The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(61)
This journey has made me into a liar.
Lady Arane takes another step toward me. My arm quivers, wanting to strike.
“We must go. The longer we delay, the more likely we will be tracked. Our guide awaits.” She hands me an iron mask. “You’re one of us now.”
Mountains stretch as far as the eye can see, their snow-capped peaks disappearing into the clouds. They hold layers of gilded mansions, shops and pavilions pressed into their facades, and a bustling port at their feet, as if the God of the Ground poured golden liquid down the sides of these great summits, and it assembled itself into a vertical city. Carriages suspended on glittering cables lift into the air like gold blimps headed for the God of the Sky’s lair. They empty beautiful passengers on promenades that circle the mountain like a set of rings stacked on a plump finger. Jewel-box-colored city-lanterns illuminate Céline’s vertical quartiers.
The world is bigger and vaster than I could’ve ever imagined, bigger than Du Barry could’ve ever described, more wondrous than any depiction in any of the thousands of books in the library at Maison Rouge.
Snow trickles down on us, soft and light, stamping out the sun and collecting on the heat-lanterns drifting behind their owners. Many of the people around us laugh and giggle and hold hands. My heart pinches thinking of my sisters. The memory of Edel’s screams cuts through me. She rarely cried. She was never afraid. She was our troublemaker. She was always the strongest of us.
I swallow angry tears. I remember when Edel and I got scolded for going too far into the forest behind our home. Maman secretly called her the bat of our generation, always drawn to darkness and mischief. Edel had lost a bet, and the consequence was venturing beyond the graveyard’s edge. I’d gone with her while our sisters watched from our shared seventh-floor balcony. The endless shadows swallowed us whole as we tiptoed beyond the thumb-shaped tombstones pushing from the dirt at its edge. Du Barry had told us a monster lived in that forest and protected it from unwanted visitors, especially children. We made it ten steps in before Du Barry came running after us like we were headed over a cliff. She toted us back by the elbows like buckets from a well, and we had to write five hundred lines each about why we would never go into the woods again.
“This way,” Lady Arane orders.
I snake behind her, flanked by Surielle and Violetta, Liara bringing up the rear. Their faces are covered completely. The light catches glimpses of their masks, but an onlooker might confuse them for silver makeup or a new beauty trend.
Newsies race past us shouting the afternoon headlines:
DEAD PRINCESS CHARLOTTE’S BODY IN TRANSIT TO TRIANON TO SIT IN MEMORIAM
TWO DAYS UNTIL CORONATION AND ASCENSION CEREMONY! GET YOUR TICKETS TO IMPERIAL ISLAND, BOATS FILLING UP!
QUEEN’S COUSINS ANOUK AND ANASTASIA UNINVITED TO CEREMONIES AND FINED FOR THEIR BEAUTY WORK... DEEMED TOO PRETTY!
TAUPE, MAUVE, AND PLUM TO BE QUEEN’S CORONATION AND ASCENSION COLORS
We cut through the pier crowds and join snaking lines of people waiting to board carriages headed to the city layers. My limbs burn with nervous energy. My thoughts are an overfilled teacup, drowning its saucer. The piercing pitch of Edel’s screams ruptures through me. The memory hits me over and over again, then begins to blend with Amber’s shrieks from the boardinghouse.
“I will get them back,” I whisper to myself.
“What was that?” Lady Arane asks.
“Nothing,” I reply.
“Last car on the right,” Lady Arane orders. “Get in and spread out. No eye contact.”
A carriage porter corrals the line. “Seventh layer. Keep the line tidy. Have your leas ready or you can’t board. I’ll have no foolishness in my section. Follow directions or be left behind.”
We shuffle into the plush carriage behind a couple who can’t keep their hands off each other. The woman presses her cold brown cheeks against her companion, who retaliates by pressing his pale white fingers to the crook of her neck. Their infectious giggles fill the quiet space.
I find a seat and look for things to distract me from the chaos of thoughts in my head. Currant cushions and mahogany paneling enclose us, safe from a gathering wind. Heat-lanterns knock into one another over our heads.
“How do those who can’t afford the lifts get up to the city?” I ask Surielle.
She doesn’t answer, her gaze fixed ahead as if she doesn’t know me.
The people around us clear their throats. Some laugh and hide judgmental smiles behind gloved hands.
“The winding path, of course,” someone says.
Lady Arane shakes her head at me.
The lift pauses at the market quarter, where shoppers file out, eager to bargain and barter in the stores on this layer. More well-dressed passengers join us, toting hat boxes and lantern carriers and hand trollies bursting with parcels.
We climb higher, pausing at various piers to load and unload people. I stare out the window at the twinkling lights we’ve left behind, then at Lady Arane and her disciples, who sit like statues. I’m just wondering if we’ll be taking the carriage to the very top of the mountain when Lady Arane rings a bell above her head.
“Garden Quartier,” the porter announces, as the lift pauses at a level that glows pale green and gold from city-lanterns. Black railings hold winter flower boxes, each bloom wearing a tiny cape of snow.