The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(71)
“Thank you,” I say, a little embarrassed.
I take it, the paper soft and supple, almost like skin, and slip it into a secret compartment in my waist-sash. It will be the only fortune box I’ll receive tonight.
“Who is it from?” I ask.
“Mr. Fabry,” he replies.
I suddenly want to shove it back into his hands, but he smiles at me like he’s so happy to deliver this pretty box. I don’t want to offend him.
“We’ll be docking in Trianon in less than an hourglass. Prepare to disembark.” He bows, then exits.
I tuck each one of the sleeping teacup dragons into my waist-sash. They fit like small jewels in their favorite compartments. I ruffle the long layers of my travel dress, pull on my cloak, and affix a veil over my face.
I call the arcana, letting the three gifts rush to my fingertips.
Just in case.
The city of Trianon appears in the distance, its outline glittering and the city-lanterns tiny pinpricks of light like stars in a dark swath of sky.
I will burn it all, if I have to.
“Take Lady Corrine to the address as instructed,” Auguste’s guard orders a carriage driver.
The royal pier sits away from the busy port. The remnants of wish-lanterns scatter along the cobblestoned streets and skim the harbor waters like debris coughed up by the God of the Sea. Ivory streaks scar the early-evening night sky as the fireworks taper off and those celebrating the coming of the new year have most likely had their fill of sweetbread and champagne and chocolate coins.
A gale freezes my cheeks, joining the deep chill shooting through me as I hold a glamour. The port guards don’t even flinch as I climb into the carriage. Eyes straight ahead, arms at their sides, bodies frozen in place.
Strange.
“May your threads be strong,” Auguste’s guard whispers to me. I don’t have time to ask questions before he closes the carriage door, and the horse clip-clops forward.
The space is cold and empty, the fireplace absent of wood and the small servants’ quarters vacant. I cover myself with a veil, let my glamour disappear, and wipe the small trickle of blood from my nose. Carefully, I inch back the drapes covering one of the carriage windows.
The pier market is desolate, blue-lanterns snuffed out, stalls boarded up, and the twisting lanes empty. Wooden booths sit at the market entrance marked CHECKPOINT. A guard shouts through a voice-trumpet: “Invite-only into the imperial city of Trianon. Have your papers ready!”
The carriage slows, and a pair of guards approach. Their shiny black uniforms and the gray stripe down the middle of their hair make me think of Rémy.
I hold my breath and close the curtain.
I hear low gravelly voices.
An anxious hum ruptures through me—the wonder of how long it will take me to find him and what condition he might be in and if he’s all right... and still alive. I brush that thought away.
The carriage moves forward again. They didn’t even inspect it. Auguste’s word holds such a great deal of power. Even though I would have preferred to live my entire life without seeing him again, I must admit that Lady Arane made a wise choice in taking his help.
We enter the Garden Quartier, where shops sit like stacked pastry and hat boxes, one after another, so high they disappear into snow-swollen clouds. Gold blimps circle overhead like fat, sun-kissed raindrops. Animated ink whips along their middles with a message—Smile! Look Your Best for the New Queen Because She Is Always Watching! Light-boxes drop from their bellies and flash beams of light every few seconds.
Sophia has eyes everywhere now.
The carriage pauses at another checkpoint, then moves forward. The driver taps the wall, and I flinch as he slides back a panel. “Prepare for arrival, my lady.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, adjusting the veil over my face and taking a deep breath.
It all begins now.
Finally, the carriage stops before a closed shop called Larbalestier’s Bawdy, Bodacious Bowlers, Bonnets, and Mischievous Millinery. Post-balloons float behind the windowpanes carrying all manner of hats—bowlers, pillboxes, ferronnières, miniver caps, toppers, bonnets. The oscillating movement oddly soothes the rapid beat of my heart.
I enter. A bell chimes. The foyer smells familiar—roses, charcoal, and sugar.
Home.
I spot bundles of Belle-rose flowers tucked into the brims of many of the display hats.
“Hello?” I call out.
Tables are littered with supplies. Shelves hold proud hats that resemble jewels in the subtle darkness. An abacus sits on a ledge; the red and white beads catch the lantern light. The cashier table is spread over with newspapers.
Their headlines shimmer:
ORLéANS CABINET PASSES ONE LAW BEFORE NEW YEAR’S—SET TO REMOVE THE WAIST SIZE RESTRICTIONS
LADY RUTH CARLON, HOUSE EUGENE, ACCUSED OF BEAUTY MIMICRY AND FINED 20,000 LEAS
Gossip tattlers glow, drawing my eye to the Parlour of Titillating Tidbits and Speculations of the Foulest Kind, their reports teasing onlookers:
SOPHIA TO TAKE A MISTRESS AFTER MARRIAGE; LONG-TERM LOVE DUCHESS ANGELIQUE DE BASSOMPIERRE OF HOUSE REIMS SEEN MOVING INTO SPECIAL PALACE APARTMENTS YESTERDAY
RUMORED LOVE CHILD OF KING FRANCIS SLATED TO BRING A CASE BEFORE THE MINISTER OF JUSTICE TO OBTAIN A TITLE AT COURT
QUEEN’S BETROTHED WON’T BE AFFECTIONATE WITH HER; OVERHEARD WHILE INEBRIATED TELLING A COURTIER HE’S IN LOVE WITH ANOTHER