The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(29)

“The whole world is under arrest right now,” her companion responds.

“It’s time for things to return to order. I can’t last much longer without my beauty treatments. They’re going to be opening more asylums than teahouses if our new queen doesn’t get this all sorted soon,” another adds.

“She’s made a lot of promises.”

“That’s what children do.”

“You shouldn’t talk about Her Majesty like that,” someone barks.

“One must figure out the Belle situation,” a voice calls out.

I stiffen. Rémy’s hand finds my waist. I hear Edel take a deep breath.

“I’m tired of all the Belles fuss. I’m ready for things to go back to the way they’ve always been.”

A nearby woman shouts, “The Belles cater to one class. What about the rest of us who can’t afford weekly or even monthly treatments?”

The woman with the hair-tower gasps, then cranes, looking for the speaker in the small crowd.

“They’ll have to bring in more to meet the demand. It’ll solve all this mess,” a man in a top hat replies, triumphantly. “Like télétrope sales. When they’re up, make more.”

“Oh, hush up,” a woman beside him says.

“Or we could get rid of all of them.”

“Yeah, what about finding another way?”

“All of this talk is upsetting my teacup sloth,” someone shouts.

A loud bell rings, stamping out the conversation.

A charged energy ripples over all of us. Rémy, Edel, and I make eye contact.

“Line up to disembark. Keep the queue tidy,” a man directs. “No pushing.”

The islands appear in the distance as the ship enters the Bay of Silk. Buildings boast sea-blue domes trimmed with a rose gold that glitters as the sunrise hits it. Swaths of land are covered in huge spiraled silkworm cocoons and orchards of mulberry trees. Men and women climb ladders to reach the stacked towers, armed with silk collection baskets.

Edel whispers, “Wow.”

City-lanterns drift about like fallen stars, illuminating all of Carondelet’s wonders—deep canals cut through the quartiers grasping ornate watercoaches that sit on the blue like glittering jewels expelled by the God of the Sea. Advertising banners flutter behind vendor boats as they stop at piers and hustle their ornate wares to customers. A kaleidoscope of shops stretch as far as I can see.

It’s one thing to be in the lesson rooms at Maison Rouge standing before Du Barry’s massive tapestry map of Orléans and another to actually see it for yourself. The world is vaster and more beautiful than she ever described. Each corner of it feels different and unique, part of a puzzle with disparate pieces that somehow fit together.

The ship docks. Newsies swarm the pier with the morning papers. Others hold poles displaying silkscreen banners of the Fashion Minister, Gustave du Polignac. We disembark.

“Early papers available!”

“Get the Silk Post here!”

“Daily Orléansian over this way!”

“Sucré and the Beauty Tribune fresh off the presses.”

The sight of the Fashion Minister’s face sends a temporary surge of relief into my bones. The silkscreens shift through images—his full lips break into a smile that lifts his freckled brown cheeks into a stoic and regal grimace. I almost lose hold of my glamour.

“Queen Sophia’s new vivant dress line debuts today in preparation for the Coronation and Ascension. Come for a preview this afternoon with the Fashion Minister himself at the Silk Hall in Carondelet’s square,” a newsie hollers. “Look your best for our new queen.”

“I’ve seen samples of the dresses. They’ll sell out quickly. Place your orders early,” another newsie shouts. “You don’t want to be left behind.”

“Doors open at noon on the dot,” a third reminds. “Lines already forming along the mile.”

“Let’s go get Valerie,” Edel says, marching ahead.

“Wait! Didn’t you hear? People are already lining up to get in to see the Fashion Minister,” I say. “We should see him first.”

“We have two hours. That’s too long to hold a glamour, especially after being sick. And we can’t go in there with these tattered masks. We’ll look out of place.”

“But what if we don’t get in, and they close the doors?” I protest.

“They want money. That won’t happen,” she replies, turning to Rémy. “What do you think?”

“You care?” he asks.

“No, but she does, so break the tie.”

He sighs. “I think we should go assess the teahouse, see how many guards are stationed there and how we might get in.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Fine.”

Edel pats Rémy’s shoulder and he tenses. “We agree on something,” she says and leads us to the line to board a small city boat.

“The teahouse will be near the square,” Rémy whispers as we wait to board. “Nearest to the aristocratic Rose Quartier and the city’s Imperial Mile.” He points at the narrow canal to another prominent island. “All the cities are set up the same way.”

“Silk Teahouse, please,” Edel tells the watercoach driver.