The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(7)
The little bird trots forward down the long hallway. Night-lanterns bathe her in soft light, catching the rich blues of her tail. I follow, stepping into a world of cupboards lined with bottles of every shape and size, liquids the color of honey, amber, and licorice; bulb-shaped vials and vases of curious construction; and shelves featuring flasks of pickled items, delicate glass instruments, and piles of drying herbs.
We climb a winding staircase up to the second floor. Healing-lanterns bob and weave through the room, scattering balls of cerulean-tinted light. Madam Claiborne’s long frame swallows a too-small bed. Her arms and legs hang off of it like dead branches discarded by trees as the windy season comes to an end, and her skin struggles to hold on to the alabaster color I gave her two days ago. The gray pushes through, and her veins resemble threadbare yarn ready to unravel. Stick-straight hair cascades over her chest like spools of midnight, and she has the beautiful curves of an hourglass. Thick, sinewy, and full.
I made her look like a blend of Hana and Valerie. My heart squeezes at the thought of what they both might be going through; what all my other sisters must be experiencing. The newsreels report that those from my generation are being held hostage. Hana in the Glass Isles and Valerie at Maison Rouge and Padma in the Bay of Silk. An angry knot coils tight in my chest, the desire to rescue them competing with the need to find Princess Charlotte.
The handmade beauty caisse Mr. Claiborne made for me rests on the nightstand beside mourning tablets for Queen Celeste. Belle-products sit on tiered trays—miniature skin-paste pots and rouge-sticks and bei powder. Shiny rods lie on a velveteen cushion like cylinders of silver and gold.
I run my fingers over them, then hover above her bed.
“Madam Claiborne,” I say. “It’s Camille. Can you hear me?”
Her chest moves up and down in a soft rhythm. It makes me think of Charlotte—the memory of her body jerking and the sounds of her cough. I try to hold it in my heart like a precious jewel that I never want to lose. She’s out there somewhere.
I sprinkle the bei powder over Madam Claiborne’s arms. I close my eyes. The arcana meet my command. I touch her again and think of Queen Celeste. I deepen her coloring to match the departed queen’s luscious black skin and add a rich gloss to her dark hair.
Mr. Claiborne enters the room. “She’ll love this look you’ve given her.” He gazes down at her. “Thank you.”
“You are helping me, remember? This is the least I could do,” I reply.
He holds up a velvet pouch. “It’s ready. As much as it will be.”
My heart lifts with relief.
“Now, little flower, this tonic is essentially a poison.” He places it in my hand. “Are you sure you still want this? You weren’t completely honest about why you wanted it in the first place.”
“I need to know that if I’m ever captured, I can’t be used. That I can kill the arcana in my blood.”
His jaw clenches, but he nods. “In the Matrand Dynasty during periods of unrest, powerful houses had small armies to guard their land, and many were given tiny poison pellets to ingest if taken prisoner. Information required protection at all costs.” He closes my hand around the pouch. “But please only use it if you must. I’d love to see you again when all of this is over, and I know my wife would like to properly meet you under other circumstances.”
I look down, staring at the swollen veins beneath my skin, pulsing like green serpents as the arcana proteins rush through my bloodstream. I think about all the things that they can do: make others beautiful, grow Belles, and now, change me.
If all goes well, I’ll never be taken or used, never have to ingest his poison, never have to take this risk, but I somehow feel comforted as I slip the vial into my pocket.
The weight of it contains the promise of freedom.
I make my way back to the boardinghouse through a wakening city. The aurous glow of Metairie’s gilt-lanterns freckle the salt-white buildings with golden leaves as they’re lit for the morning. The port bells ring, and the first ships move into the harbor.
Carriages start to fill the avenues and lanes. Many empty themselves of well-dressed passengers. Women parade about in billowing gowns made of fur and wool, wearing headdresses and holding all manner of objects for sale. Men wear frock coats with tails that drag along the snow-dusted streets. Heat-lanterns are miniature suns following behind people. Some disappear into glamorous shops and others stop at sweets pavilions offering cold-season treats: spiced teacakes, chrysanthemum-shaped marzipan, snowmelon meringues, hot beignets piled high with sugar, and bourbon tarts. Tiny wisps of steam trail hot mugs of molten caramel and chocolate.
Passersby wear grim expressions, their lips pursed, brows furrowed, as imperial soldiers swarm the crowds, stopping to interrogate people at random. They rustle up merchants and shoo away Gris beggars. Their heavy footsteps create a terrifying melody, and their black armor glistens beneath the cold blue market-lantern light, severe as a murder of crows. Sophia has deployed her entire arsenal to find us.
I lingered too long at the apothecary. I hurry past vendors shouting slogans through slender brass trumpets.
“The Spice Isles grieve. Get the best mourning cameos of Her Majesty Queen Celeste.”
“Vivant scarves that change color—silk, cotton, wool, even velvet. Only sold here!”
“Get your very own replica of Queen Celeste’s mortuary tablets for your family altar.”