Shatter

  This is partly down to the limits of miniaturization. I visited M.A.R.I.E.’s server bank once: rows upon rows of obsidian obelisks that function as the brains of the palace, kept cool and sterile in the basement levels. The Mainframe for Autonomous Robotic Intelligence Enhancement includes that E for a reason. Through the miracle of wireless communication—our second C—it makes our devices “smarter” than they could ever be on their own. Everything, from the bots that help me dress to the doors through which I walk, is monitored and adjusted by large, bulky pieces of tech, which just happen to be somewhere else.

  Of course, the bots and keypads and tiny actuators that operate doors and windows can’t be somewhere else—that would defeat the purpose. In comes the third C, camouflage: LED displays that mascarade as paintings and microphones concealed in objets d’art are essentially unnoticeable. Earrings and necklaces mask transceivers for use outside the palace; even personal tablets can be wrapped in cases giving them the appearance of leather-bound books.

  “As a result of the three Cs, it’s easy to forget the technology is there at all. But that’s one thing we absolutely cannot allow ourselves to—am I boring you?” I ask when Saber interrupts my monologue with an exaggerated yawn.

  “No, no,” he says with a grin. “Talk about what you like; the sound of your voice is enough for me. I just don’t want you to think you have to explain every tiny thing.” He shrugs. “If you say we need to walk through the orchard, I believe you, and I’m happy to walk through the orchard.”

  I suppose it was a far longer answer than he expected when he asked why I took off my earrings. Still, Saber’s casual lack of interest in the monitoring technology that’s always at the top of my list of worries is baffling. Not for the first time I wonder if I’ve been oversold on the virtues of security in Sonoman-Versailles; Reginald seemed to have little enough difficulty spiriting me away, after all. Not to mention delivering boxes of drugged cosmetics and resetting Saber’s countdown. I still don’t understand how he does it.

  On the other hand, who’s to say how much worse things would be now if I hadn’t maintained vigilance against surveillance in the past?

  So—the orchard it is, for the long walk I promised him last night.

  “After last night I want to be as honest as I can with you, Saber,” I say as we stroll along the wooded paths. “I’m going to destroy him.”

  “The King?” he whispers.

  “No. Well, him too. But those plans are sketchy and don’t affect you much. I mean Reginald.”

  Saber stops in his tracks and I have to pause and turn around. “Don’t do it,” he says. “You don’t understand. If he catches the slightest wind of the idea that you’re after him, he’ll make you wish he’d just killed you. It’s…that simple.”

  I raise my chin. “It used to be that simple. Now I’m the Queen.”

  “That won’t stop him. You’ve seen him ignore your palace security with impunity. People, Glitter, it doesn’t matter—he can get it in and he can take it out. What makes you think a new title gives you better protection?”

  He’s not wrong, but I can’t let it deter me. I can only let it make me more vigilant. “This is why I don’t want you to know anything. To protect you.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “You will if he suspects you’re in on it.”

  Saber doesn’t answer because he knows I’m right. It’s at moments like this that his utter lack of freedom feels so large it pushes everything else out. “I told you what you could do to help me,” he says so quietly his words are barely audible.

  “And I told you that I need more time,” I say, citing the only response I was able to give him when I returned, exhausted, from the meeting with the high nobility. “Look at it this way,” I add. “Ultimately, the goal is to break up the Glitter ring that Reginald runs. Isn’t that a noble cause?”

  His sardonic look tells me he’s not buying it, but I forge ahead anyway.

  “It would help if I knew more about Glitter,” I say, changing the subject as I take his arm and start our slow stroll again. “Where does it come from? How is it made?”

  Saber sighs.

  “Come on. I could have asked you months ago—what would you have said, if you weren’t trying to protect me now?”

  “That just asking those questions is liable to get us both killed, or worse,” he grumbles.

