The Everlasting Rose Page 6

  His fingers flick my hair, and it sends a rush along my scalp.

  “Then I should change your skin color and facial features.”

  He scowls as he ties the bottom ribbon. “Maybe. Soon. I am getting tired of the mask. Too hot.”

  “But you need to protect your makeup and make sure you don’t get caught in the scandal sheets without maintaining your beauty.”

  A small chuckle escapes his mouth.

  “Also, I’m sorry about what Edel said.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But it is. She’s taking out her frustrations with me on you. She’s just...”

  “A lot.”

  “Always has been.”

  He finishes knotting the ribbon and shifts back to my side. “You know that I don’t stare at you. I’m not—”

  “I know.” My cheeks heat up beneath my mask. I want to tell him that I look at him, too. That I love it when he looks at me, his eyes carrying an energy I don’t fully comprehend, one I’m not sure I want to, one I enjoy. “Let’s get these post-balloons and hurry back so I can deal with her.”

  He turns into a narrow alley. “What’s your concern with Arabella?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “So, tell me what you’re thinking. It might help you work through it.”

  I shoot him a skeptical look.

  “Truly. It’s something I used to do with my closest friend at the academy. We’d discuss our plans when the Minister of War would give us challenges. Sometimes, it helped me see ways forward that I hadn’t before.”

  Snow begins to fall. Delicate white flakes crest the market lanterns with tiny coats and collect on windowsills and inside garden boxes full of cold-season flowers.

  “That was definitely Arabella’s voice, but I need to know if she sent it on her own or if it’s one of Sophia’s sick games. Arabella could’ve been threatened—forced to say what she said.”

  Rémy nods. “Smart.”

  “Indeed, I am,” I spit back.

  “No one is questioning that. Least of all me.”

  “Edel is. She doesn’t agree with my plans.”

  “I get the sense that she wouldn’t agree with anyone’s plans.”

  I let out a laugh.

  “Where do you think she went?” Rémy asks.

  “Wherever it is, I hope she doesn’t get herself caught.” The worry of losing another sister sits like a limestone brick in my stomach.

  “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. Or even what I think. I always trust my instincts. Soldiers are trained that way. And if you need to have the information verified, then we’ll do it. But invisible post-balloons aren’t perfect and can often be intercepted.” He points at a shop called Ombre and a window sign boasting the best invisible post-balloons for sale.

  “But it’s all we have. Hopefully, Fantôme will deliver it safely and bring back a reply.”

  The shop looks nearly desolate—only a worktable littered with post-balloon wire nets, ribbons, parchment, a series of empty shelves, and a single dusk-lantern whizzing around a beautiful woman.

  “There’s nothing here,” I say to Rémy.

  “Ah, don’t be so hasty,” the woman replies, popping up from a high-backed chair. Half her head is shaved close to her scalp, but on the other side, her hair falls over her shoulder like a river of fire. Her smile is crooked in the best way possible, intentional and making her look clever, and her skin is a soft shade of beige—like honey and caramel swirled together in steaming milk.

  “Wait here,” Rémy whispers, leaving me at the shop door.

  I turn my back to the shop, pretending to watch skittish people who don’t want to be spotted in this part of the city move through the narrow market alleys.

  “Come in. Don’t be afraid,” she says to Rémy, almost purring. “Our post-balloons are the best. We truly have the highest success rate.”

  I steal glances over my shoulder at the woman. Her eyes are filled with light and excitement as she takes Rémy in, a smile curving across her lips.

  Rémy steps inside the shop and jumps as if he’s been touched.

  The proprietor chuckles. “Be careful, the post-balloons are everywhere. I should’ve warned you, handsome,” she says. “So, how can I help you? What exactly are you looking for? With some blessing from the God of Luck himself, it’ll be a wife.”

  Rémy’s shoulders stiffen and he clears his throat. “I don’t see any post-balloons for sale.”

