The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(50)

A dungeon.

A cage.

Metal bars lock us inside a cave. Long, pointed cylinders push through the stone ceiling like the spikes on a gigantic teacup porcupine.

My eyes are sore, burning with the memory of acidic smoke, but I spot Edel curled up on the floor a few feet away. A cold tremor jolts through my body as I begin to remember what happened. The metallic scent of stagnant water and steam tickle my nose. I lick my lips and wince. My lower lip is split at the corner and the taste of salt stings my tongue.

How long have we been asleep? How long have we been down here?

I touch my pocket. The poison bottle is still buried deep. I touch my stomach. The waist-sash is gone. The dragons gone. The dagger gone. The maps gone. The beauty caisse with the sangsues gone.

Terror drowns me.

“Edel.” I touch her shoulder gently. “Wake up.”

She groans and turns over, clutching her head. “What happened? Where are we?”

“I’m not sure.” I struggle to get on my feet. My body sways as if we’re still on the Fashion Minister’s watercoach. My skull is light as a perfume blimp.

I stagger to the bars—curved, black, and containing no visible door.

“Who were those people?” she says, agitation sharpening her voice.

“I’ve seen those masks before, but I can’t remember where.” I strain to look through the bars. There’s nothing but a great pit with water at the bottom of it. The view sends a wave of nausea through me. Sea-lanterns drift about, spreading tiny ovals of light over craggy rocks. The hiss of steam and the plunk of unknown objects falling into water sound in the near distance. A long stretch of black cables disappear into the darkness overhead.

“Hello!” I shout.

My voice bounces off every wall. Edel massages her temples. I shake the bars, and my own headache intensifies. I lean against the cool rock wall and breathe until it subsides.

Edel stumbles as she pushes herself up. She cradles her head. “I feel sick.”

“This is exactly how I felt after Sophia tampered with my food.”

Edel inspects the bars and tugs on them too. There’s no give. Even if we could remove them, there would be no place to go, no ledge to help us escape. We’d fall more than a hundred paces into whatever lies below. That darkness. That water. Those craggy rocks.

“What would Rémy think of what we’ve gotten ourselves into?” I say.

“That we should’ve skipped seeing the Fashion Minister—or even Valerie. That we should’ve gone straight to Charlotte,” she replies.

I can’t argue with her. But we did need the money to get to Charlotte—not that we have any of it now.

A loud popping makes us jump. Edel and I move closer to each other.

A rickety carriage putters along the black suspension cable.

Edel and I hold hands.

The door opens to reveal a snug compartment covered in threadbare velvet and thick navy trim.

A face appears, shadowed by the soft night-lantern—a boy about our age with a crooked grin and a strange excitement lighting his eyes. He inches closer, trying to balance as he leans out, and pushes a slender basket through the bars.

“Where are we? And who are you?” Edel barks.

“That’s not a nice way to greet someone who just brought you food,” he challenges her. His hair is so dark it could be the night sky itself folded into waves.

Edel kicks the basket aside and its contents spill. “I’m not nice, and I don’t have to be. You people are holding us against our will.”

He smiles at her. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too. Would you like to know how the weather is?”

“I want to know where we are,” she replies.

I gather up the food and inspect it, my stomach growling. A wedge of cheese and dried meat. I scarf down my half while Edel continues to spar with the boy. Her cheeks hold a flush and her hands are balled into fists at her sides. The way they go back and forth reminds me of how I used to talk to Auguste. The memory is a burning knot, and I swallow more food to bury it.

“You’re at the mouth of the Goddess of Death’s caves. We just call it the Grottos. I grew up on a nearby island—though no one even registers it on an official map of Orléans. If you live out here, you’re considered unlucky. Not worth accounting for.”

“Let us out.” Edel tries to shake the bars again, but they don’t budge.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You’re in the web now.”

“He’s right,” a voice calls out.

We look up and spot a woman in an open-top dirigible, the words ORLéANSIAN AIR-POST on it scratched out and replaced with THE SPIDERS. “Quentin!”

The boy jumps, almost falling. Edel reaches through the bars and grabs hold of him before he tumbles.

“See, I knew you could be nice,” he says, earning a scowl from Edel.

“You weren’t paid to chat, only to deliver food,” the woman says. She’s gray like a Gris, her eyes glowing embers with impossibly long eyelashes. Her curly black hair is pinned into an elegant knot, and beautiful. “Scurry along home now. I’d hate to have to tell Lady Arane about this. She’d dock your wages.”

“Yes, my lady. May your threads be strong.” He bows his head, she nods, then he cuts his eyes back at Edel. “See you around, hopefully.” He shuts the carriage door, and it inches its way back down into the darkness.