Unfortunately, if Lord Aaron is right about the end result, he’s also right about how Lady Cyn is trying to get there. It feels wrong that such a serious discussion comes back to jewelry, but thus is the absurdity of my life. “What am I supposed to do? Walk up to my husband and demand crown jewels?”
“Sounds pretty girl-power to me.”
“I was kidding.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
I blink at him a few times, inadvertently waking my Lens.
Lord Aaron, seeing the microfilament light up, smiles. “Lens him. Do it now, while you’re feeling brave.”
“Am I feeling brave?” I ask under my breath. But he hears me.
“Mais bien sûr!”
“You can’t just Lens the King,” I grumble.
“I can’t. I wager you can.”
I give him a sidelong glance.
“This is precisely what I’m talking about, Dani. Have you even looked at your new privileges? I bet you can just walk through doorways even I can’t hack. You can’t expect power to fall in your lap, darling. You have to take it.”
I stare hard at him, but before my Lens can go back to sleep I whisper, “Justin Wyndham. Location.” To my surprise, rather than returning a headline denying access, a palace map overlays my vision and a blinking red dot informs me that His Highness is strolling in the Cour de Marbre.
“Oh,” I say, the surprise catching me too off-guard to formulate an appropriate response. “Well.”
“You’re owed far more than he’s giving you,” Lord Aaron says. “Take it.”
AFTER ASKING SABER to stay out of sight—and getting a glower in return—I slip into the courtyard, where I’m almost bowled over by a wall of noise. I should have known the King would be speaking to the press. He has to do that, sometimes, especially on Wednesdays. I suppose I ought to, as well.
Maybe.
Lord Aaron is right—I have no idea how to be Queen, and leveraging queenly power in my favor seems the wisest course. I’ve got to be a quick study.
I suck in a breath and touch the hard busk at the front of my corset before striding across the marble squares of the courtyard toward my new husband. I approach Justin from behind and take perverse pleasure in the small start of surprise he gives when I slip my arm onto his.
“Ah,” he says, covering beautifully. “My lovely bride. Ladies, gentlemen, I think this is my sign to bid you adieu.” A few of the reporters groan and others continue shouting questions, but His Highness waves and bows deeply—I drop naturally into a curtsy at his side—and we slowly saunter back toward the palace.
“Thank you for that,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. He snaps at a liveried young man in the corner, summoning him to his side. “They’re relentless today. Word’s out about the attempted coup, and though the press has all the business acumen of a croque-monsieur, even they can understand how the reactivation of the Queen’s shares shifted the outcome. The recent reactivation, of course, being their angle. Refreshment,” he orders, and his voice isn’t at all loud, but commanding. The young man rushes off, making little bowing motions as he hurries away.
My husband walks with purpose. Not that we’re rushing—he’s the epitome of regal procession, and even with my training by Giovanni, his innate presence eclipses mine. Makes me feel like the commoner I was born. He’s the only one who can. Not even Lady Cyn can pierce the armor my posture and poise give me. This, this is what Lord Aaron means. The King wears his power like a heavy fur cloak. Sometimes, along with an actual fur cloak.
I covet that power, only realizing it at this moment. A Queen with power wouldn’t be backed into a corner in her own bedchamber. A Queen with power wouldn’t find her heart racing at the thought of speaking to her joint ruler. A Queen with power wouldn’t glance down every hallway in fear of what she might find.
And a Queen with power might—just might—find a way to escape in one piece.
I bite my tongue, using the jolt of pain to straighten my spine and gather my courage. “I sought you out for a reason, my lord.”
“I expected nothing less,” he replies dryly.
“I want my jewels.”
“Surely you didn’t leave them in your parents’ household?”
I glower at him. “The crown jewels. I should be wearing them.”
