Shatter

  “Where is the King going?” Lord Aaron asks, thankfully changing the subject.

  “That, I don’t know.”

  Lord Aaron raises his eyebrows.

  “You think that’s odd?” I ask.

  “Yes! The King’s travel plans are announced in general terms, for security reasons, but they’re almost always announced—it’s a publicity thing.” He consults a newer, more official-looking tablet than the one associated with tracking Reginald. “But this is definitely not on the public calendar. If he’s taking an unannounced trip, odds are good it’s something to do with those plans he flaunted at the shareholder meeting.”

  “Do you imagine I can do something with that?” I ask.

  “Find out where he’s going and I might have a better answer for you. It could be a first step. Last we spoke, you had no idea how you were going to move against the King. Has that changed?”

  “No,” I whisper. “But maybe this can lead to…I don’t know, to something.” I glance at the elegant grandfather clock standing in one corner of Lord Aaron’s office. “I’ve got to prepare for dinner,” I say ruefully, rising to collect my small reticule from Lord Aaron’s desktop. “I’ll be in touch. Until then, remember, we’re cheerful, idiotic courtiers, enjoying Duke Spencer’s new promotion, and the new freedom you both have, with not a care in the world or a thought in our heads. The last thing we could possibly be getting into is espionage.”

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING to give up on this, are you?” Saber asks as we enter my bedchamber.

  “No,” I say, setting my reticule down on my dressing table and allowing a dressing-bot to relieve me of my heavier adornments—including an overskirt made entirely of silver netting. It’s almost as heavy as a pannier full of Glitter; I’ll have to put it back on for the formal dinner tonight, but for the moment it’s a relief to have it off.

  Saber sheds his own accoutrements with no assistance: his trusty leather messenger bag, the cravat he hates, embroidered livery jacket, and white gloves. They fall into a heap on the floor, and he no longer complains when a second bot hurries over to tidy up. How strange it must be for him—someone who grew up a slave in a criminal street organization—to live for months among such finery.

  He crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. “Are you doing this for me?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve paid Reginald. You could simply stop selling Glitter and sit back and wait for him to decide he’s ready to take you away. I’ve asked you to do just that. But you won’t. You’re still selling.”

  “I—” But he cuts off my justifications.

  “You’re trying to track down the source of Glitter. You’re trying to take down Reginald—a seasoned crime boss. Don’t deny it; I’m not an idiot.” He turns and looks hard at me. “Are you doing it for me?”

  I sputter for a moment before drawing in a breath and forcing myself to be calm. “Of course I’m doing it for you. How can you expect me not to?”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” he snaps back.

  “I didn’t need to be asked.” Tendrils of anger curl up my spine, and I feel hot and then cold.

  “You’re hurting people, Danica. And you’re doing it in my name. How do you think that makes me feel?”

  “Loved, maybe?”

  His chin falls and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. I’m just not sure why. “I don’t want you to do this for me. You’re not just hurting the people out there,” he says, gesturing toward the doors. “You’re hurting yourself. You’re making choices that will leave you changed, and I don’t want you to destroy yourself to save me.”

  “You want me to put myself ahead of you?”

  He clamps his mouth closed.

  I shake my head, lifting my chin. “No. I reject that sort of thinking. You don’t get to tell me I can’t sacrifice anything I damn well please for you. You don’t get to make that choice.”

  “Then what choice do I get to make?”

  My chin starts to tremble, and I grind my teeth to get it to stop. “Whether or not you’ll still love me when I’m done.”

  He sighs, long and noisy, and steps forward to wrap his arms around me. I’m too tall to fit fully beneath his chin, but there’s a nice, soft hollow at the crook of his neck that cradles my cheek perfectly. “Of course I will. But…you can’t win against him. And not just him—this is so much bigger than Reginald. You’ve got to know that.”

  “Of course there’s someone above Reginald,” I say with irritation, hating how unwilling he is to do anything to save himself. “And above him, and above him. But I have to do something about him, Saber. Just because a whole problem is bigger than one person can solve doesn’t mean they should give up on the part that they can solve.”

  He doesn’t respond for a long time, and when at last he speaks, it’s scarcely above a whisper. “Then let’s make a deal.”

  “A deal?”

  “I worry about you. I worry about this.” He puts his hands around my waist, but I’m unsure what he’s talking about. “If you succeed, if you get away, there’s no other culture in the world that still wears these. And even here, no one wears their corset the way you do.”

  I turn away from him and my face flushes hotly as I realize what he’s talking about. “You don’t understand,” I mumble.

  “I do,” Saber says, pressing his face into my line of sight, giving me no choice but to look at him. “I know you think you need this. That it helps you cope with everything in your life. But, Danica, you can’t walk twenty meters on your own without it. It doesn’t make you strong—it makes you weak.”

  “You do not understand,” I say, voice unsteady.

  “Danica, your muscles cannot physically support you without the help of your corset. You can’t deny that.”

  And I can’t. But hearing it spoken aloud stings like a slap.

  “I won’t stand in your way. If Reginald asks what you’ve been doing, I’ll lie, consequences be damned. But in return, you let me help you get stronger. When the time comes that you’re ready to walk away from this hell, I want you to do so on your own.”

