The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(58)

Gustave du Polignac, famed Fashion Minister, and Rose Bertain, the longest appointed Beauty Minister in Orléansian history, have been detained and are being held at the Rose until further notice. Regent Queen Sophia has announced that both individuals have failed her loyalty test and must be tried before her court to determine if they can remain in her cabinet for the coming year.

“Her Majesty will tolerate nothing but loyalty,” the queen’s most trusted advisor reported to newsies. “This quality will be the heartstone of her reign. A test of mettle will be administered often and without notice, including time spent in the Rose. These two ministers have been rumored to be disloyal to the crown, and we will get to the truth.”

A list of the queen’s grievances against the accused will be published after the Coronation and Ascension ceremonies as the queen institutes the building of her cabinet.

My insides are a riot of emotion—rage, sadness, horror, shock, and regret. All the things the Fashion Minister did to help us landed him in a torture chamber.

I did this.

I asked this of him.

And now, he won’t get to be with his husband again, and he won’t be alive if I don’t get Charlotte back on the throne.

The sound of a port bell rings out above us.

“It’s time.” She shoos me back in the coffin.

Ceiling floorboards creak overhead.

Edel hiccups, then dry heaves. Spit dribbles down her chin. “We’re almost there,” I tell her. “Just hang on a little bit longer.”

“I don’t think I can,” she moans. “All I can think about is vomiting. I shouldn’t have eaten all of that food.”

“Port of Céline ahead. Ready the anchors!” a man’s voice drifts below deck.

Surielle and the two others rush back to their coffins. “Everyone in.” She closes the lid over herself.

I secure Edel’s lid, hoping it will muffle her moans and keep us from being discovered. The door cracks open and my pulse hitches. I whistle. The teacup dragons fly to me. I tuck them back inside my waist-sash, slip into my coffin, and slide the top over me. My rapid heartbeat makes my body tremble. Each time the teacup dragons squirm or burrow, it sends a nervous jolt through me.

The noise of footsteps and scraping pushes through the coffin’s thin sides.

“Cargo unloaded first,” a man shouts. “Start with the coffins.”

I’m lifted in the air.

“I didn’t realize dead bodies could be so heavy,” someone complains.

“Hurry up! My maman said the heavier bodies carry their trapped souls.”

I hear muffled stomping and grumbling and the call of early-morning vendors setting up their stalls for the day. I press my hands to the sides and hold my breath as I’m jostled off the ship. They set me on the ground. Sweat trickles across my forehead.

“We will be all right. We will get out of here.” I whisper my mantra to the teacup dragons. “We will find Charlotte.”

Outside, gulls caw. I can hear the lulling tempo of waves lapping the pier. Just as I’m feeling slightly calmer, a scream cuts through the air.

Edel.





I inch up the lid enough to see, but not enough to draw attention. The pier is a chaotic blur of bodies. Merchants toting their wares, lines of passengers headed to board ships and boats, the loading and unloading of parcels and people and boxes, and a network of fishmonger stalls. The energy of it all creates a nauseating hum of early-morning movement.

“Found a stowaway,” a port guard says.

I watch as the men drag Edel from the coffin kicking and screaming. The small crowd slows to a stop to watch. Nearby newsies swarm, sending navy blue story-balloons overhead to capture it all—the first potential headline of the day.

I watch it unfold like a story on a télétrope reel, each picture clicking into its drum, spinning and whirling out of control, the scene growing more and more horrific.

Edel’s arms thrash about. The guards struggle to hold on to her.

“Keep a grip on her!” one shouts.

She crashes to the ground and kicks at them. Her foot clobbers a guard in the head. He cowers, grabbing his eye. She tries to run.

Another one grabs her by the waist, yanking her like a rag doll.

“How much is the fine these days?” a port guard asks, taking out a ledger from his jacket pocket.

“Twenty-five leas per mile traveled, plus the port taxes. Ten days in the Céline jail if you can’t pay,” another adds.

A guard grips Edel’s arm. “Why were you on this ship? Who are you?”

Edel vomits all over his clothes, then spits in his face. She’s picked up and thrown over one of the guard’s shoulders like she’s nothing more than a sack of snowmelons. Her wails pierce the air. Each one hits me like an icy wave. She punches his back and more vomit spews from her mouth.

“I’m not paid enough for this,” he complains. “It’s too early. All these overnight ships are always trouble.”

“Search all the coffins!” his cohort barks.

They turn and head straight for me. A punch hits my heart. I want to climb out and follow Edel. I try to keep my eye on her, but they’re getting farther and farther away from my sight line. The men kick at the other coffins and bang their tops. They’re almost to mine.