Which cover is the favorite: THE BELLES or THE EVERLASTING ROSE?
In a world where beauty is everything, Camellia has learns its true, devastating power for herself. After serving in the royal palace of Orleans as the favorite Belle, she’s on the run from the cruel regime and the dangerous powers it holds in The Everlasting Rose, the sequel to Dhonielle Clayton‘s bestseller The Belles.
With the help of her sister, Edel, Remy, and two rebel movements, can Camellia bring down the corrupt princess who will destroy them otherwise?
Bustle released the gorgeous cover for The Everlasting Rose, which features Camellia looking stunningly fierce and ready to take us all down. Take a look!
With that came the first chapter of the adventure, which explains a bit about what Camellia’s situation since escaping the castle. It seems the action picks up just a few days later, so read on to see what’s next!
Maman never told me what to do when the world falls apart like a dress ripped at its seams; the beads scattering into faraway corners; the fabric a storm of shredded pieces left destroyed and unrecognizable. She never told me how to battle the nightmares that creep in like icy shadows, lingering behind closed eyes. She never told me what to do when all the color leaks out of the world like blood oozing from a mortal wound.
She gave me a mirror to see truth. I clutch it, the glass warming inside my palm.
But what happens when the reflection peering back is ugly, and when all I want to do is set everything ablaze, and she’s not here to help me?
The past three days are a chaotic blur, a télétrope in perpetual motion —the palace, Sophia’s dungeons, Charlotte waking up, and Arabella helping us get here with false papers.
“Are you listening to me?” Edel snaps. “You’ve been gazing out that window for almost a full hourglass.”
I don’t pivot around to face her or the small boardinghouse room we’ve been stuffed into. I fixate on the sun as it sinks behind the row of shops across the street and watch how it turns the sky the color of a peacock’s tail. Sunsets are much more beautiful this far south. It feels like the Spice Islands are at the very edge of the world and poised to float right off.
I press my nose against the frigid glass; the cold-season wind attempts to push its way through. I wish it would wrap its icy fingers around me and cool my insides. In the distance, the cluster of islands almost kisses at the Bay of Croix and the capital city of Metairie overlooks them like a huge house-lantern out at sea, drawing ships safely near. Golden bridges connect the four isles and illuminate like fireworks as evening arch-lanterns are lit. Decadent river coaches skate over the waters beneath; the light glinting off their gilded trim. Grand spice plantations stretch out in all directions with large white mansions overseeing fields of mint, lemon balm, lavender, and sage. Plant-lanterns crest over the crops, paper-thin bees carrying sunshine and nutrients.
This place feels even stranger than the palace did; so different than our home. I used to want to see every far-flung corner of this world, but now, all I think about is what it would be like to watch Orléans burn, each island turning to ash, clouds of thick smoke clogging the skies and stamping out the sun, the seas blackening from the leftover debris. Would the gods intervene?