The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(34)
We kiss until our lips tingle.
“I don’t want you to go.” My voice drowns with fear.
“I don’t want to go either.” His mouth softens and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “But I have to.”
“What if it’s a trap?” I ask.
“Then I’ll work my way out of it.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“I know the palace inside and out.” He pushes back one of my frizzy curls. “You should find Charlotte, get your sisters, and meet me there. We can end this together.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep it from quivering.
“You’ll always know I’m safe.” He fishes three leeches from the perforated jar and puts them along his forearm. “Send the gold dragon for me. She’s my favorite.” With his other arm, he removes a small sheathed dagger from his pocket, the handle white as bone and encrusted with pearls. “Keep this on you always. Even when asleep. Use it without hesitation.” He puts the belt around my waist and buckles it. “And lastly, these.” He takes his leather-bound maps from his pocket. “Carry these. They will reveal the details of each city you go to. They were developed by the Minister of War himself.”
“Won’t you need them?” I ask, removing the leeches as they tug and gorge on the blood in his thick veins.
I open the caisse of sangsues and remove a small empty jar. I use a tiny quill to label it with his name, put the leeches inside, then tuck it back into the compartment beside the leeches Arabella sent.
“I’m going to the palace. I know that place. Trust me.”
I lean forward and rest my forehead against his.
We look at each other as if there’s a rope suspended between us throbbing and pulsing, pulled tight by our shared circumstance. He flashes a smile so devastating and heartbreaking, one that tells me that this might be the last time we see each other.
I kiss him until we run out of breath.
Through the bedroom window, I watch Rémy disappear into the midday crowds. People shift around his broad shoulders and tall frame in an almost synchronized rhythm as if they know he’s important. He strides forward through the world unafraid that there might be someone hunting him around every corner. He doesn’t glance back even though I wish he would.
I need to see his face one more time. In case it’s my last.
My worries congeal into a lump in my throat. I try to follow him with my eyes for as long as I can. The memory of his mouth buzzes along my lips until it’s replaced by a terrible feeling like a too-tight hug. The desire for him to stay tugs at me. A tiny voice whispers: Rémy leaving is a bad idea. This is what Sophia wants.
But I know he can’t stay. His duty is to his family. Without them, there’d be no him.
Edel bursts back in the room with a small parcel. “He left? And without his food?”
I burst. Tears stream down my cheeks. She sweeps me into her arms.
“He’s going to be all right,” she says, stroking my back until I calm down.
“How do you know?”
“He’s Rémy.”
I chuckle a little and pull away. I wipe at my face, trying to erase the emotion. Of course he’ll be fine. He’s smart and strong and calculating.
“Do you love him?” Her blond eyebrow lifts.
I try to form a lie, but I can’t. “Yes.” The word tumbles out, feeling too little to encompass all of these emotions.
“When this is all over, will you be together?”
“Is it going to be over?” I pull on my coat. “And what would that look like?”
“I don’t know.”
A bell rings outside. Vendors start shouting, trying to lure customers to their lunch carts.
“We’ve got to get to the exhibition. We’re late,” I say.
We pack all of our things and adopt glamours. I deepen the brown of my skin so it matches the chocolate pies being sold right outside our window. I pull my hood tight around my face and tuck my tiny beauty caisse, the teacup dragons, and the maps into my fur waist-sash.
Edel resembles our maman Iris—Amber’s maman—with her hair thick, each strand a soft coil, and plaited in two fat twists that hit her waist like ropes of onyx. She packs our remaining Belle supplies into her pockets.
I use Rémy’s maps to navigate us back to the aristocratic Rose Quartier. The crowd stretches out as far as I can see, loud and excited, reminding me of the night of our Beauté Carnaval. They swell like a tide on the massive staircase leading into the Silk Hall. My stomach flutters, the energy of it all finding its way inside me as we fold into the rest of the bodies and make our way out of the cold.
The building is a gift box made of glass panels trimmed with ribbons of gold. Silkscreens of the Fashion Minister’s freckled face hang from the high ceiling interspersed with portraits of gowns displaying their various wonders. The room’s windowed walls give a full view of Carondelet from every vantage point. The blue domed buildings glimmer like cream tarts frosted with blueberry glaze. Day-lanterns zip overhead carrying voice-boxes, and heat-lanterns glow like newborn stars.
“Gather around, everyone. The presentation will start in a quarter of an hourglass,” a woman announces through the voice-boxes.
The crowd takes out ear-trumpets and eyescopes, anticipating the start of the show. Sweet-vendors slither through the masses wearing garments that display their treats. A woman dons a porcelain teapot-shaped hat and pours the steaming liquid through her spout into cups; another wears a dress that glows like an oven complete with spiced pies and bourbon tarts. A little boy pushes macarons from his top hat to be caught and consumed. A tall man has a billowing waistcoat from which he extracts peppermint bark, chocolate buttons, and caramel sticks. Peach post-balloons deliver glasses of champagne to eager, awaiting hands.