The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(69)

“Do you have a desired look?” I ask her.

“Make me look the way my mother would want me to.”

Her request tightens my throat.

“I’ll focus on her hair and face,” Padma says. “And you her skin and body.”

I nod. “We must go slow. One thing at a time.” I remember my first beauty session with Princess Sabine and all the treatments I tried to complete all at once, almost killing her. I hear Ivy’s words and feel the pinch of missing her too. Hopefully I will see her and all my sisters soon.

Padma and I stand on opposite sides of the table. We reach across it and hold hands. Padma’s arms quiver with nerves. I squeeze her fingers tighter and close my eyes.

Princess Charlotte’s body appears in my head—frail, almost gray.

The arcana hisses through my veins with warmth and familiarity.

“You first,” I whisper. “Hair.”

A patchwork of frizzy brown curls sprout from Charlotte’s scalp; the scars left behind from Sophia’s poisoned comb zigzag across the soft flesh, barely healed, but the new growth of hair covers them.

“You next,” Padma says.

“Your Majesty, are you all right?” I gaze down at her.

She nods.

I run my fingers over her skin, deepening the brown so she matches her beautiful mother, Celeste.

Padma fattens her cheeks, the outline of her skull no longer visible. I do the same to her body, thickening her muscles and plumping her frame, fortifying her bones, and giving her the shape of an hourglass.

Sweat soaks through my clothes.

Charlotte starts to resemble the young woman I saw in portraits before she fell into the long, poison-induced sleep.

The doors snap open.

“Camellia!” Lady Arane says. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She clutches a newspaper. “You must go right now.”

She holds the paper out. The headlines scatter. The words torture and guard and Rémy Chevalier scramble.

Chains crisscross over his bare chest. Blood drips down his dark arms, gashes oozing and pulsating.

I rush to her and grab the pages from her hands. The headline reads:

CAMELLIA BEAUREGARD’S TRUSTED GUARD CAPTURED AT PALACE—TO BE EXECUTED IN THE ROYAL SQUARE





I fall back on the bed, all the air rushing out of me. White spots stamp out my vision. Worry and anxiety drum through me.

“Camille, what is it?” Padma asks.

She helps me up, the grip of her brown hands comforting but not enough. I think of Rémy, of his strength, of the fact that he needs me, and I pull myself together to stand up straight.

“She’s right. I have to go.”

“But we aren’t finished—”

“I will send word when I’m safe.” I kiss her cheek, and she pulls me into a hug. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she whispers.

I swallow down tears. Being with her made me feel a little less alone, a little more confident that everything would be all right. But I will see her again. I have to believe that.

In a nearby chamber, I dress quickly, pack my belongings, and gather the teacup dragons. I walk out expecting Lady Arane only to find Auguste leaning against the wall.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

“I’ve arranged for one of my boats to take you to Trianon. The imperial fleet will grant you safe passage if you sail under my flag. I’ve sent word ahead of my travel plans, and the gift I’m sending to my fiancée—a dragon dealer named Corrine Sauveterre.”

The words thank you can’t form in my mouth.

I nod.

“I’ve already started having the gift boxes made to fit each one of the Iron Ladies,” he adds. “They’ll be beautiful on the outside and—”

“I don’t need to know the details—just that they’re being sent. I need to go.”

“Yes, of course.” Auguste leads me back through the winding network of tunnels. The teacup dragons fly above us, their scales catching the light from the single night-lantern he carries. The melody of their flapping wings and the pounding of our footsteps are the only conversation between us. I constrict like a corkscrew, knots coiling tighter and tighter as the unspoken words are a set of knives twisting inside me.

The throbbing gashes on Rémy’s body appear over and over in my mind, thoughts of him being tortured drowning me.

Auguste’s eyes search for mine in the subtle darkness.

I march forward, picking up my pace. The tunnels grow colder as we snake through them, the outside close. The scent of snow and ice replaces the stench of stagnant water and rust.

He whispers my name.

I ignore it.

He touches my arm.

“Don’t!” I snatch it away.

“I’m sorry.”

“You think that word can fix it?” My teeth clench. “Do you know how small that word is? Too tiny to fix what you did. Too easy to try to sweep away all the things you set in motion.”

“What can I say? What can I do?”

“Nothing. It’s impossible for you to erase this. It would be like asking for the sun to leave the lair of the God of the Sky. Or asking the ocean not to rush the shore.” I run ahead, hoping it’s the right direction. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get to the palace.”