The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(65)

At the top, Lady Arane and Auguste whistle a matching tune. It excites the teacup dragons. They escape my pouch, racing up to the cavernous ceiling and chasing one another like aggravated post-balloons.

I call their names. They dive toward me and tuck themselves back in my waist-sash.

“They’re beautiful,” Auguste says.

I don’t acknowledge his compliment. I don’t even look at him.

Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Mouth pressed into a frown.

He leads us to an entry flanked by guards. They nod and let us pass. Tunnels branch off in several directions. The remnants of decadent spaces are laid open: skeletal chair frames, broken tables, blankets of dust. I can imagine the cavernous halls filled with light and warmth and bodies and laughter.

We reach a set of doors, and a guard opens them. An old receiving room sprawls out before us. Gold-flecked walls soar to our left and right, touching at high ceilings and lofty peaks. The space is divided into sections—a bedroom, a workshop, and a parlor. Cerulean healing-lanterns leave blue-tinted streaks scattered about. A dark-haired woman hunches over a worktable mixing liquids into vials and pressing herbs along parchment paper. The massive fireplace roars with light beside a bed.

The woman looks up at me, her piercing eyes so pale and gray they shine like silver coins. Deep wrinkles ring her colorless mouth, and gray streaks her hair and lingers right beneath her skin.

Lady Zurie Pelletier. The dead queen’s beloved.

“Camellia.” She rushes to me, wrapping me in a hug. She smells of medicinal pastes. “What are you doing here?”

“Camellia is here to help,” Lady Arane answers before I can.

Lady Pelletier pulls back and inspects me, cupping her warm hand beneath my chin. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

Lady Arane removes her cloaks and orders her Iron Ladies to post at the doors with the other guards.

Lady Pelletier takes my hand. “You’re the reason our Charlotte is awake. You must meet Her Majesty now that she can speak.”

Hope springs to life inside me. I realize I didn’t fully believe until now. She sweeps me forward to the bed and pulls the curtains back. A night-lantern escapes the bed’s canopy. “My darling, we have an important visitor,” Lady Pelletier says.

Charlotte glances up from reading a book. Her eyes are bright, yellowed by the lantern light and glistening with sickness. Thin brown curls spread over her frail shoulders, and the once bald patches on her head have started growing back in. Lady Pelletier leans down and kisses her forehead.

“Your Majesty,” I say with a bow.

Charlotte’s eyes drift over me, taking me in. The teacup dragons climb from my waist-sash and onto my shoulders. She marvels at them, and me.

“You look different from the pictures,” she replies, her voice soft and so very different than Sophia’s.

“Better or worse?” I ask.

A smile plays across her lips. “My sister has a way of making everyone look bad in the papers—and Wanted posters.” She reaches out a hand to me. I slip mine into hers, and her bony fingers feel like a pile of twigs. “I owe you my life.”

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Better but still weak,” she responds.

Lady Pelletier stares down at her, stroking the top of her head. “We’re doing whatever it takes to get her strong for the days ahead, for her to take her rightful place.”

Charlotte takes a deep, labored breath, air rattling in her chest.

“We will get you well, petite.” Lady Pelletier pats Charlotte’s hand, then turns to me. “Your sister Padma has been using sangsues to draw the remaining poison out of her.”

My heart flickers. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the next room, resting. I’ll show you.” Lady Pelletier sweeps me from Charlotte’s bedside.

I follow her into a bedroom reminiscent of our apartments at Maison Rouge. A large bed sits in the back corner beside an open window. Behind a silkscreen, Padma sleeps in a smaller bed, her black hair a mess over the pillows like a spilled ink jar.

I almost trip over my dresskirts as I run to her. “Padma!”

She wakes with a jump. Her sluggish eyes brighten. “Camille!”

I almost fall into her arms, enveloping myself in the scent of her—flowers and powders and home.

I hold my breath to keep from crying, then my words rush out in sputters. “Are you all right?”

She looks fine. Tired but fine. Nothing like the condition in which we found Valerie.

“Yes, I am well,” she replies. “And you?”

“Better now!” I tell her. Trembles vibrate through my arms and legs, and I fight to hold on to her, to never be taken from her. A fissure rips inside me, all the worries and stress pouring out of me, all the anger and disappointment and frustration. She strokes my hand. I wish she would tell me everything will be all right like our mamans used to.

But she can’t.

We sit in my tear-soaked happiness.

“I saw the news about Amber, then about Edel,” she says, pulling back. Tears coat her eyes, which are the same color as mine. “Do you think they’re all right?”

“I don’t know.” I wipe my wet cheeks. “They’re being held in the Everlasting Rose. No telling if they’re being tortured, if they’re surviving whatever experiments Sophia is doing on them.”