The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(40)

“Fine. But I like to know things.”

“Fine. Then I have something to show you.” I hand her the Spider’s Web paper. “I had to warn Rémy after reading it. The Letter from the Editor.”

“Little dolls,” the Fashion Minister calls from the adjoining room. “The food is growing cold.”

I lead the way. Edel follows, her eyes scanning the page, and she crashes into the table.

Beside the Fashion Minister, breakfast carts sit as tall as the hair tower he sports today, laden with tiers of quiches, trays of steak skewers, stacks of honey crepes, and carafes of milk and snowmelon juice. My stomach growls at the sight of the decadent food, erasing the memory of mornings filled with lumpy porridge and hard biscuits at the various bordinghouses.

“I see you got the paper I sent you last night,” he says.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

“Many throughout the kingdom struggle to as well. They lie awake, panicked with worry. I can’t imagine many of us are getting the proper rest.” He plucks a strawberry from a warm pile of sugar-dusted crepes.

“Only Soph—”

He tsk-tsks. “Shh, don’t forget not to say her name.”

I nod and take a caramel-drizzled waffle from the cart.

“And you’d be surprised. I don’t think she’s sleeping much either. It’s hard to try to keep things together when all you have are fear and lies.”

Edel gazes up from the paper. “They’re tracking us?” she says to me.

“Indeed. Supporting you from afar,” the Fashion Minister inserts.

“What will they want in return?” she asks him.

He sits back and narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean?”

“There’s always a price for help. No one does it for free,” Edel says. “If they’re a group that lives away from the rest of us, rejecting beauty work and tradition, then they can’t really like us. We represent the things they hate.”

“I didn’t read it that way,” I say.

“Because you have hope,” she says with a snarl.

“And you have none,” the Fashion Minister says. “But resistance comes in many forms and alliances take many shapes. Sometimes it’s all fire and storms, cutting off the heads of important people. Other times, it’s slow, a crack forming in glass, inching forward sliver by sliver, spreading out across the entire surface.” He takes a bite of his strawberry; the juice dribbles down his lips like pale blood. “You don’t always have to agree fully to work together. Our stars can align in various ways.”

The boom of thunder shakes the room.

Edel and I flinch.

He gazes up at the skylight windows. “The weather’s starting to turn. The papers said we’d have thundersnow. The God of the Sky is angry today. He’s always a bit fussy as the new year approaches.”

Edel stuffs a beignet into her mouth. “I’m ready.”

“So, you now have money, and I’m going to take you to the Silk Teahouse. Once you have your sister, be sure to leave by the northwest door. That’s the house’s pier for deliveries and discreet visitors. A private boat will be waiting to take you to the city of Céline in the Gold Isles. You’ll be headed up the Rean Mountains to see our sleeping beauty.”

His plan laid out before us invites a calm to settle into me for the first time since I left the palace.

“Do you both agree?” he asks.

I look at Edel, who hesitates a moment, then nods.

I reach for the Fashion Minister’s hand. He takes mine and squeezes it. “Thank you,” I say. I wish I could make him understand how much his help means to me, but there’s no time.

He rises to his feet. “I have replaced your old travel cloaks, and you can use the veils I left for you. Masks aren’t as in fashion here or the Gold Isles. The veils help block all the snow they’re plagued with and with all the teahouses shut down, it hides fading beauty, so they’ve made it into a thing.” He sighs.

We drape the dark veils over our heads. The Fashion Minister crisscrosses the ribbons along our necks and drapes my royal emblem on my forehead like the center jewel of a diadem.

The Fashion Minister opens the door and barks to an attendant standing outside the parlor room, “Ready my carriage.”

“Yes, sir, Minister,” the man replies and bows.

We follow the minister out a side door and into a luxurious imperial carriage the size of three put together. The goldenrod cushions and teakwood paneling enclose us in the front chamber, safe from a heavy snow that’s started to fall. Chandelier lamps tinkle as the horses clip-clop over the cobblestones in the aristocratic Rose Quartier of Carondelet.

“She’s spoiling me,” he says, noticing my eyes taking in the carriage’s luxurious interior. “Thinking it’ll make me hate her less for taking my husband or somehow win me over. Stamp out my suspicions and doubts.”

A servant hobbles around, attempting to serve tea. Instead it drips down her purple servant gown like streaks of mud.

“You should be better at this by now,” the Fashion Minister snaps at her. “Steady yourself.” He stands to demonstrate.

My stomach twists. I open the carriage drapes and gaze out. Ice coats the window with a delicate lace pattern, and snow scratches the sides of the carriage like sugar grains. Crowds still swell the entrance to the Great Hall as we pass. They’re all huddled beneath snow umbrellas with heat-lanterns floating close. Eager faces bear toothy grins and hands clutch leas pouches, ready to admire the dress exhibition and place their orders.