The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(79)

Blood trickles from my nose, and I wipe it away without stopping to pause. My arcana prickle inside my veins, achy and like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Maybe a sign of trouble. We dart back up the stairs and over the gilded walkways. But as we reenter the royal wing, Or turns left, away from the apartments and down another long corridor.

“Why are we going this way?” I ask her, wishing she could answer me.

Worries drum inside me, piling one on top of the other. Have the sangsues gone to waste? Is she confused? Why is she leading me this way?

My exhaustion makes it impossible to think and another nosebleed starts. I know I need to rest and to reset the arcana. I’ve done too much.

Or pauses out front of Sophia’s workshop. The House of Inventors emblem of cogs and gears and chrysanthemums glows in the darkness.

I take a breath and open the door. A sleeping guard is slumped over snoring, two empty bottles of champagne at his feet and new year’s sweets smeared down his chest. I tiptoe past him.

The room holds even more items than it did the last time I was here. Moonlight escapes the glass ceiling, its beams leaving an eerie glow over the space. Beauty-boards perch on easels and litter the floor at the foot of the treatment table. Every wall displays a collection of blood cameos now. The portraits shift and morph alongside the noise of blood whooshing through brass piping.

Or zips ahead, hovering over a closet door.

I untie the single night-lantern from its hook.

Or leaves tiny scratch marks in the wood.

I open it.

My heart does a flip at the sight of him. Rémy is tied up, arms suspended in ropes, head slumped forward. His shirtless body is covered with lashes and brands—the wounds oozing with blood, swelling with infection, and smelling of burnt flesh. The deep brown of his skin is split open. A cut in his lip drips with blood, and his skull is now bald and covered in wounds.

I rush to him. “Rémy,” I whisper, and cradle his head.

He jerks back. One of his puffy eyes opens as wide as it can.

“It’s me.” I pull off my lace-skin mask. “It’s Camille.”

“You here to rescue me?” he croaks out.

“Yes.” I wrap him in a hug, all of my relief with it.

He grunts but lets his head rest in the crook of my neck.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.” I pull away, take out the dagger he gave me, and cut the ropes. His body slumps forward, almost crashing to the floor, but I catch him.

“I can’t leave my family here,” he mumbles.

“We won’t. I promise.” I try to keep my voice from breaking. A pinch in my stomach grows hotter. The pain of seeing him like this threatens to consume me.

I muster all my strength and help him stand.

We hobble out of the closet. I take some dress-making fabric from a nearby table and wrap it around his body. “The guard is asleep.”

Rémy drags himself ahead. “Where are you staying?”

“They gave me Charlotte’s old apartments.”

“Then we should take the—”

“You’re not in charge this time,” I tell him. Keeping him on his feet is taking all the strength I have. I reach down and grab one of the bottles at the guard’s feet. “You’re a drunk courtier who lost his clothes in the game rooms, all right?”

A painful half-laugh escapes his lips.

Or circles overhead. He tries to look up at her.

“I should’ve trusted her,” I mutter. “I would’ve found you sooner.”

Rémy and I ease past the snoring guard and amble into the hallway. I hold his weight on one side and pretend to fuss at him about drinking too much.

The hall is empty aside from a few servants who have just gotten the opportunity to celebrate tonight.

We turn left and right.

His legs grow weaker and his breathing more labored.

“We’re almost there,” I tell him.

The sound of footsteps ahead stops me.

I pull him into one of the salon rooms. He slumps against the wall. I watch as three male guards pass, chasing after three courtier women. Their kissy noises echo, then fade.

I stare at him. Rémy Chevalier, son of Christophe Chevalier, decorated—and now disgraced—soldier from the Minister of War’s First Guard.

“Can you make it? We’re just outside the doors,” I whisper.

He grunts a yes back.

I grip his waist and drag him into Charlotte’s apartments. I lay him across the bed and use the water in the basin to clean the burns on his chest—Sophia’s emblems carved into him. The sight of them flares my anger. He winces each time I touch him.

“What did they do to you?” I ask.

“Everything.”

I rest my hand on his cheek.

He takes it and kisses it. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re covered in blood and burns and you’re telling me not to worry.” I put pressure on a cut on his shoulder.

“I’ve been trained to withstand it.” He turns his head to avoid the wet cloth. “What’s happened since I left you? Did you find Charlotte?”

I hold his head still and continue to wipe away his blood. “Yes. Remember those newspapers you got for us—the Spider’s Web?”

He nods.

“We found the Iron Ladies. Well, they found us.” I choose to leave out the part about the capture. “They have been helping to keep Charlotte safe. They’re on their way here.”