The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(57)

Finally, the lid of my coffin lifts and I feel the relief of a deep breath.

“Is everyone all right?” Surielle asks.

“I am now, thank you.” My skin welcomes the cool air. She smiles down at me, her skin glistening like a gray pearl brought from the depths of the Cold Sea. I stretch and try to hold in a yawn. Sleep tugs at my eyelids.

“It’s all cargo down here, so you can come out while we travel. It’s about one hourglass until we reach Céline and the Gold Isles.”

“Where’s Edel?” I ask, just before her groan cuts through the space. I turn and find her open casket is behind mine. She’s sitting up, her face an awful shade of green. I climb out of my box and rush over to her, scaling over crates and barrels. Surielle follows and together we try to get Edel up, but she cowers.

“I wish we had some barley water,” I say, pushing Edel’s hair from her forehead.

Surielle rifles through cargo boxes only to discover bottles of wart tonics, cases of wine, and all types of new télétropes.

“What is this? One of your ships?” I ask her.

“No. An overnight cargo vessel from the port of Nouvelle-Lerec.”

I notice that Violetta and one other disciple are posted at the door, masks on and daggers in hand. I want to try to speak to Violetta about what happened with Claudine. I want to apologize and try to explain. But Edel moans again and burps up her sickness, and I can’t leave her.

“Try to sleep,” I tell Edel, helping her lie down again.

She rolls over, cradling her stomach. Surielle brings a cloak to prop her head up. I find a fan and flap a breeze over her until her eyes grow heavy and her breathing softens.

I find a place nearby to sit, a barrel nestled between two crates labeled BEAULIEU’S CHANDELIER-LANTERNS, and let the teacup dragons out of my pouch. They flutter about, stretching their wings while I keep a watch on Edel.

A silence settles over us, only interrupted by the squawk of a seabird or one of Edel’s moans or the clomp of a footstep on the deck above.

Surielle steals glances at me, her black eyes combing over my hair and face.

“Have you always been part of this group?” I ask her.

“I ran away from home at thirteen and joined. My mother was terrible about beauty management. She made us change weekly to keep up with the trends. I hated it,” she says. “I was in constant pain.”

“How did you learn about the Iron Ladies’ existence?”

“You have to know where to look. They leave clues. Spiderwebs and cleome flowers—”

“On buildings.” I remember the cobwebs and flowers in the shop windows in Metairie. Makes me wonder how many small signs I missed. How much I hadn’t been paying attention.

“What happened to you at the palace?” Surielle asks. “We’ve heard about this new queen for so long and read about some of her antics, but I don’t know what is true and what isn’t. I want to hear from someone who was there.”

“So many things,” I reply. “Sophia wants to be the most beautiful woman in the whole world and she will do anything to achieve it.”

“But that is impossible. And frivolous.”

“That is what she wants.” The anger inside me ties itself into a heavy knot. “I thought she’d kill me with beauty work.” I close my eyes for a moment. Sophia’s wild gaze greets me, glaring. I shudder.

“She will be stopped,” Surielle replies. “All of this nonsense will come to an end.”

Her words sink down inside me, mingling with the rage simmering. “I know.”

Our eyes meet and hold the same purpose.

“Surielle, Liara and I wish to speak with you,” Violetta barks. Surielle joins the others at the door.

I take Arabella’s Belle-book from my satchel and trace my fingers over the cover until my heart slows. It makes me miss Maman’s Belle-book. I open it and begin to read, hoping it’ll make me sleepy enough to rest.

Date: Day 4,128 at court

Sophia carted me to her prison. The last wing is almost complete as she works the builders to the very edge.

Elisabeth Du Barry has been forced to live at the Everlasting Rose prison now. She tried to grow a dozen Belles and many of them were born too damaged to survive. Sophia gave her a guideline for the unfavored class of Belles. The only principle was that they needed to be suitable for beauty work but didn’t have to be beautiful themselves. Many were born with too many eyes or without skin, and a few missing their faces.

So many of the babies haven’t made it a full day.

My stomach swells with sickness, disgust sending bile up my throat.

“Camille,” Surielle says.

I look up.

“Trouble.”

She hands me a newspaper, the animated ink racing. An image of the Rose prison twirls like a carousel beneath the headline: CONSTRUCTION COMPLETE IN TIME FOR NEW CORONATION CEREMONY—AND ITS NEW GUESTS! The Fashion Minister’s freckled face is pressed up against its pink bars, the iron warped into the shape of roses. His tears glisten as they fall down his cheeks.

My heart slams into my rib cage.

The portrait flickers.

Another face consumes the frame.

Dread fills my insides as the animated ink fills in.

The Beauty Minister. Rose Bertain. Her fingers curls around the bars, and she gives them a purposeless shake. My eyes race over the article below. The words trip over themselves as I read with desperation.