  “I can’t hear you very well. Mind removing your mask? Or does your makeup need protecting at this hour?”

  My panicked thoughts trip over one another.

  He flips up the bottom of it. “I’m ill and contagious.”

  She leans back. “Oh.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

  “Where are your post-balloons for sale? Since you say you have the best,” he says.

  “You felt them when you first walked in. Let me show you.” She unhooks the tail ribbons of her dusk-lantern, drags it forward, and closes the shop’s drapes.

  I yank the curtains back open.

  She eyes me. “Can I help you?”

  “She’s with me,” Rémy blurts out.

  “Well, then, come in. You’re messing up my show.” Her eyes flicker over me, assessing every inch of my body, tallying and deciding if I might be beautiful under my layered winter dress and cloak and mask. I’ve watched the women do this at court.

  Seemingly unimpressed, she turns back to Remy. “Watch.”

  As the dusk-lantern circles the woman, it reveals the outlines of dozens of post-balloons.

  I gasp.

  Rémy tries to catch one, but it disappears again.

  “Impressed?” she says.

  He huffs. “How much?”

  “By the looks of you, I’d say you have leas to spend. But maybe if you let me see your face or throw in a kiss, I’ll give you a discount.” She sidles closer to him.

  An unfamiliar feeling crops up inside me. My fists ball and my feet itch to wedge myself between them. Does he think she’s beautiful? Does he like the look she’s chosen for herself? Is this how people interact with each other outside of court?

  Those questions grate across my skin. She winks at him, and he smiles.

  “Are you all done?” I ask, and Rémy’s mouth resumes its usual frown.

  The woman’s eyes are fixed on Rémy. “We’ve just started negotiations. And he looks like he’s a wealthy guy.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he replies.

  “Oh yes, in this world.” She clucks her tongue. “Forty-two leas for one.”

  “I’ll give you seventy-five for two,” he replies.

  Her eyebrows lift with surprise, and she licks her lips. “You’re very clever.” She runs a painted fingernail over his jacket lapel.

  He steps back. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me. Seventy-seven,” he replies. “Final offer.”

  “Offers are never final unless you’re dead,” she quips.

  He fusses with the leas in his pocket, then glances over at me, catching my grimace. Our eyes meet. I turn away, pretending to stare out at the bustling crowd.

  “Seventy-eight,” I hear Rémy say.

  “If you buy five, I’ll give them to you for one ninety.”

  “I’ll give you three hundred fifty leas for ten.”

  “Done. And only because I feel like you might be handsome under that mask, and I’m a sucker for pretty men,” she replies. “Have you ever bought one of these before?”

  “No,” he replies.

  “Let me show you how it works. If you don’t follow directions, you are at risk of your messages being intercepted, so pay attention.”

  He takes a tentative step forward. She bats her big green eyes at him. “The secret to an invisible post-balloon is the reactive parchment. Light a candle and wait for the parchment to awaken. You’ll be able to see its edges for thirty beats. Enough to run your fingers along its curves.” Sh
e runs her hand across his. He doesn’t move. “You already look like you’re good with your hands, so this shouldn’t be a problem.”

  I make a noise, and he flinches.

  “To put your note into the back, open this flap. See here?” She leans closer to him, and I swear she sniffs him.

  My stomach flips, a riot of new emotions battling within it. “We know how to light post-balloons,” I grumble loud enough to be heard.

  She pauses, and her heavy gaze lingers on me.

  “Then, handsome, light this charcoal candle. The special oil allows it to smolder slowly and give the post-balloon enough air and energy to reach its destination, but without the brightness of a regular post-balloon candle. Add two if it’s going beyond the imperial island.” She hands him the parcel, but doesn’t let go when he takes it. “You were such a delight to talk to, despite your guard over there.” She nods in my direction. “I rarely get such interesting customers.”

  “Thank you,” he says, tugging it out of her hands.

