The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(25)

I turn to run for the Market Quartier, but guards swarm in as if from nowhere and block my path.

I’m trapped.





I mop the sweat from my brow and try to will my heart to slow down. I take a deep breath and pretend to be an aristocratic lady out shopping past curfew.

“Shops are closing. Start making your way home,” a guard barks into a voice-trumpet. “Only those with curfew passes can remain out.”

I’ve lost my glamour. I fumble with tying my mask. The guards call out behind me, but I don’t stop or change my pace. The aristocratic women wave off their demands, seemingly unafraid. I try to mimic them and fill my motions with their confidence. I fold into a small crowd of people in line at a sweets pavilion. They complain as I push, accidentally knocking their bourbon pies to the ground.

Fardoux’s Teacup Emporium sits in the center of the winding avenue. It’s the only shop still alive with light. Gilt-lanterns dangle above the door like shooting stars caught by their tails. Three WANTED posters stretch across the large glass window: one for Edel, one for Rémy, and one for me.

I turn the doorknob. A bell chimes as I step inside.

It’s empty.

The room’s crackling hearth sends its warmth through the space. Sunset-pink walls hold shelves full of teacup pets in golden cages. Tiny elephants sport painted chrysanthemums on their sides, little hippos wear red bow ties, small tigers and lions play with their pearl necklaces, miniature monkeys throw pastel balls to one another, and a zebra no bigger than my shoe prances through the shop. We learned that many of these animals used to be massive—oftentimes, the size of carriages or as tall as buildings—but the early queens of Orléans bargained with the God of the Ground for more palatable companions.

I find a mirror and adjust my mask, now battered from overuse, bunch my hair into my hood, and smooth the front of my crumpled dress. My outsides can’t reflect the panic of my insides.

“Hoot!” a tiny teacup owl squeaks.

I jump.

The bird waddles across a nearby perch, and its eyes, big as leas coins, follow my every move.

A man pops out from behind a curtain. “Madam, may I take your coat and show you some of our newest pets? We don’t have much time before the guards rush in here and remind me it’s time to close to obey the nonsense curfew. I’ve lost so much business because of it, but I’m so happy you’ve found your way here despite the trouble. I have some excellent arrivals from the imperial island. And ones you can only get here. A sloth to fit in your palm. A panda for your pocket.” The shopkeeper slides from behind a counter, grinning with a perfectly waxed mustache that curls into tiny spirals at the end. He’s powdered and white like a fresh cream pastry hot from the oven. His waistcoat hugs his chest too tight, forcing his stomach to spill out of the bottom. “A honey bear for your boudoir.”

I start to speak.

“Oh, wait. Let me guess. This is my favorite part. Matching teacup pets and owners. And by the looks of you, I think I have the perfect fit. Just in today. One moment.”

He disappears into another room, and I’m grateful. Less time having to talk to him and more time to hide inside away from the guards.

I steal glances at the glass door, hoping the guards have cleared out so I can get to the docks, but they seem to be everywhere. In the windows, the backs of the WANTED posters also hold our images. There’s no escaping our faces, not for any citizen of Orléans. It’s a miracle we’ve yet to be caught. I squeeze my eyes shut and steady my breaths. I think about sneaking back out on the street before he returns. But the guards thicken in number as they shut down the sweets pavilion and step into nearby shops. In only a few moments, they’ll be in here.

“It’s a half hourglass past curfew. All must return home.” The voice-trumpet warning echoes through the shop.

That’s my cue, but there are so many guards on the street I won’t be able to leave without being stopped.

The shopkeeper returns with a tiny Belle-rose-red flamingo.

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t need a teacup pet.”

He frowns. “Then why are you here?”

The stupidity of my statement slaps me in the face. I stutter, searching for a reason. “I need a supply of mice, or better yet, rats. And alive, please. I have a teacup pet at home already that needs feeding.”

“I can’t hear you well due to your mask. Will you take it off? I don’t suppose your makeup needs protection indoors, and I assure you there are no newsies hiding in here ready to snap a picture.”

“I have a terrible and highly contagious illness,” I say, remembering what Rémy told the post-balloon merchant.

He arches back and a deep flush colors his white cheeks.

“I just need mice or rats,” I repeat. “And then I will leave you in peace.”

“How many? I’ll have to check my supplies. My little snakes have been eating so many lately.”

“A week’s supply for a newborn drag—I mean, lion. Yes, my sweet little lion.” I cringe. I’m making a mess of Rémy’s plan.

“Hmm, teacup lions often prefer pig meat. Mice are full of bones.”

“Give me both then.” I set leas coins on the counter. The purse is so light, I’m afraid if the Fashion Minister doesn’t help us or we can’t sell any of the stolen Belle-products, we won’t have enough left to buy food.