The Everlasting Rose (The Belles, #2)(85)

“Did you find Amber?” I whisper to Bree before she leaves.

“No. Sophia must be hiding her. I’ll keep looking.”

I take a deep breath, touch the emblem around my neck, and hold the glamour in my mind. There’s been no word from Padma or Auguste or any of the Iron Ladies in the last hour. But if Sophia can convince everyone that Charlotte is dead, she will be queen by the end of the day. I can’t let that happen. Even if I have to stop her myself.

“Happy snow. Happy love.” The cold-season blessing flutters through the room followed by kisses and the clinking of glasses. “May the Goddess of Love bless you. May you find sweetness in the new year. And most of all, may you always find beauty.”

The ballroom is a jigsaw of bodies: men in top hats and women in gowns that swish and swirl as they spin in diagonals, dancing to a waltz being played by a small orchestra. Tiers of crème tarts and milk macarons sit on jeweled carts.

Courtiers pass by, locked in the fever of gossip.

“Did you see Colette Durand with her too-dark eyebrows? Looking just like the court jester. She thinks tinting them will work. That trend is long gone. Now, she just reeks of the elderberry juice she used to color them herself,” one says.

“And Aimee Martin smells of skin paint,” another adds. “She could’ve at least gone to the trouble of wearing a pomander or carrying a scent box. She’s even gone and drawn veins onto her neck and face like she’s a walking portrait or something.”

The women burst with laughter.

“Inès Robert needs a skin treatment. She thinks taffeta patches will cover up those pocks,” a third woman offers. “Thank god the teahouses will reopen soon. Our new queen will deliver on her promises.”

“If I had Josette Agulliard’s unfortunate bone structure, I’d have a Belle completely rebuild me from the bones out,” the first says.

Black gossip post-balloons swarm overhead, listening to every word. Imperial attendants use tall poles and nets to swat them away, but they adeptly dodge and soar higher up to the grand ceiling, seeming to revel in a game of cat and mouse.

My nerves are on edge as I wait for Lady Arane, Surielle, Charlotte, and Auguste. I try not to fixate on the door for fear someone might ask me who I’m waiting for.

Sophia sits on a throne at the top of the room. Her teacup pets each have their own matching chair. Her ladies-of-honor sit at her feet on bright cushions.

An attendant announces me as I approach.

“And where are my teacup dragons?” Sophia whines to me.

“Resting. They don’t like parties. Too many people cause anxiety,” I improvise.

“A pity. We will have to train them out of it, now won’t we?” She stares at me with a perfectly portioned smile on her face. “I don’t think I’ll be able to choose just one.”

I bite down hard to avoid saying something nasty. When I look at her all I see are Remy’s bruises, Arabella’s dying breaths, a dagger in Valerie’s neck. I don’t know how long I can keep up this charade. Or this glamour.

Her attention flitters away from me and to the crowd. “I’ve always loved a ball at this time of year,” Sophia says. “The cold weather is perfect for dancing.”

“It’s incredible tonight,” Rachelle replies, gazing up at the snow-lanterns above her.

“Do you like it, Corinne?” Sophia pats a cushion beside her throne for me to sit on.

“Yes,” I answer, sinking down beside her, hoping I can swallow my rage. “I can’t wait to wander around and look at each snow-lantern. The newsies say each one is unique.”

My body is alert with anticipation, hoping the Iron Ladies have come down into the palace. Any second now and the game will begin.

“It’s a pity it’ll turn into a funeral tonight,” Rachelle says.

Sophia tries to hide a chuckle. “With the sweet comes the bitter.”

I steal glances at her, wondering if she did capture Charlotte. I search for a sign, anything to know if Charlotte is all right, if she will show today as planned.

“We will dance and feast all day long, then you will say good-bye to your sister, and at midnight become queen,” Gabrielle says proudly. “As it should be.”

I pretend to watch the dancing as I keep my eye on the doors. Graceful dress trains swish and slap the floor. Men hold women’s waists and turn them like pastel spinning toys.

The music shifts.

Sophia’s old suitor, Alexander Dubois from House Berry, strides up. His jacket is lined with the brilliant silvers and reds of his house emblem, and under all the lights, his bald head shines like a copper ball. “Happy snow, Your Majesty.”

“And to you,” she says.

“May I have the next dance?” He presents his hand.

She glares at it.

“No,” she says.

His face crumples with disappointment.

“I’ll send for you when I’m in the mood.”

He bows low and retreats.

“His hands used to get so wet they’d soak through my gloves,” she complains. “And he always smells of cheese.”

Her ladies giggle.

“And why is he bald at such a young age?” one asks.

Sophia shrugs. “I’ll have my favorite Belle give him a tiny crop of hair.”