  My body is trembling, and the full import of his concern hits me when I realize that all I want in this moment is to pull my laces tighter—to rebel against him by letting the ache of my polyethylene boning soothe my anxiety. “There’s nothing you can do,” I whisper.

  “There is. Exercises, every day, to build up your muscles. Loosening your corset a little bit each morning.”

  I step around the delicate gilded chair that always sits at my dressing table, needing to put some kind of barrier between the two of us. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, my tone lofty.

  “Every. Day.”

  “I don’t need anything like that.”

  “Yes, you do,” Saber says. “And I’ll help you.” He gives himself a self-deprecating glance. “Honestly, I could stand some exercise myself. Your pampered life is making me soft.” He pats his flat belly, where I’ve skimmed my fingers down a veritable washboard of abdominal muscles on many occasions. If he’s put on an ounce, I don’t know where.

  But his humor can’t reach the panic fluttering in my chest like a caged bird. “You think I don’t know how to do crunches?”

  “Of course you know. You’re smart. Smarter than me, for sure. But everyone can use a little push now and then.” He steps closer, and when he takes my hands I know he can feel how cold they’ve grown—how hard they’re shaking. “Sometimes, brilliance isn’t being able to solve every problem by yourself—it’s recognizing when you can’t. Let me help. Because you’re right, it’s more than doing some crunches. I want to free you from your need for this. Wouldn’t you rather be free?”

  “Wouldn’t you?” I shoot back in challenge, and feel vaguely satisfied when he licks his lips and draws a deep breath.

  “Yes. And even wanting it terrifies me. I’ve spent years smother
ing that want, because there’s nothing worse than wanting something you know you will never, under any conceivable circumstances, ever have again.” His hands shake as they clench around mine. “That’s why it’s a fair deal. I’ll help you take one step toward freeing me if you let me help you do the same. We’ll be terrified together.”

  I think of the awful things Reginald said in the Orangerie and know that my attachment to my corsets is nothing, nothing compared to the practiced stoicism that keeps Saber sane. But knowing doesn’t make the first step any easier. I can’t say it—I can’t say yes—but Saber sees the acquiescence in my eyes, the tiny dip of my chin that is all the sign I can give. He comes around behind me and begins unfastening the delicate hooks up the back of my gown. “Now?” I choke out.

  “I should have started weeks ago,” he murmurs, letting his warm breath touch my earlobe. “I let myself get distracted.”

  It’s different than other times he’s undressed me, because I know what’s coming next—and it’s not soft kisses and warm caresses. But he soothes me with every step, like a skittish horse being bridled for the first time. My gown ripples to the luxurious carpet, and he unties the satin ribbons at the back of my corset, murmuring in Mongolian the whole time. It’s his best trick. I can’t understand a single word, but hearing him whisper in his native tongue—in the language he spoke when he was free—makes me remember that he once was free. That if I succeed, one day he’ll be free again.

  I close my eyes and focus on his words, trying to ignore the feeling of the laces letting go until they’re loose enough to unfasten the hooks on the busk. He pulls the whole contraption away, and I reach for the back of the spindly chair for support.

  “No,” he whispers. “Stay standing.”

  “I might faint.”

  “I’ll catch you.”

  A wave of dizziness washes over me and my knees threaten to buckle, but I force them straight and open my eyes, focusing on one spot across the room the way I do in dances when we spin. It takes a good minute, but finally the dizziness seeps away. “Now what?”

  Saber leads me to the synthetic wood floor outside the railing and lays down two towels. He spends some time talking me through crunches, rockers, bends, twists—showing me more ways to work different parts of my abdomen than I ever imagined existed, with long breaks between each attempt. He demonstrates, I follow as best I can, and soon we’re both sweating. Saber pulls his shirt over his head so I can see the muscles he’s working flex and ripple beneath his skin.

  Soft, mon œil.

  When I so much as attempt planks, however, the dizziness returns with a vengeance. I lie on my stomach, cheek resting against the cool flooring, my abdomen a useless pile of jelly. And I’m all too aware I didn’t actually do very much.

  Back before I started lacing, I used to run and climb and play like most people my age—like all children everywhere, I assume. Why did I stop? Saber is right—as he so often is. I’m too weak to be able to physically cope without my corset, and that’s no way to embark on a new life. But what if I’ve started too late?

  Saber is lying on his back beside me, not touching me, not even breathing heavily, even though he worked much harder than I did.

  “When the time comes,” he says softly, “I need you to go.”

  “Go?”

  “With Reginald. When he’s ready. I need you to promise me.” He rolls over and runs a finger up my arm. “I’ll do my very best to have you ready. Physically, I mean. You won’t be winning a body-building contest anytime soon,” he says with a grin, and I groan from the floor, where I’ve barely moved for the last five minutes. “But when you walk away, I want you to do so completely under your own strength. Okay?”

  I nod with my eyes closed, not only because I’m exhausted but because I don’t want to see in his eyes that he’s fully accepted that he won’t be coming with me. He assumes, when all is said and done, that Reginald will make good on his promise to give me a new life somewhere, and Saber will go back to being…what he’s been.