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  We walk in silence for several minutes and I’ve decided he’s not going to answer, when he says, “It was stolen. Some research scientist working on the next big painkiller got greedy—saw the potential for street pharm. Wanted to make some money without waiting for regulatory red tape, so he hooked up with Reginald.”

  “Where is he now?” I whisper. But I think I already know the answer.

  “Dead. Once the product was completed and Reginald found a way to get the ingredients without his help, the guy became a liability instead of an asset. He was removed,” Saber says, as simply as though commenting on the weather.

  I swallow hard, but I have to ask. “Did Reginald make you do it?”

  “The scientist? Of course he did.”

  The air squeezes from my lungs but I try to hide it. I don’t want Saber to think it’s disgust. It isn’t. Not for him, anyway.

  “So without the scientist, who makes the Glitter?” I choke out.

  Saber ducks under a branch and turns to lift it for me. “He scoops up clueless grad students from the Sorbonne. They never really understand what they’re a part of. From what little I know, it’s not complicated work. The plants are the most important part.”

  “What sort of plants?”

  Saber shakes his head. “No idea. They come from some lab—and before you ask, I don’t know where that is either. My part in the business comes further down the line.” He smiles wryly, but the expression is brittle. “You can imagine I don’t care to pry.”

  “Yes, I can,” I reply softly. But he’s given me a place to start. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Saber sighs his exasperation and starts walking again without replying. I can feel the disapproval rolling off him, but I appreciate that he’s doing what he can—and letting me make the choice.

  We stroll up the steps and into the medical center—our secondary objective—arm in arm, before he lets me go and resumes his usual place behind me. I spot the nurse who last spoke with me about my father and approach without bothering to look at anyone else.

  “How is he?”

  She looks up, startled, and gives a respectful nod of her head rather than a proper curtsy. I let it pass. “Your father? Let’s see.” She swipes a few times on her tablet, presumably looking up his chart. “Ah. He’s sleeping at the moment.”

  “I meant long-term,” I clarify, suppressing my annoyance. “Is he ready to be released?”

  “Well,” she says, drawing out the vowel, “his vitals have stabilized. We’ve been discussing a transition to in-home care, at least for a few weeks—”

  “Excellent. Nurse Kozlov, yes?” I say, reading the embroidery on her scrub top. “How much vacation time have you accrued?”

  “Oh no,” she says, holding her hands out in front of her. “I am not using my vacation time to go live in that palace and babysit your father. No offense,” she adds in a near-mumble.

  “Absolutely none taken,” I assure her. “Perhaps vacation is the wrong word. Can the clinic spare you for a few weeks of off-site work in Languedoc-Roussillon? I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

  “Languedoc-Roussillon?”

  That’s not a no. “There is a retirement community there, owned and run by Sonoman-Versailles. A vacancy has been set aside for my father, as soon as you decide he’s ready. I’d like for you to accompany him and help him settle in. I would, of course, make sure it’s well worth your time.” I proffer a thick envelope, and when
she peeks in at the brick of ten thousand euros she starts to look panicked, so I add, “You would, of course, receive your usual salary, plus incidentals. This is merely a gift of personal appreciation.”

  “I—I’m not sure that’s legal,” she whispers, but the way her fingers clutch at the envelope, I can see that I simply need to soothe her conscience.

  I laugh lightly—musically. “Perhaps not in France, but don’t forget, Ms. Kozlov, we’re in my country.”

  A smile tips up one side of her mouth and her fingers tighten around the bait. I have her. “I’ll talk to my supervisor,” she says. “And see what we can arrange.”

  “Have her com me directly if she has any questions. Saber,” I say with my most winsome smile, drawing him into the conversation—if nothing else, to abolish the air of secrecy that a large envelope of money always exudes. “Make a note to prioritize coms from Nurse Kozlov and her supervisor…?”

  “Dr. Wells,” the nurse pipes up.

  “Wells,” I repeat, beaming. “Do let me know when arrangements can be made, and I’ll connect you directly to the palace’s concierge.”