  “No, thank you.” She laughs. “I don’t mean to be so forward, but are you married? I’m in need of a husband.”

  “Yes,” I blurt out. A sharp warmth crawls up my chest, and my heart pounds against my rib cage. “Why else do you think I’m here?”

  He glances at me, surprised. Not that I blame him. I’m shocked by what I’ve just said. But then Rémy jauntily opens the door for me. “Let’s go, Mrs. Chevalier.”

  “Mrs. Chevalier?” I stammer out, my words in a tangle.

  “It’s tradition for one of us to take the other’s last name. I guess I could be Mr. Beauregard. But everyone is looking for you. So, my name would probably be best.”

  I chuckle. “They’re looking for you, too.”

  We both laugh, then get quiet.

  “Were you upset?” he asks, and I can feel the smile behind his mask.

  “Uh, no... that’s not the right word. I was—”

  “Jealous?”

  I laugh. “No,” I lie. “She was strange.”

  “She was flirting.”

  I ease this question out: “Did you like her?”

  “What do you mean? Her personality was—”

  “No, did you think she was beautiful? Would you have taken her up on her offer? She said she needed a husband.”

  “Soldiers don’t marry. We take one vow—to protect the kingdom.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “Above all else queen and country.”

  I don’t know what I’m really asking. I don’t know how to form the question or pluck it from the depths of my heart and give it breath. The silence between us feels loud in contrast to the noise of the Market Quartier.

  “I’m still a soldier even though I’m here with you,” he adds.

  Night-lanterns are lit as the sun sets behind us. News blimps start to fill the sky, their silkscreens and sky candles scattering the first of the evening headlines around.

  We turn right and Rémy stops. I crash into him.

  He pulls me close to the side of a nearby building. I take a deep breath. My heart trembles. His bottom lip brushes my forehead. He looks down at me. An energy tethers us in place.

  Is he going to kiss me? What would that be like?

  Those questions simmer in my stomach. His eyes drop to my lips. I lean forward a little to close the gap. I let the desire and curiosity loose from the place I’d hidden it inside. I admit to myself—I want him to kiss me.

  “Don’t move.” His words graze my skin.

  The sound of heavy boots clomp behind us. I glance over my shoulder. Guards march up the stairs of the Red Velvet Salon.

  Panic and worry weaken my legs. I almost fall forward. His hands grip tight around my waist.

  “Edel,” I say.

  We stand in the alley and watch the Red Velvet Salon until our fingernails turn blue and the teacup dragons in my waist-sash can’t keep me warm any longer. Rémy’s body is stiff behind me.

  “What if we go into the card salon across the street? We can keep an eye out for Edel,” I say.

  “We should go to another part of the city to be safe.” His eyes scan every person walking by.

  “We can’t. What if Edel was taken?”

  “We’d know. I’ve seen no movement in and out of the salon yet.”

  I feel like I’ve fallen down several sets of stairs—the air in my chest too thin, my head spinning like a télétrope, and my legs shaking beneath me, threatening to buckle under my weight. “I can’t lose another sister.”

  “You won’t.” He reaches for my hand, cupping it with his, and tries to warm it. “You’re freezing.” His brown eyes drift over my face. “Your nose is red as a cherry.”

  “How are you not cold?” I push my other hand into his grasp. He lifts them to his mouth and blows warm air over them. It streams through my knit gloves, the sensation sending a rush of tingles into my limbs. The energy from before is back, the desire welling up once again.

  “The Minister of War trains us in the harshest places, conditioning our bodies to adapt to any circumstance.” He turns back to the street. “I guess we could wait inside for a little. They do have private game rooms. But we’d have to spend money we don’t really have.”

  “We must.” I shove the leas purse into his hand.

  He bunches his scarf around his neck, pulls down his mask, and adjusts mine to cover more of my face.