The King regards me coolly, and just as I feel like quaking under his scrutiny, the young man returns, bringing us both a glass of…something. I don’t even care what it is—I care that it’s in a shining gold goblet, a symbol of power and respect that I get to share in. The King takes his without so much as glancing at the man, much less offering his thanks. As much as it grates on my sense of good manners, I follow suit.
“What are you about, Danica?” the King asks once we’re moving again.
“My rights,” I say, trying to remember all of Lord Aaron’s arguments. “I’m the Queen now, and no one looking over a crowded room would be able to tell. That’s unacceptable.”
“You think a few jewels will change that? Or did you want to wear the coronation crown every day? Perhaps carry around the ruby scepter?”
“The jewels will be a start,” I say, ignoring his jab. “I also want access to the Queen’s gowns and accoutrements.”
He stops sharply at that. “You want to wear my dead mother’s clothing?”
“I want access to the Queen’s wardrobe.” I don’t let any flicker of emotion cross my face. “You yourself have complained about my gowns on several occasions. Your mother’s blue gown from her twentieth-anniversary ball—that one is legendary. And the silver embroidered one your grandmother is known for having worn to the kingdom’s bicentennial gala. I need to be seen in such things.”
“Those gowns belong to my family,” he says through clenched teeth.
“I’m your family now.”
For once, I’ve left the King speechless, and I relish the victory. I turn and begin walking—in that same processional style Justin has been using—and this time it’s he who has to catch up.
“Why are you harping about this now? We’ve been married for almost a week already.”
“We had other concerns—like keeping you on the throne. That done, it’s time to move forward.”
He drops his voice to a low hiss. “I’m still dealing with the PR fallout of an attempted coup, while every scandal feed in the country runs stories about corruption and child brides, and you’re seriously lobbying for fancy clothing and jewelry?”
“You wanted a wife, you wanted a Queen, you got one. But I’m afraid, my lord, that the drawback is that now you have a wife and a Queen.”
“Inconveniences I apparently failed to foresee,” he grumbles.
“It’ll be far more difficult for you to continually deny me my rightful place than to simply get your toad Mateus to draw up a comprehensive list of Queenly privileges that I can peruse at my leisure.” I pause and then charge ahead with the one thing I really want. “And do be sure to put a private office on that list.”
“Pardonnez?” the King retorts, actually raising his voice this time and drawing the attention of a handful of tourists and courtiers.
“As of”—I pause and make a show of counting on my fingers—“four days ago, I’m a voting shareholder. So I’d like to know where my private, unmonitored office space is. I presume I have one, as it is a guarantee to every voting shareholder.” In the wake of my mother’s death, His Majesty revoked the unmonitored privacy once afforded to select courtiers’ offices within the residential wings of the palace—claiming it was for everyone’s safety—but there are numerous alternatives.
He leans nonchalantly on his walking stick. “I’m not convinced you do.”
“Surely your mother had an unmonitored office,” I say dryly.
“I’m quite certain my parents shared the office that is currently mine,” he says softly; even without an audience
, he seems ever at pains to make me look petty. I struggle to say something intelligent before His Highness, but he beats me to it. “Perhaps that’s not a long-term solution that will work for us.”
He holds out his empty glass, not even glancing in its direction before releasing it, simply assuming there will be someone waiting to catch it—I don’t hear a clang, so apparently he was right.
“But, my love, I’m afraid I’ve nothing else to offer at the moment.” A smile hovers at the corner of his mouth. “A recent change of policy has created something of a shortage in suitable workspace.”
Damn. “You’re giving me free run of your office, then?” I hedge.
“Anytime you need to discuss sensitive voting issues with me, you may intrude upon my privacy. But only then,” he adds in a sharp voice. “I’ll work on assigning you an unmonitored space of your own. Perhaps as a birthday present?”
I stare at him silently, knowing he truly could grant me unmonitored space in a moment. “I’ll look forward to unwrapping it,” I say, my voice very calm, almost friendly.
“Very good,” he says, leaning over and kissing my hand as though he weren’t a completely pompous ass. “Now,” he says, straightening, “shall we see to your fripperies?”