  “I—” She moves as if to return the envelope, but I make a clicking sound with my tongue and wave it away.

  “No, no. I have full confidence in your capabilities. You’ll make it happen.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Your Highness. Oh, did you want to see your father?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, tugging on my gloves and hoping the relief doesn’t show in my eyes. “Let him sleep. He has a considerable journey to make soon.”

  We’re down the steps and nearly a minute on our way before Saber breaks the silence. “That was neatly done.”

  “I rather think it was,” I say, enjoying the truth of it. “I confess I’m absurdly relieved that he’ll be out of the King’s immediate grasp. But I feel a bit guilty as well, because it takes the consequences of my own actions out of my immediate sight.”

  “My actions,” Saber counters.

  “No,” I say, turning to him. “I never, ever, fault you for his orders. Ever.”

  Saber makes a face like he wants to argue, but we’ve had this discussion too many times for him to think it will go anywhere.

  The wind blows at my curls and I swat them away, wishing all my problems were so easily dismissed. “I’m like a child who thinks she can hide by covering her eyes,” I say with a strangled laugh. “If I can’t see what Glitter can do, perhaps it won’t actually do anything.”

  “We both tell ourselves what we have to in order to live with ourselves. At least we have that in common.”

  I squeeze his arm and point toward a fountain on the far side of the green—extending our walk without appearing entirely aimless. When we finally arrive back at the palace, the gossips are buzzing because Sir Spencer and the King have been closeted in His Highness’ private office for hours.

  I choose to take my tea in the Arrière Cabinet, the space just outside the door to the King’s office. There, I’m guaranteed to be the first to see Sir Spencer emerge, assuming he ever does. Saber joins me for a light lunch, then moves to hover just behind my shoulder, playing his role as secretary to perfection. I com Lady Mei to attend me under the pretense of needing a partner for a game of piquet, but I warn Lord Aaron to stay out of sight for the time being.

  As I blink my messages away, I wish it were Molli who was joining me instead of Lady Mei. Or perhaps I wish it were the two of them. Or that I had appreciated both friendships more while it was even possible. I flutter my lashes and shove a small sandwich into my mouth to keep my eyes from watering.

  A few minutes later Lady Mei slides into a seat across from me and holds her tongue as I deal cards onto the tiny tea table. As we play—our voices masked by the swish and slap of cards—she whispers, “Lady Cynthea is still seen most frequently with Lady Giselle Maass, though you stole Lady Nuala a few months ago.”

  I let a smile hover at the corner of my mouth. “Lady Nuala is not a trifle to be stolen,” I say with a mock-loftiness that Lady Mei will appreciate. “I simply showed her Lady Cyn’s true colors and let her make her own choice.” I lift a cup of tea to my lips and sip silently. “She chose wisely.”

  Lady Mei raises an eyebrow. “She’s also been much in company with Lady Annaleigh Garcia and Lady Breya Voroman-Wills. She’s drawn them even closer since Lady Nuala jumped ship.”

  I freeze. Breya. That was her name. The daughter who was taking notes at the “party” last night. Who saw me announce my brilliant, brutal plan—and bore witness to how impressed the highest nobility was. There could definitely be something to use in the young lady. I don’t share that tidbit with Lady Mei just yet.

  And the other: Lady Annaleigh Garcia. The daughter of the Marquis and Countess Garcia. Those two were also at the meeting last night. Lady Cyn is surrounding herself with daughters of the nobility who support the King.

  I think she may discover that she’s armed herself with a double-edged sword.

  “Just…young ladies?” I ask.

  Lady Mei flutters her fingers. “Casual friendships with lords and gents. Only a fool would flaunt the fact that she’s the King’s mistress and then allow other men into her more intimate circles. Though it would be lovely if she were, Lady Cyn is no fool.”

  “Unfortunately not,” I agree ruefully as Lady Mei takes my trick.

