The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(20)

“The Minister of War trains us in the harshest places, conditioning our bodies to adapt to any circumstance.” He turns back to the street. “I guess we could wait inside for a little. They do have private game rooms. But we’d have to spend money we don’t really have.”

“We must.” I shove the leas purse into his hand.

He bunches his scarf around his neck, pulls down his mask, and adjusts mine to cover more of my face.

“Everyone is subject to a check,” a guard yells as she harasses as many people as she can. But Rémy and I quickly duck into the Queen of Spades. Maroon house-lanterns drift over plush tabletops ringed by high-backed chairs. Men and women slam down porcelain chips or clutch cards or place bets. Laughter and excitement ripple through the room. Parlor workers push treat carts through the labyrinth of game tables.

“Wait here,” Rémy says, then he goes to a speak to a man at a nearby desk. He returns with a skeleton key. “A room for a few hours, and with a view of the street.”

“How’d you pull that off?” I ask.

“Told him we were just married,” he says. I fight the smile erupting across my lips. “Well, you put the thought in my head!” he adds.

We scurry up a set of stairs and into a long hallway. It forms a balcony that overlooks the main room. There are a few potted plants sitting along the railing, and I crouch down and peek between them, to ensure no one followed us. Slanting shafts of lantern light dance across the ground.

Rémy opens the door. Large square windows look out onto the street. A four-poster bed swallows most of the room. At its foot sits a pair of matching armchairs and a card table with a plush red top.

He watches the movement along the street, then draws the curtain and ties a night-lantern to a nearby hook. “We have to leave the Spice Isles tonight. I’m adept at hiding, but they seem to anticipate my every move.”

“We’re going to the Silk Isles,” I declare.

Rémy turns to look at me. “Is that where you think Charlotte is?”

“No.” I reach into my pocket, giving the poison bottle a comforting squeeze, and I retrieve a crumpled newspaper segment instead. “We need to see him.” I unfold the scrap to reveal the face of the Fashion Minister. “In order to find Charlotte, we need money. Gustave will help.”

“Can you trust him?”

“Yes.” The comfort of that truth brings back memories of him helping me as favorite: the little jokes, the advice he’d given me, the secret warnings about Sophia. I have to believe he’ll be on our side. He knows what the queen truly is. “First, I need to send a letter to Arabella. I’ll make sure Sophia didn’t force her to send that message, and once I’m satisfied of that, I’ll tell her of our plan to locate Charlotte. She might know in which direction the princess sailed the night we escaped.” I release Fant?me and Poivre from my waist-sash. They fly about the room, their scales twinkling like snow and fire in the dim light.

I scribble across the page:

Arabella,

Two things:

What do I carry of yours?

How did your teacup dragon find us? We’re not in the place where you told me to go.

Love,





Camille “Fant?me,” I say.

The tiny dragon flies over to me.

“Good girl.”

“The training has worked,” Rémy comments. “She didn’t even need an incentive to come. That’s a good sign.”

“She’s ready.”

She has to be.

“Do you have your knife?” I sweep Fant?me into my arms and sit on the edge of the bed.

“Always. Why?”

“I don’t have our sangsues, so I need blood.”

He furrows his brow. “Maybe we should wait until—”

“No.” I roll up the parchment. “The night air-postmen will be leaving the sky to obey the curfew, so this is my chance to send her out without being detected. The skies will be empty.”

“Maybe that’s the biggest danger. Maybe we should wait to send, so that there’s too many things to watch. In a sky full of birds, it’s harder to find a certain one.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

Rémy leaves his post at the window and eases down beside me on the bed. His body radiates like a star caught in a jar. The question eases back between us, that energy hissing and crackling like the fire in the room’s hearth as each moment passes.

“Cut my thumb,” I order.

He removes a knife from his pocket, the sheath white as porcelain. “Do you think—”

I cup my hand over his mouth. The softness of his lips sends a flutter through me. “Do it.”

He nods.

I take my hand down and turn it palm up. Fant?me perches on my knee, watching.

His hands quiver.

I purse my lips, trying to mask a smile.

“You nervous?”

He grunts a response, then presses the blade into the pad of my thumb. I bite my bottom lip as the silver ridge pierces the flesh and the blood rises to meet it. The sting and throb of it rush in as a red stream trickles down my hand.

“I’ve cut too deep.” Rémy cradles my wrist and frowns.

“It’ll heal fast. I promise,” I say through a grimace. “Come closer, Fant?me.”