The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(62)

“We’re getting off,” Lady Arane whispers.

Surielle waits for me to stand, then takes her place behind me.

We shuffle out and join a crowd on the promenade. Blimps soar in tandem with the crowd’s movement, advertising new beauty products soon to be released and the Fashion Minister’s vivant dresses. Some feature cameo portraits of Queen Sophia and her promises for new beauty laws. Her hair is all white and loosely curled like a snowstorm trapped around her shoulders. Diamonds dot along the new teardrop curve of her eyes, and she winks at onlookers every few seconds as the blimps circle.

It’s almost as if she’s watching me. My stomach lifts with panic. Guards patrol the crowds, studying people, but most of the shoppers slip in and out of shops, not paying them much attention.

I glance down at the pier where we began our journey. The lights are tiny pinpricks now, and I feel like we’re so close to the sky I could steal a cloud.

I turn around looking for the stairs, but Lady Arane moves forward and I fall into step behind her.

We pass tightly packed shops squeezed next to each other like macarons in a pastry box. Lady Arane stops in front of a door marked CLEOME’S COLLECTION OF CURIOUS FLOWERS. The shop window boasts a miniature greenhouse bursting with colorful blooms.

It’s empty of customers.

We enter. A chime sounds. The ladies survey the space. I walk along the edges of the room, running my fingers over a pot of what Maman used to call skeleton flowers in our greenhouse at La Maison Rouge. Her favorite. As a little girl, whenever we’d been tasked to water them, I’d watch in awe as their white petals turned translucent when the liquid hit them, every vein and fiber inside exposed to the light.

I pull one from the pot and put it in my pocket.

Lady Arane whistles.

A pretty clerk peeks from behind a curtain, spots Lady Arane, and nods. Lady Arane approaches a massive bell jar in the middle of the room. It holds a bright cleome flower. A plant-lantern oscillates above, sending down its tiny rays of sunshine.

Lady Arane admires the flower, then whistles again, this time letting the air from her mouth rush into the holes in the bell jar.

The teacup dragons wiggle in my waist-sash, eager to get out, as her whistle sharpens.

“What is she doing?” I ask Surielle.

“Using the key,” she says, without taking her eyes off the flower.

The flower curves over and touches the glass. A nearby cabinet inches forward from the wall. Without uttering a word, the clerk hands Lady Arane a night-lantern and Surielle a heat-lantern. Lady Arane slips behind the cabinet, leading the way. Violetta and the other disciple nudge me to follow.

A long winding set of stairs descends down into the dark belly of the mountain. I can’t see where they end.

“Welcome to the Spider’s Path,” Lady Arane announces.

The cabinet closes behind us.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“One of the largest palace fortresses ever built,” Lady Arane tells me. “It was called the Yellow Sapphire, but was abandoned by superstitious Queen Jamila because it’s believed to contain an entrance to the Goddess of Death’s caves. But people say that about many places. Regardless, it’s been sealed off and remained unused for decades.”

We weave through sharp passageways. The skeletons of post-balloons and night-lanterns scatter the floor. Tapestries of cobwebs coat the walls. The Iron Ladies use their daggers to rip them down so we can continue to pass. We walk for what feels like three hourglasses. I try to remember all the turns.

Five lefts, and six rights. If I have any hope of trying to make my way back, I have to memorize it.

Surielle hands me a pouch full of water. I gulp it down, then sprinkle some on my fingers, jamming my hand in my waist-sash for the teacup dragons. Their little tongues lick my fingertips thirstily.

Ahead, the silhouette of a man is outlined in the warm glow of a fire-lantern.

Lady Arane whistles again.

The man pivots and parrots her tune.

I freeze. The power of the arcana collects in my hands.

It’s Auguste.





The sting of seeing him again pins me in place. My legs are weak under me. His hair is cut short and his skin too pale now, the color of eggshells.

Violetta pushes me from behind. “Move forward,” she orders, but her words don’t register.

My mouth is dry. I feel like all the blood inside me has drained out. I had worked on steeling my heart against this moment. I had trained it against the sound of his voice and let Rémy creep into the crevices left behind. I had thought my feelings for Rémy, combined with my anger, would stamp out any flicker of feeling left inside me.

But they haven’t.

“May your threads be strong,” he says to Lady Arane.

“And may your web serve you well,” she replies.

The cadence of his voice slips beneath my skin.

“Your Grace,” she says.

“Please don’t call me that.” He frowns.

My heart becomes a drum, each beat growing louder and louder, my pulse furious.

“Let me introduce you to my esteemed ladies. My first disciple, Lady Surielle. Second disciple, Lady Liara, and third disciple, Lady Violetta.”

They each bow in turn.

The arcana linger right under my skin, reacting, joining the anger inside me. I fish out the skeleton flower in my pocket and sprinkle it with water drops from the water pouch. The petals lose their color and reveal their insides.