The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(14)

“I could be doing that.”

“Maybe getting married,” I say, and as soon as it pops out, I want to press it back in. I don’t know why I thought of it. Or I do know but push it down inside, tucking it away like the poison bottle heavy in my pocket. Always with me, but never taken out into the light. A heavy warmth blooms in my cheeks.

He scoffs. “I’ve never had much luck with courting. My sisters say I’m not charming enough.”

“I wonder why,” I tease, thinking for the smallest moment what he might be like in a relationship. Would he always be so protective? Has he ever loved someone romantically? Or been kissed? “Tell me about the Iron Ladies,” I say to brush away those feelings.

“I don’t know much.” He shrugs. “When I was training on the Isle of Quin, there were rumors about one of the generals who’d been passed over by Queen Celeste to be the Minister of War. She disappeared—like a spider, hence the title of the paper—and wasn’t seen again. She’s thought to be the leader of the Iron Ladies.”

Could they help us? Would they want to help us?

“Most of it always sounded like fairy tales. A whole civilization of people living away from the cities, learning to survive with the grayness, plotting and planning to change things.”

“What if it is true?”

“Then, maybe they’ll help. But I trust nothing that I read in the papers.” He motions in the direction of the stack. “It’s too easy to make things up, use parchment and ink and words to distort opinions.”

“Do you trust anyone? Do you trust me?” I ask.

The question crackles between us like the fire in the hearth. Each letter of that small and complicated word an ember.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, you did stab me.” I touch my side where his dagger pierced me only a week ago.

“For good reason. It was part of the plan.”

“You could’ve told me about it.”

“And have you ruin it?” Rémy says. “No. You didn’t have confidence in me at that point. Barely even liked me. You hadn’t had a chance to test me with that mirror of yours.”

I press a hand to my chest. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m supposed to know about everything when it comes to you.”

“I... don’t even know what to say to that.”

Rémy leans closer. “I’m not him. You don’t have to hide things from me. I’m not watching you or trying to find things out only to hurt you with them.”

The word him lands hard.

Auguste.

I bristle at the mere thought of his face.

“My mother left the mirror for me, but it was Arabella’s,” I whisper.

“Does it always show you the truth?”

“Yes.” I fish it out from under my nightgown and show it to him.

He runs the pad of his thumb across the grooves, his hand so close to my chest that maybe he can feel my heartbeat. The perfume of his skin is different than Auguste’s—almost like warm-season rain and fresh Belle-rose leaves. “It’s beautiful. Will you show me how it works?”

“Soon.” I take it from his grasp and tuck it back under my nightgown, the metal now warm from his touch.

He stares at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. His long arm reaches over my head to rescue a plump white teapot from a hook.

“Are you skilled in the art of making tea?” I ask.

“Add leaves to boiling water.” He lifts an eyebrow.

I sigh at him and roll my eyes.

His brow furrows, crinkling like the brown ridges in a molasses cookie.

“Step aside.” I swat at his shoulder.

He smirks. I wash out the pot, fill it, and set it on the stovetop. He hands me a fire-stick from the hearth, and I light a flame beneath the pot’s round body, then open a cabinet of tea tins. Worn labels advertise their contents—mint, chamomile, almond, lemongrass, and Belle-rose. I run my finger over the last label, remembering how many pots I’d made at the Chrysanthemum Teahouse and the palace until Bree took the process over.

I close my eyes, seeing Bree’s delicate hands at work: her small frame hunched above the tiny hearth on the treatment carts, her scooping out dried leaves and making tiny mounds in tea nets before dropping them into the porcelain pots, or rolling up Belle-rose petals plucked from the solarium garden to steep in piping-hot water. The memory of her tugs at the walls I’ve built inside, and bring tears to my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Rémy asks.

“Just something in my eye.” I turn my back to him and wipe away a tear before it falls. “It’s nothing.”

“All your thoughts show up on your face, Camille. You can’t hide anything.” He approaches the stove, his shadow looming over me.

“Everything is fine.”

“Something is bothering you. I can tell.” His eyes study me, pricking my skin, sharper than needles. “You keep biting your bottom lip and your left eyebrow is all twitchy. And you’re scowling.”

A wave of embarrassment hits me like he’s seen me without my clothes on. The presence of his body feels like Auguste’s did once—inviting and a little dangerous. A lump of thick, hot betrayal simmers in the pit of my stomach.