for a cold-season holiday in the mountains of the Gold Isles.”

“Fine.”

“Or off training somewhere.”