The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(83)

The teacup dragons bolt from the bed canopy, spraying agitated fire. I call their names and try to get them to calm down. Rémy moans as he tries to sit up. The bedroom door bursts open.

Bree dashes in out of breath. “She knows Rémy’s missing, and they found Arabella’s body.” She almost collapses forward. “She’s on a rampage looking for her teacup elephant Zo, too.”

An anchor drops in my stomach. I glance back at Rémy on the bed. I put a hand on Bree’s back. “Are there more guards inside the palace?” I ask. “Do you think they suspect me?”

“No more guards than usual,” she says. “But they’re watching and checking everyone. They will be going through every single apartment, including this one.”

“I have to hide him,” I tell her. “I have to get to the Observatory Deck before the midmorning star. How much time do I have?”

She pulls an hourglass from her pocket. “One hour,” Bree says, “and the ball starts right after it, so you must get ready. She will be expecting you, and if you don’t arrive on time, she’ll suspect something. Your dress is here, too.”

As if on cue, a gold-and-cream post-balloon ambles through the door. Its sides glow with Sophia’s soon-to-be official emblem. At midnight tonight, she will be queen according to Orléansian law. The court will celebrate all day in anticipation.

If we don’t stop her.

The post-balloon’s tail ribbons haul a polka-dotted dress box with a note. The teacup dragons attack the balloon until it crashes to the ground.

I fetch the note.

Corinne,

Ten a.m. sharp.

Imperial Ballroom. We shall celebrate the start of my Coronation and Ascension ceremony and say a final farewell to my beloved sister. Hoping you bring your teacup dragons. They deserve to join us.

—Sophia Regina

I crumple the paper, balling it in my fist. “You have to hide him?” I say to her.

“I know where they won’t look,” Rémy calls out from the bed.

“And so do I,” Bree replies.

I rush to Rémy’s side and help him out of bed. He’s groggy and slow-moving. “Where will you take him?”

“Somewhere safe, I promise,” she says.

“I know how to hide,” he grumbles.

“When you’re not recovering. Please listen to Bree. You both know this palace well. And you’re both so important to me.” I take his hand.

He yanks me close, the strength of his motion a shock. Our foreheads touch. “Be safe. The Observatory Deck is on the top floor of the northern wing. Take one of the chariot lifts.”

I kiss his cheek. “I will.”

I turn to Bree. “I’ll get ready for the party when I’m back.”

She nods.

I pull on one of the simple day dresses in the apartment’s dress salon, part of me wondering if these once belonged to Charlotte or if Sophia had all traces of her sister erased.

How can she so easily erase a sister?

The pain of losing Valerie—and now Arabella—is seared into my skin like an identification mark never to be removed. I squeeze any tears down inside me. They’re quickly replaced with anger and determination.

Rémy and Bree are gone from the bedroom when I return. I snatch the voice-box from the side table and take it with me, then put the lace-skin over my face.

The hallways swell with bodies—servants toting gift boxes or pushing carts, attendants ushering excited courtiers in the direction of the festivities, royal sweet-vendors advertising their goods. And guards. Guards seem to be everywhere.

I join the chaos and grab one of the chariot lifts taking people across to the different palace wings.

“Where to?” a porter asks.

“Observatory Deck.”

“That’s for palace officials only,” he replies.

“I am a guest of our future queen and I want to make sure her gift is delivered and placed with the others.” I hold it up and lift my chin as if I’m the most important person in the world. “And I would hate to have to complain to her tonight of all nights.” The confident threat beneath my words is enough to get him to close the door and shift the handle.

We sail over the belly of the palace. I keep my eyes down to avoid inviting more suspicion from the man. Below, I spot courtiers stealing kisses in dark corners and newsies rushing over gilded balconies and walkways with their navy story-balloons in tow and crowds of bodies making their way to the Imperial Ballroom. Mourning balloons putter about, complete with Charlotte’s picture. They buzz along the corridors and walkways, leaving a sad trail of tear-shaped glitter and tiny wailing cries. Sophia’s really added all the right touches to convince people of her lies. In a newsreel playing on the sides of the balloons, she describes how my experimentations led to her death.

One follows the chariot and the noise of it stokes my anger. Sophia must go. Our mission must succeed. Finally, the chariot stops at a platform near the very top of the palace.

“The Observatory Deck,” the man announces, opening the door. “Ring the bell when you’re ready to leave and I’ll come back to get you.”

I nod and thank him, then step off.

The deck is a glass bridge that smiles over the western wing of the palace. The walls are made of multicolored shards like a gigantic prism from the God of Luck. It catches the morning sunlight, shattering rays of indigo and ruby and turquoise and canary across a maze of gift boxes. Beyond the glass, post-balloons land on a balcony, one after another.