* * *
—
LORD AARON WAS absolutely right—the monarchy owns millions upon millions of euros’ worth of jewels, some historic, some more recently acquired. But when the King escorts me to the vaults in the basement of the palace, past flesh-and-blood security guards in ballistic vests and even a brief peek at an armory stocked with guns in dizzying array, I walk into a living lesson on the words worthy of a Queen. I really shouldn’t be so surprised. If there’s one thing I’ve discovered about the Palace of Versailles in the last six months, it’s that all the important stuff is in the basement.
“It’s not too much?” I ask skeptically as I study my appearance in the mirror. I’ve never worn such large jewels and find it difficult to be certain of the line between tastefully extravagant and gaudy, so I lean on Lady Mei to help me make them work.
She is, of course, tickled at the honor.
“It’s almost too much,” Lady Mei says, her eyes sparkling in the mirror from just behind my shoulder. “That’s what perfect means. Now, spin.”
With a laugh, I rise from my dressing table stool and make a face at Lady Mei before turning about. I’m in one of my newest gowns, accessorized with a capelet from the Queen’s wardrobe. It’s cloth of gold—literally, linen interwoven with precious metal. I’d read of such things, but never truly understood. I’m not sure it would be possible to understand without actually seeing it, feeling it, wearing it. And it’s as heavy as one might imagine.
My hair is piled atop my head and striped with ropes of pearls dotted with rubies as big as my thumb. A necklace and matching earrings, inset with rubies and diamonds, complement my gown, and for once I don’t resent the shimmering, eight-carat diamond wedding ring that has graced the left hand of every Queen of Sonoman-Versailles for three generations.
Four, now.
“Ugh,” Lady Mei says, but when I turn to her, she’s leaning close to study her own reflection.
“What?”
“I look downright plain compared to you. I decided not to wear my ruby necklace, and now I have regrets.” She straightens and narrows her eyes at the mirror, as though it were purposely diminishing her. “I’m going to go fix that.” Without another word, she blows me a kiss, flutters her fingers in a wave, and makes her exit.
Saber walks in grumbling, messing with the cravat he still hasn’t quite learned how to tie correctly.
“Do you surrender?” I ask with one eyebrow raised.
“Please?” he says. Normally he suffers through having a bot tie it, but on Wednesdays, he’s stuck with me. I can’t pull off a Mathematical, but I do a decent Napoléon. At the very least, I’m better at it than him.
“Come here,” I say, with mock-fussiness. He stands in front of me, his hands resting at my waist, and gazes at me with such heat my fingers tremble as I wrap the silk about his neck. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“I don’t know any other way.”
I can’t stop the exceptionally sappy smile his words provoke. I must blush as well, because Saber chuckles as I finish his knot.
“Dressing this way is starting to feel normal, God forbid.”
“You look quite dapper,” I quip, in a snooty voice. “And me?” I spin, letting the heavy skirts of my dress flare and tossing out my arms with a flourish.
But he doesn’t reply.
“Saber?” I ask, nerves shooting through me when he remains silent.
I glance over my shoulder in panic, but his eyes are soft. Almost sad. He steps closer and touches the underside of my chin with one finger. “You look like a Queen.”
I’M BRILLIANT AS the sun walking into the Hall of Mirrors, on the King’s arm. Privileges come with duties attached, and I can play the role as well as any actor, complete with elaborate, expensive costume.
Lady Mei’s taste must be on; all the furtive glances I get reflect approval.
I’m expected to open the dancing with His Majesty—and I do so with a patently false beaming smile—but he forces me through only a single set. When I leave his side I seek out Saber, who’s near the ladies’ retiring rooms, subtly palming money and passing around containers of Glitter.