  “Everyone is subject to a check,” a guard yells as she harasses as many people as she can. But Rémy and I quickly duck into the Queen of Spades. Maroon house-lanterns drift over plush tabletops ringed by high-backed chairs. Men and women slam down porcelain chips or clutch cards or place bets. Laughter and excitement ripple through the room. Parlor workers push treat carts through the labyrinth of game tables.

  “Wait here,” Rémy says, then he goes to a speak to a man at a nearby desk. He returns with a skeleton key. “A room for a few hours, and with a view of the street.”

  “How’d you pull that off?” I ask.

  “Told him we were just married,” he says. I fight the smile erupting across my lips. “Well, you put the thought in my head!” he adds.

  We scurry up a set of stairs and into a long hallway. It forms a balcony that overlooks the main room. There are a few potted plants sitting along the railing, and I crouch down and peek between them, to ensure no one followed us. Slanting shafts of lantern light dance across the ground.

  Rémy opens the door. Large square windows look out onto the street. A four-poster bed swallows most of the room. At its foot sits a pair of matching armchairs and a card table with a plush red top.

  He watches the movement along the street, then draws the curtain and ties a night-lantern to a nearby hook. “We have to leave the Spice Isles tonight. I’m adept at hiding, but they seem to anticipate my every move.”

  “We’re going to the Silk Isles,” I declare.

  Rémy turns to look at me. “Is that where you think Charlotte is?”

  “No.” I reach into my pocket, giving the poison bottle a comforting squeeze, and I retrieve a crumpled newspaper segment instead. “We need to see him.” I unfold the scrap to reveal the face of the Fashion Minister. “In order to find Charlotte, we need money. Gustave will help.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “Yes.” The comfort of that truth brings back memories of him helping me as favorite: the little jokes, the advice he’d given me, the secret warnings about Sophia. I have to believe he’ll be on our side. He knows what the queen truly is. “First, I need to send a letter to Arabella. I’ll make sure Sophia didn’t force her to send that message, and once I’m satisfied of that, I’ll tell her of our plan to locate Charlotte. She might know in which direction the princess sailed the night we escaped.” I release Fantôme and Poivre from my waist-sash. They fly about the room, their scales twinkling like snow and fire in the dim light.

  I scribble across the page:

  Arabella,

  Two things:
br />   What do I carry of yours?

  How did your teacup dragon find us? We’re not in the place where you told me to go.

  Love,

  Camille

  “Fantôme,” I say.

  The tiny dragon flies over to me.

  “Good girl.”

  “The training has worked,” Rémy comments. “She didn’t even need an incentive to come. That’s a good sign.”

  “She’s ready.”

  She has to be.

  “Do you have your knife?” I sweep Fantôme into my arms and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Always. Why?”

  “I don’t have our sangsues, so I need blood.”

  He furrows his brow. “Maybe we should wait until—”

  “No.” I roll up the parchment. “The night air-postmen will be leaving the sky to obey the curfew, so this is my chance to send her out without being detected. The skies will be empty.”

  “Maybe that’s the biggest danger. Maybe we should wait to send, so that there’s too many things to watch. In a sky full of birds, it’s harder to find a certain one.”

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  Rémy leaves his post at the window and eases down beside me on the bed. His body radiates like a star caught in a jar. The question eases back between us, that energy hissing and crackling like the fire in the room’s hearth as each moment passes.

  “Cut my thumb,” I order.

  He removes a knife from his pocket, the sheath white as porcelain. “Do you think—”

  I cup my hand over his mouth. The softness of his lips sends a flutter through me. “Do it.”

  He nods.

  I take my hand down and turn it palm up. Fantôme perches on my knee, watching.

  His hands quiver.

  I purse my lips, trying to mask a smile.

  “You nervous?”

  He grunts a response, then presses the blade into the pad of my thumb. I bite my bottom lip as the silver ridge pierces the flesh and the blood rises to meet it. The sting and throb of it rush in as a red stream trickles down my hand.

  “I’ve cut too deep.” Rémy cradles my wrist and frowns.