The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(23)

The Spice Isles’ teahouse perches like a glass egg over the quartier. The wind jostles brown-and-red house-lanterns above a door emblazoned with the Belle-symbol. Bronze sill-lanterns sit in dark windows. Royal buildings flank its sides like a jeweled nest made of pearl, marble, and gold. A funicular rail sends empty golden chariots to an entry platform.

“There’s no way we’re getting up there,” I say. “The porter station is closed.”

Edel points to a small alley. “We’ll use the servant entrance—the stairs. I found them earlier.”

Rémy gazes around. “The fewer people out on the street, the more likely we’ll be seen.”

“You might be spotted since you refuse to let us change your looks,” Edel snaps at him. “So maybe you should stay down here and wait for us.”

“Not happening,” Rémy replies. “I’m trained to not be seen, but you two are not.”

“We’ll be fine,” Edel says, then pivots to me. “It’s time to change.”

My hands quiver. The warnings we received all our lives about our gifts and the way they’re supposed to be used pile into a mountain that sits upon my chest.

This is wrong.

This is dangerous.

This will have consequences.

“I don’t know if I can,” I reply.

“You have to. You have no choice.” Edel closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her skin darkens from milk white to the color of sand, and her hair knits itself into a long braid—a shiny rope hanging over her shoulder.

“Hurry,” Edel says. “I don’t want to have to hold this for longer than necessary.”

The arcana quiver just beneath my skin. My heart rattles in my chest.

I close my eyes. I try to picture myself, but only darkness greets me. The noises in the square grow louder—newsies dropping the evening papers through mail slots, the light honk of river coaches approaching house piers, a sweet-vendor pushing a cart along the cobblestones, men and women laughing as they return home, the sounds of teacup animals squeaking at their owners.

I tremble with doubt.

A hand slides into mine; a little rough and a little warm but nice.

Rémy’s hand.

I take a deep breath. I think of Maman: her soft gaze, the rich red of her hair, and the curve of her cheekbones.

A headache drums in my temples. I feel myself change, my limbs frosting over, my hair straightening and landing on my shoulders, my veins flooding with cold, my skin prickling with gooseflesh, and my legs stretching and lengthening.

Edel jostles my shoulder. “You look just like Maman Linnea. And you’re taller. I haven’t tried changing my body size and height yet.”

My eyes snap open. “I didn’t mean to.” I drop Rémy’s hand and finger my now red hair. I look around for the nearest reflective surface and spot myself in the window of a télétrope shop. My breath catches in my throat.

I touch my face. I am almost her. The pain of wanting my mother back floods my heart, drowning it with sorrow, longing, and anger.

Rémy gawks, his eyes bulging with a mix of curiosity and horror.

“It’s still me,” I say.

He opens his mouth to comment.

“No time to admire your brilliance.” Edel grabs my arm and yanks me forward.

We hustle into the alleyway and climb the winding staircases to the teahouse’s side door. Rémy easily breaks the lock like it’s nothing more than a clockwork toy, and we tiptoe inside.

The walls burst with violets and turquoises like an anxious sky tumbling into nightfall. The ceilings bloom in pinks and tangerines like a spice box of the gods. Doors inlaid with leaf-shaped jewels dot the long corridor that opens up into a grand foyer. Plush cold-season rugs stretch out beneath our feet, and bronze house-lanterns graze the floor like sunken rocks. It smells of burnt candlewicks and rancid honey and damp wood.

None of my sisters were placed here after our Beauté Carnaval. The Belle from the previous generation, Anise, remained. Dark chandelier-lanterns hold her cameo portrait. The silkscreen flutters and ripples from the draft we let in. I wonder where Anise is now and how many other Belles had been secretly kept here. Were they chained? Were they overworked?

“It looks so different from the Chrysanthemum Teahouse,” I whisper.

“They’re all unique to the specific islands,” Edel says. “The Fire Teahouse always looked like it would burn down any minute with all the oranges and reds and yellows. If this teahouse is set up like the others, the storage rooms are in the back left corner nearest to the servant lifts.” She grabs a house-lantern from the floor. Rémy hands her a matchbook before she asks, and she lights the lantern, setting it afloat. Once it gathers enough air, she tugs its tail ribbons forward.

We scramble up the stairs, tearing past treatment rooms, linen closets, and servants’ quarters until we locate the glass-walled storage room. Belle-products sit on cushioned shelves and in colorful cabinets ready to be plucked for use: complexion crème-cakes, mineral powders, kohl-ink bottles with jeweled lids, perfume blocks, beads and ointments, rose water, hand pallets, beeswax resins, pomatum boxes, rouge crayons, pumice stones, false brows made from mouse fur, tooth sponges, tinted wool pads, hair powder, and more. The products bear the Belle-emblems. I thumb each one and suddenly feel a swell of homesickness.