Seeing him at work sours my mood and I realize I’ve been preening. I remind myself that I need to play the game without acquiring a taste for it—but also that playing the game means keeping a close eye on the King. A glance is all it takes to confirm what I could have guessed. The moment my back was turned, he sought out the company of Lady Cyn, whose appearance now—even in all her finery—pales in comparison to mine. Her family is wealthy, and I know the King bestows expensive gifts on her, but there’s simply nothing and no one in the palace who can compete with four generations of opulence.
Lord Aaron was right—I have to claim my place or she’ll take it from me.
I’m trying to figure out what to do next when I realize I already hold the best weapon for my opening salvo. I stop Mademoiselle Janelle Olivier, one of my lever staff, with a soft hand on her shoulder as she’s leaving with a handful of canisters to disperse.
“Janelle, if you could mention it to the others,” I say under my breath. “No more Glitter for Lady Cyn. Nor,” I add, making my soft voice sharp, “for anyone caught sharing with her. Understood?” I meet her eyes in a hard stare.
The lady gasps as though that were the harshest punishment I could possibly mete out. Forget Lord Aaron’s lecture on power; this is personal. This is for years of trapping me in corners or stepping on my train to make me stumble. I give Janelle a haughty, Queenly look, and she gulps and says, “I’ll spread the word, Your Majesty.”
I watch her scurry from group to group and smile as she gives wide berth to some of the circles gathered at the edge of the dance floor. Even though the message is meant to eventually get to Lady Cyn, Janelle would be foolish to go right up to Cyn’s people and lay down the threat. Word will travel quickly enough, with no immediate repercussions for any given messenger. Lady Cyn will know only that the original edict came from me.
Moreover, Janelle has just given me a visual update on the state of the court—and how divided it is. There are groups of hers, and groups of mine. If I had more social sway, Janelle wouldn’t bother to so assiduously avoid Cyn’s groups. I may be the Queen, but so far it’s my people who stand in fear of her people.
I glance over at Lord Aaron, but he’s not watching me. I hate how often he’s right, though it makes me grateful that he’s in my camp. I’m fighting battles on three fronts, not two, and I almost failed to notice. Justin and Reginald may be my Scylla and Charybdis, but the war for influence over the court i
s also a war I have to win. And I can, if I’m smart. And ruthless.
So what’s a Queen to do if she wants to win a war? Why, she must gather her generals, of course.
* * *
—
“I WANT A private dinner,” I announce to the King, barging into his office and slamming the door behind me.
“With me? I’m flattered,” he says without even glancing up from his tablet.
“Hardly. Is this room ever monitored?”
“Never. M.A.R.I.E. hears me, but never records. Like in all private offices.”
I ignore that jab. “Then you listen to me. I am the Queen and I deserve to have my own damned rooms unmonitored when I want to have an actual conversation with a handful of friends.” By the end of my little speech I’m leaning over with both hands slapped flat on the desk, my face mere inches from his.
He clears his throat and rolls his chair backward to create space between us. “Do I have to attend?”
“I said friends.”
His jaw tightens, but that’s all the reaction he gives me. “Who?” he finally asks.
“Lord Aaron, Lady Mei Zhào”—I hesitate—“and Sir Spencer Harrisford.”
“Not a chance.”
“Afraid we’ll stage another coup?”
He clamps his mouth shut, glaring daggers at me.
“Sir Spencer didn’t want it. You ought to know that. He didn’t want a single thing that was done to him when he came here two years ago.”
“Right,” the King drawls.
“Just because you’d do anything to keep your throne, you imagine everyone must covet it.”
“Most people do,” he says casually, studying his fingernails.
I slide a hip onto the royal desk and pull myself up to sit atop a stack of papers, never mind the King’s dismayed looks. “Sir Spencer is a rather unfortunate blend of you and me. On the one hand, forced into a marriage he didn’t want, used as a puppet by a grasping schemer.” I point to myself. “All this made easier by the fact that he was still quite shocked by the sudden death of both his parents.” I tilt my wrist, pointing at the King. “I understand he was quite…biddable in his grief.”