The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(84)

I scan the space.

Three guards. One on the deck itself. One beside the platform. One in the far corner.

Sweat beads in my temples. I didn’t account for there being guards to watch over the gifts. But of course there would be. To watch for thieves.

I gulp down the sudden swell of nerves rising inside me. Another complication.

A woman with a parchment board and quill hunches amidst the sea of boxes. She glances up. “May I help you?”

“I have a gift for the queen. By the looks of things, it seems like she probably doesn’t need another.”

“Her Majesty loves presents above all else.”

She loves beauty more.

“Guests are not allowed up here. There’s a gift table in the Imperial Ballroom,” the woman says.

I wait for the guards to turn in our direction, but they don’t. Instead, they stand fixed in place. I walk in a zigzag, stepping over gift boxes both large and small, some covered in winter-season flowers and others exploding with velvet bows and silk ribbons.

“I am an important guest of Her Majesty. And I wanted to speak to you because I need my gift to impress. You must have the best sense of what she’s gotten so far.” I lift my royal emblem. I feel terrible about the fact that I’m going to need to hurt her, but I walk closer. A riot rises within me. My heartbeat overwhelms my entire body. My stomach twists with guilt and regret. A sticky sweat seeps out of my skin. “Can I show you the gift, and you’ll let me know if it is good enough?” I ask.

Her blue eyes light up, and a primrose pink sets into the white of her cheeks. “Yes, it would be my pleasure. But quickly, I will get in trouble if you’re found up here. I don’t know how you got the porter to bring you up. It’s forbidden.”

“Our new queen said I could. He was following orders,” I lie, and turn my back to her, set the box down, and remove the lid. She inches closer and leans forward. I wrap my finger around the voice-box, its brass edges warming beneath my fingertips. My hands itch with anticipation.

When I see the blond of her hair, I clobber her with it. She stumbles, croaks, touches her head, then collapses.

I hold my breath and wait a moment, hoping the nerves settle and that she isn’t dead—just asleep for a little while. Enough time for the Iron Ladies to arrive.

One of the guards turns in my direction. “What’s going on over there?”

His voice startles the others into action.

“She fainted,” I lie.

“Show us your identification ink,” one demands.

“You should call for a nurse from the Palace Infirmary.”

They run in my direction.

I gaze down and grab a box covered in holly. Anger collects in my fingertips, the fire inside me loose and uncontrollable.

I grasp for the arcana, my three gifts just beneath my skin, at the ready. I stretch the waxy leaves until their edges are as sharp as Rémy’s dagger at my hip.

These men will not get in my way.

Not now.

Not when I’m this close.

Two of the guards stumble backward with alarm. One clobbers his head and loses consciousness.

“Who are you?” the other one yells.

I catch the third as he tries to grab me, forcing the holly plant to coil around his torso. I press one of the thickened leaves at his throat, pushing the pointed edges into his skin. I tell the other guard, “Leave or I will kill him.”

I let the holly plant dig a little harder into the man’s flesh, and draw a teardrop of blood. The other guard’s face pales and he puts his hands up. “I’m just here to watch the gifts. I don’t even want to be a soldier,” he stammers out, then scurries off like a coward.

I turn the holly leaves into a coffin, covering the guard’s entire body until he resembles one of the hedges from the topiary maze on the palace grounds. No one will find him for a while or hear his shouts. I grab the woman’s wrist and hunt for a pulse. It’s faint. I exhale. She’ll hopefully be out for a little bit.

I drop to my knees. The weight of what I’ve done couples with exhaustion from last night.

The sound of post-balloons bumping and thudding the glass is the only melody around me as they beg to be let in, their tail ribbons taut with the weight of their parcels.

I go to the Observatory Deck doors and slide one open a crack. Not enough for a passerby to notice. Not enough to cause alarm. A tendril of cold air cools the clamminess of my skin.

I look out at the horizon at a snow-white sky full of battalions of beautiful gift boxes and post-balloons. Many of the crates are so huge they require ten post-balloons to carry their weight. Ribbons in gossamer and amethyst and emerald and plum ruffle in the wind.

I hope they’re full of Iron Ladies.





I walk with Bree to the Imperial Ballroom in the heavy gown sent by Sophia. The whole palace—its domes, gardens, turrets, spires, and pavilions—is aglow. Snow-lanterns bathe every possible corner with light. Gentle snowflakes dust the shoulders of men and women who dance under the snow-lanterns. People try to point out shapes before they shift into a myriad of new patterns. The cavernous room is thick with men in tuxedos and women in jewel-toned dresses.

With each footstep I take, I wonder what Sophia is going to do. Who is she going to present as Charlotte? Did she capture her sister? Did she kill someone? I push away any doubt. I have to believe our plan is moving forward.