The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(32)

“Papers,” a voice hollers from the hall. The thud of the bundle hits the floor outside our door.

We can’t escape the news.

Edel peeks into the hall and swipes them. Her eyes scan over the headlines. “Arabella was right. Here’s the report about our sisters—‘Favored Belles Padma, Hana, Valerie, and Amber locked in the Rose.’” She shows me the pictures. Amber grips the rose-shaped bars, shouting through them, her hair a wild storm around her head. We turn the page, quickly, sending the animated ink scurrying to settle. “But, Rémy...”

Rémy turns from the window. “What is it?”

“Your family,” she stammers out.

He takes the paper from her and scans the pages. His eyes fill with anguish. “I have to go.”

“What is it?” I rush to his side.

Animated pictures of Rémy’s family fill the front page under the headlines: THE FAMILY OF THE TRAITOROUS IMPERIAL GUARD—ACCOMPLICE TO FUGITIVE BELLES—IDENTIFIED AND TAKEN INTO CUSTODY

His three sisters, Adaliz, Mirabelle, and Odette, are chained and being carted off. His veiled mother follows behind with her head bowed. His father tussles with the imperial guards. The three girls sob, a storm of tears flooding their dark brown cheeks.

I remember the depth of their smiles and the sound of their voices and how they gazed at Rémy like he would be their hero forever.

Rémy immediately starts packing the few things he’s amassed since being on the run.

“You can’t leave without me changing you,” I say.

“I don’t like being changed and there’s no time,” he says.

“You have to. The guards will capture you the second you get to Trianon, if not sooner.” I quickly prepare the bed for beauty work, pulling back the sheets and fluffing the pillows.

“And you need food,” Edel adds. “I’ll go buy some bread, nuts, and hard cheese. Things that should last you.”

My heart is warmed by her willingness to put aside their rivalry and help him.

“No. I’ll be fine,” he replies. “All your money will be gone....”

Edel is already out the door.

“Your image will be plastered all over, and more prominent than the old Wanted posters, now,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I’m leaving you and Edel my maps. I have them all committed to memory. They’ll help you navigate every inch of Orléans. The ink updates as the master maps in Trianon are updated.” He heads for the door.

I grab his arm. “You’re not leaving here unless I change you.”

Rémy stares me down, but I don’t budge and finally, he sighs. “You know all of this is unnecessary, right? I know how to stay undercover. I have that hair powder to cover the stripe.”

“I need to do this,” I tell him. “I need to do what I can to keep you safe.”

I light a fire in our tiny cookstove and fill a small, chipped teapot with water from our room basin. The noise of the hissing flames and the gurgle of bubbles smothers his protests. I take out the caisse Arabella packed for us and retrieve dried Belle-rose leaves to steep into the pot. My hands work fast setting out all the beauty instruments we have—a set of miniature skin-paste pots, metal rods, and charcoal pencils. I combine them with the items we pilfered from the Spice Teahouse. The small collection isn’t even a fraction of the supplies we once had.

My eyes close and I remember the shelves upon shelves of beauty products at Maison Rouge and the Belle-apartments. The scent of pastilles and wax and candles fills my nose, and I’m almost back there.

But when I open my eyes again it’s just this small room.

“Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.”

He grumbles but complies. The heavy thud of his boots hitting the floor sends a nervous shiver through me. We’ve been cooped up in small spaces together for all these days, and I’ve never seen his feet. Or any of him for that matter. He’s only allowed me to use the hair powder to cover his silver stripe.

I turn around to give him privacy as he undresses but can still feel his each and every move. A tiny fire sparks in my stomach.

The bed squeaks as he climbs into it.

“Are you ready?” I bring over a cup of Belle-rose tea and set it on the nightstand.

“As much as I will be.” He’s tucked himself under the quilts, and his long dark arms lie on top of them.

I laugh.

His brow furrows. “What is it?”

“You’re too far under the blankets. How am I supposed to work on you?”

“Oh.”

“Just lie across the bed and drape the cover over...you know...”

“I know,” he says quickly.

I wait.

“Are you going to turn around?”

“Shy, are we?” My cheeks flame.

He sighs.

I pivot my back to him. My heart flutters like the tiny candle inside the night-lantern between us.

“Done,” he replies.

His long legs dangle over the edge of the bed like great brown trunks of muscle threaded with streaks of gray. But he’s beautiful without his clothes on, even marbled with the sad color.

“What will you do?” he asks.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing if I could help it, but I’m guessing you don’t take no for an answer.”