  We’re on the second hand when the office door opens and Sir Spencer emerges. Before the door shuts fully, I catch a glimpse of His Highness, still sitting at his desk, scribbling on his tablet with a feathered stylus.

  Sir Spencer is pale, his already light complexion drained of color, but as his eyes meet mine, I catch something in them I haven’t seen in months. A year. Maybe ever.

  Hope.

  I let myself smile just enough for him to see it, and he gives me a wan smile in return before blanking his expression and striding resolutely away.

  The King took the bait.

  I glance up at Lady Mei and wink, then lay a high trump and take her best pointer. At this moment I feel unbeatable.

  I DON’T KNOW what to expect from my private dinner with the King. Saber was…irritated isn’t quite the right word, but his agitation began fraying on my nerves as I prepared, and I finally had to send him off to his room.

  This also gave me a chance to ask the dressing-bots to tighten my corset. I need to be utterly in control of myself this evening, and my boning holds me up—holds me together when I can’t do it alone. Saber doesn’t understand; I’m not sure he can. Even now, as I glide down the lightly populated hallways, I revel in the pressure circumscribing my midriff.

  By the time I walk into the King’s lavish private dining room, drenched in jewels and wearing one of my finest gowns—satin battle armor, truly—the entire palace is alive with rumors and speculations. After Sir Spencer emerged from the King’s office but spoke to no one, I sent Lady Mei to listen to all the suppositions and report back. I can’t help but feel a sense of pride that not a single one comes anywhere close to what I know to be the truth.

  The King has his back to me when I enter, and when the doors clang shut behind me, he speaks without turning.

  “Interesting developments today.”

  “I imagine so,” I reply.

  “As part of our negotiations I, of course, had to ask Sir Spencer who it was he’d been seeing.” He pivots and walks toward me, a glass in each hand and eerie warmth in his eyes. “You told me the morning of the vote that I wouldn’t want anyone to think I specifically prohibited Lord Aaron from attending. I hardly had the mental space to consider your comment at the time, and decided it would be best that no one in the court thought I was prohibiting anyone from attending the vote. So I ordered him released.”

  He hands me one of the glasses and I take it, but I say nothing, nor do I take a sip. I only stare.

  He smirks. “You helped me. Nothing stays s
ecret forever, and if their affair had come to light soon enough, and Lord Aaron had still been under house arrest, I could very well have been suspected of defrauding the shareholders. A new vote would have been called for.” He pauses and drinks, his expression growing serious. “With a cloud of suspicion hanging over me, a second vote would likely have gone the other way. Why did you do it?”

  “I wanted Lord Aaron released.”

  But he’s already shaking his head. “There were easier ways. You thought that particular strategy through. Why?”

  I gesture airily with my glass. “You’re trying to find a hidden agenda where there was none, Justin. With the information you learned today, you couldn’t think he voted in your favor. Perhaps I was working against you.”

  “Not if you were considering the long term. And I get the feeling you’re considering everything in the long term these days.”

  Damn Reginald! If not for him, long term wouldn’t be anything I associated with Sonoman-Versailles, much less its illustrious ruler. But I wave my gloved fingers dismissively. “You want me to admit that I knew it was in your best interest? Fine. That doesn’t mean it was altruistic of me. If you had the choice of being married to the King or married to a disgraced, thrown-down ex-King, which would you have chosen?”

  He laughs at that. “You really are your mother’s daughter,” he says, tipping his glass to ting against mine.

  “Take it back,” I hiss, before I can think better of it.

  He pauses, frozen with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Oh, that’s right,” he says, returning to himself. “Even death doesn’t bring forgiveness to that woman.”

  “How was your meeting with Sir Spencer?” I walk over to the long, formal table that is the central feature of the large room and stand beside the place clearly designated for me. The one not at the head of the table. A bot wheels forward to pull out my chair and scoots it firmly beneath me as I sit.