The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(74)
Bolts of turquoise-and-gold fabric unfurl, tumbling out like an ocean wave. Glittering sequins coat the fabric like scales. It starts to assemble itself upright. A row of black-and-white bows dot the center of the fitted bodice. The neckline dips into a sweetheart with champagne beadwork and a graceful train. The skirt ruffles alternate colors, and tiny golden cages push through. Finally, an oversize matching hat appears atop the box.
I gasp, circle it, and touch its edges. “It’s perfect! Sophia will be intrigued.”
The teacup dragons fly around the dress.
“There’s a compartment in the bustle where you can store your things so you can travel lightly. Any luggage you might bring would be inspected, and your identity quickly uncovered.” She shows me the small space almost the size of my satchel.
Du Barry’s attendant whistles to get the dragons’ attention and lures them into a low basin to wash the fireplace soot from their scales.
“Do you want their collars back on?” she asks me.
“No, thank you,” I reply.
“Prepare her veil as well, Mia,” Du Barry orders.
“I don’t need one,” I say with confidence, stretching upright.
“She will recognize you.”
“No, she won’t,” I reply. I can’t tell her about the glamours. Edel would never forgive me for divulging her discovery to the woman who lied to us our entire lives. “Please trust me.”
“You must take it just to be safe. It’s a new style called lace-skin.” She holds up a tract of lace, shaped with the contours of a face, and rubs it against my skin. The thin black material spreads around my cheeks and down my neck like the intricate frosting on a cake. “All the ladies at court wear this now, to shield themselves from Sophia’s gaze and hide their beauty for as long as they can.”
Du Barry’s attendant gingerly places each teacup dragon into its cage on my dress. They gnaw at the bars, hiccup fire, and stamp their talons in protest.
A bell chimes.
“It’s time.” Her eyes take me in and she touches my cheek. “You look extraordinary. If we never see each other again, I want you to know how much I do love you.” Her voice cracks, and she clears it. “Don’t lose sight of the real enemy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Sophia is an enemy because she hurt you, hurt all of us. But the real enemy is inside every Orléans citizen. Cutting off Sophia’s head—and trust me, I’d love to see it displayed in all its glory in Trianon’s Royal Square—will do nothing, because another head will replace it. Stick to your plan. You must be a whisper in a field that turns to a roar right before she can sense it.” She kisses my forehead like she did when we were little and earned high marks. The warmth of her mouth is the same. “I hope to see you again.”
She presses the official imperial invitation into my hand, the paper thick with promise and danger.
The palace is awash with light, and the sky above it filled with snowflakes and pretty post-balloons headed to the Observatory Deck carrying gifts for the new queen. I smile for the first time in weeks, thinking about the Iron Ladies and Charlotte headed this way soon.
Courtiers spill out of gilded carriages pausing at the palace checkpoint. Revelers stumble with excitement and clutch the remnants of candy houses and empty champagne flutes. They sing traditional blessings and wish each other well. They shout their names, the syllables stretched with slurs and excitement.
I join the crowd. A set of imperial guards collects invitations and checks a parchment scroll. They let some courtiers in and reject others.
I walk up and hand the guard my paper. “Corrine Sauveterre.”
“There’s a star beside her name,” one guard says.
“The queen has been waiting for her most of the night,” the other replies. “We must rush her in before the others and send word ahead.”
A golden post-balloon bursts from the checkpoint building. Its ribbons snap and flicker in the wind. I wonder what the note inside says. If she believed Auguste’s offer of a gift. If she is excited to meet Corrine Sauveterre, premier dragon merchant, here to let her have her pick of dragons for her upcoming coronation.
My heart shivers under my rib cage. The teacup dragons protest in their new cages, their wings batting against the bars, irritated at being jostled around.
The guards lead me onto the palace grounds. The topiary maze is now a garden of flowers fashioned from jewels—roses with ruby petals and emerald stems. Perfume blimps making spritzing sounds skate over the fake flowers. Black gossip post-balloons stalk the gardens as if they’ve been calibrated to find information and sniff out stories in dark corners. The palace rivers are chock-full of newsie boats. They send fleets of story post-balloons up to the entrance like a storm of navy birds. A newsblimp weaves in and out of the palace turrets holding banners of new year’s wishes.
All I want to do is take out Rémy’s maps and let the ink reveal where the dungeons are. All I want to do is ensure his safety, then, first thing in the morning, I’ll go to the Observatory Deck to make sure the Iron Ladies and Charlotte can arrive undetected. All I want to do is execute this plan without any problem.
I walk into the receiving room, and it has been transformed into a menagerie. Gilded cages descend from the high ceiling, made of fine porcelain edged in gold, holding every teacup pet one could imagine. A unicorn sports a tie. A pack of wolves wear tiny hair bows. A wall-length aquarium holds teacup fish, where a small narwhal chases a teacup shark. A family of teacup penguins shuffle an egg back and forth.