  I don’t press the issue. My infinitesimal nod was only an acknowledgment that I want to be able to walk away on my own.

  I didn’t give my promise that I’ll leave him behind.

  “YOU’RE CERTAIN?” I ask, bending over Lord Aaron’s desk to peer at his tablet.

  “Nothing’s certain with two data points, but it’s a start. The first payment that you were able to place about ten days ago was on the move for a while. It stopped at these maisonettes for several days, then cycled through La Défense before losing power—probably someone spent it there, and it was working its way through merchants’ tills. The second one from two days ago went to the same maisonettes, but now—”

  “—it’s over a hundred kilometers into the countryside,” I say, my eyes scanning the data scrolling across the screen. “But that could be, what, one of Reginald’s men sending money home to his aging mother?”

  “Only if his aging mother runs a company for mad punsters. Look.” Lord Aaron pulls up satellite imagery showing a midsized farming operation. The facility and surrounding acreage is tagged Pharmaison SARL.

  “Saber said Glitter was grown in a lab by pharmaceutical researchers.” My heart is pounding in my ears. “That can’t be a coincidence. We found the source of Glitter.”

  “That’s one possibility,” Lord Aaron says slowly.

  I resist the urge to say something impatient. The King’s departure this morning started a blaring countdown in my head, and I’m anxious to make use of the time we have. For the next week, there’s no one in Versailles who outranks me. I’m not a corporate officer—I have no particular say in the company’s day-to-day operation—but what would I do with control of the largest agribusiness in the world, anyway? Ship some extra corn to Australia, for kicks? No, what I have is the ability to move freely and make any inquiries that might occur to me, with no one to answer to until His Majesty returns. It’s not a blank check, exactly, but it’s more freedom than I’ve had in months.

  After forcing myself to take several deep breaths, I ask, as calmly as I can manage, “What other possibilities do you have in mind?”

  Lord Aaron looks up at me. “Worst case? Reginald found the trackers and is hoping to murder you somewhere picturesque.”

  * * *

  —

  “YOU’RE SURE ABOUT this?” Lord Aaron asks for the third time as we saunter down the front steps of the palace, waving back at those watching through the windows of the Hall of Mirrors. Two bots are following us, bearing ribbon-bedecked picnic hampers. As we’re going out on a clandestine mission, it seemed only appropriate to draw as much attention to ourselves as possible.

  “I’m fêting a newly minted young duke with his well-heeled suitor and a marquis’s daughter, heiress to one of Sonoma’s oldest legacies,” I say through a broad smile as I acknowledge Tamae and Lady Nuala waving sulkily at us from the balcony of the Hall of Mirrors. “It’s the sort of thing bored, obscenely wealthy adolescents do all the time, or so I’m assured.”

  As I announced this morning, an hour after the King’s helicopter took off, we’re taking a day trip to the countryside, just the four of us. Which certainly didn’t make the other hundred people who seem to think I’m their bosom friend very happy. Thus the sad faces on the balcony.

  “You don’t think anyone suspects?” Lord Aaron presses.

  “After the last two days I suspect no one in the palace remembers we know how to read, much less pull off a secret expedition.”

  “True. My head is killing me and I blame you.”

  We’ve even spent some time establishing our cover, indulging in enough mindless decadence over the last few days that no one in court could have missed it. As charades go, vapid hedonism has its charms. Though late nights weary one quickly—soirées lasting to dawn, limping back to my bedchamber for a few stolen moments with Saber—the courtiers seem to be gulping
it down like expensive champagne. Rather at the rate they literally gulp down said champagne. We apparently did such a thorough job of it that when the King left, he went so far as to warn me not to turn into a regular bacchanalian while he was gone.

  His words were light, even a bit leering; likely he suspects our ruse. Still, he left on schedule, and I doubt there was anything he could do except, perhaps, tell that weasel Mateus to keep a close eye on us. Which he certainly can’t do if we leave in a fancy SUV.

  “But it’s Paris,” Lord Aaron continues as the doors close and the car rolls away from the palace. “I can’t help but feel we’re vastly overdressed.” He looks around at our very typical dress: gowns and jackets with breeches.

  “Baroque attire is its own disguise.”

  “As the only person in this vehicle who has actually lived out in the real world, I feel obligated to point out that it’s also exceptionally memorable,” Duke Spencer says, climbing into the sumptuously upholstered self-driving SUV beside Lord Aaron. “More than you may realize.”

  “But you’re also in the best position to know what this so-called real world thinks of us,” Lady Mei points out. “They think we’re crazy.”

  Duke Spencer stifles a snort and doesn’t have to agree.

  “Either they’ll see us as empty-headed Louies, and we’ll tell them we’re lost,” she says, adjusting her voluminous satin skirts, “or they’ll think we’re investors and give us a tour.”

  “Or file a complaint with the WTO for prying into their trade secrets,” Duke Spencer says, almost gloomily. “Or attack us in a fit of patriotic zeal. Sonoma may own half the farmland in France, but that hardly makes them anxious to sell us more.”

  “What would you have me do?” I ask, spreading my gloved hands before me. “Call ahead?”