The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(81)

“Arabella?”

No answer.

I inch back the bed-curtains. Arabella lies there, propped up on the pillow. Her arms and neck are covered with sangsues, the little leeches pulsing black, then flushing red as they fill with her blood and share their proteins. The skin on her face is creased like parchment and so thin and pale that all the veins are visible beneath her skin. Her brown pigment has lost its depth and richness. My heart aches at the sight of her. It’s even worse than I feared.

I reach out to touch her, my hand hesitating and pulling back like she’s a stove too hot to touch.

“Arabella,” I say a little louder.

She stirs and her eyes pop open. She presses back into the pillows.

“It’s me, Camille.”

She wipes her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you. I tried to get to you earlier when I heard the announcement that Corinne Sauveterre, famous dragon merchant from the Gold Isles, had come to see the soon-to-be new queen. But they never let me leave these chambers, no matter what I do or say.”

“What has she been doing to you?” I ask, as Bree brings over a tumbler of fresh water.

“Draining me of blood to send to the Everlasting Rose...” Arabella says.

The cruelty of the name still twists like a knife inside me. Arabella sips at the cup, and water dribbles out the corner of her mouth.

“To grow more Belles.” She sighs and leans back into the bedding, waving the water away. Bree takes it, shooting me a nervous glance, and I squeeze her free hand.

“She did the same to Valerie until she had nothing left. And now she’s dead.”

Arabella shrugs, as if this news doesn’t surprise or bother her. “She’s been experimenting,” she says. “She brought your other sisters back to the prison after the Silk Teahouse burned down. All except Amber.”

“What do you mean? Where is she?” My heart rises in my chest threatening to bubble up.

“She’s here,” Arabella says.

I gasp. “At the palace? How? Why?”

“I don’t know. But I heard her voice the other day. I thought, at first, that it was a recording or something for the newsreels Sophia has been orchestrating, but it’s been more frequent. I can’t do Sophia’s beauty work anymore—and she won’t allow any of the other Belles from the unfavored generation to work on her—so I knew it would be just a matter of time.”

My eyes dart around the room as if Amber were hiding beneath a beautiful piece of furniture.

“She has my focus on the few Belle babies here as she tries to find out how the favored generation is born. Her scientists have made so many mistakes. So many Belle babies have already died.” She gathers her strength, sits up, and reaches for me. “Let me show you the favored Belle-pods.”

I turn to Bree. “Watch the door, please.”

She nods and takes up watch at the front of the room, clutching her hands nervously.

Arabella’s entire body quakes as I help her slide open the door to the next chamber. The night-lantern follows us, illuminating hundreds of glass cradles etched with tiny golden roses. In each, a brown baby floats. Small hourglasses affixed to each pod are marked with animated ink that snaps across the glass with the labels first cycle, second cycle, and third cycle.

I run my fingers over the glass and peer in. Tiny feet and legs and hands and tight curls suspended in liquid and time.

I gasp. “They look like me.”

“And me,” Arabella adds. “Eventually, she wants to sell them to the highest bidder. Enable Belles to be kept like teacup pets and also use our blood to make beauty products.”

“We can’t let this happen,” I say. Arabella takes my hand and squeezes it. The skin of her fingers is so thin, and her bones feel like sticks. “I can take care of these babies and ensure no more will be made.”

I take my hand from hers and drop it into my pocket where the poison sits.

“What is that?” She takes it from me, fingering it, her watery eyes tracing its details.

“It takes away the arcana.”

Her mouth falls open as her eyes find mine. “How?”

“It hardens the arcana proteins. But the amount has to be right, otherwise it could cause death.” I watch her examine it as if its secrets lie on the edges of the bottle. “What if we both drank a bit of it, so that neither of our blood could be used to make more Belles?”

The heat of the question radiates between us. Arabella uncorks the bottle to sniff it. My heart skips.

“Be careful,” I say, remembering the rapid destruction of the blood cells in Claiborne’s optic-scope. “I believe I could also make sure that the aether of the next generation couldn’t be used either.”

She puts a drop of the poison on her finger and tries to inspect it.

“Arabella...”

She takes a gulp.

“No!” I grab the empty bottle from her.

Arabella’s eyes bulge. She coughs—a gurgling, ragged sound. Her skin wrinkles in a blink, line by line covering her forehead to her cheeks to her throat, the brown shriveling like dried-out clay.

“Arabella!” I scream.

Her body hits the floor.





I can’t hear the screams being ripped from my mouth. My ears clog and spots stamp out my vision. But the piercing rawness of my throat is real.