“Excuse me?” I nearly shriek, pulling my hem back and away from his hands.
But he only looks up at me with impatience. “Should I give you my bag instead? So you can carry your miniature drug lab into the palace on your shoulder?”
Oh. It’s some kind of pouch, then, to fasten under my skirts. Still. “I’ll do it,” I say, holding out my hand for the fabric.
“Oh, so you’d like me to hold your skirts up waist-high so you can reach beneath them with both hands.”
My face flames so hot I have trouble drawing breath. He has a point, but admitting that means I must let him…
“This is ridiculous,” I say, turning my head away and lifting my hem perhaps halfway to my knees. “Watch yourself under there.”
His only reply is a snort.
He does a decent job, his gaze decidedly vacant as he reaches under my gown, hands barely skimming my thighs, then carefully securing a Velcro strap about my hips, just below my tight bodice. It’s the work of less than half a minute, but my insides explode with butterflies at each intimate brush of his fingers, and by the time he withdraws his hands, I feel I might very well swoon.
The belt is heavy with my supplies, but they hang balanced on either side of my hips, much like my panniers, and so feel almost natural. I step back and forth a few times and admit, “This will be fine, I think.”
Saber says nothing else, and I’m turning back toward Giovanni’s when he grabs my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. “If you don’t listen, you’ll wish you had,” he says, and the calm in his voice belies the strength of his grip. But I don’t sense anger. More like desperation. He almost looks…scared? “You seem to think you’re dealing with something that’s a happy cross between alcohol and sleeping pills.”
I open my mouth to protest, but can’t say anything because it’s actually a good articulation of precisely what I thought.
“Glitter’s going to send them flying because they’ve never had anything like it before, and they’ll be begging for more. As long as you make sure no one gets too much, you should be fine. Remember what I said—it’s plenty strong; better too little than too much. If you ever suspect anyone of getting close to the truth, threaten to cut them off. Trust me, losing their fix will be the strongest threat you can make.”
Like with my father. I pull at my arm again, hard enough that Saber realizes how tight he’s holding on and releases me. I clear my throat and straighten my hat.
“And try to limit them to one container at a time.”
“Why? Variety sells.” Between lipstick, foundation, and rouge, I’d rather hoped to sell several doses at once, in the interest of front-loading my income.
But I suppose if they were to apply multiple kinds of Glitter-infused makeup, they’d be taking an instant double or even triple dose. My heart pounds as I realize that Saber has just saved me from a simple, stupid, possibly deadly mistake. It must show on my face, because he relaxes—not entirely, but enough that I notice.
“Looks like maybe I’ve finally gotten it through that pretty head of yours.”
I’m not sure whether to be complimented, insulted, or simply shocked.
“Better too little than too much,” he repeats.
I think I nod. He spins away with hardly a sound and turns the corner so gracefully I could believe he vanished into thin air—might even convince myself he’d never been there at all.
I SET MY hands at my tightly bound waist, drawing courage from the deep, stiff curve I find there. My new bot tightened my corset to its preset measurement this morning, and once again, it wasn’t enough. We managed another full two centimeters before I felt prepared to tackle this soirée.
Everything’s ready.
About half of my new gowns were delivered from the royal modiste just this morning, so I’m as decorated as the room in an oh-so-innocent pink satin gown with candy-floss feathers sprouting from my coiffure. My eyes are fully lined in black—the feminine equivalent of war paint. I’ve learned, and not only from Lady Mei and her exquisite talents, never to underestimate the power of cosmetics. And isn’t that sentiment apropos today.
I can’t help wishing Saber could see me like this, instead of in the drab getup I’ve worn to Paris both times. Or the hastily chosen outfit from Wednesday’s lever, the day he snuck into the palace. I can’t seem to banish him from my thoughts—to whittle him down to nothing more than a gear in Reginald’s oily engine of crime. The look in his eyes, the way he grabbed my arm so desperately…the more I think about it, the less I can attribute his apparent distaste for me to a simple cultural divide. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if he simply hates his job—but if so, why continue?
A knock sounds from the doorway and I nearly jump out of my skin, but it’s only Lord Aaron and Molli, arriving early at my behest. I’m grateful for the distraction. I don’t need moody green eyes on my mind right now.
“Come in, come in,” I say, beckoning. I close the door quickly behind them. We have only a few minutes, but I don’t want anyone who might be loitering outside to see the elaborate décor until I’m ready for the unveiling.
The throne room is draped in white and rose silk with bunches of fresh flowers tied at every ruche. Tall crystal candlesticks grace every table, and I ordered the use of the palace’s nicest set of tea china. Miniature spoons lean against the edges of twenty-five gold-rimmed teacups, and fine tungsten strainers balance on top.
Lord Aaron takes my hands and air-kisses my cheeks an instant before gushing his appreciation. “It’s divine, Danica. You said you were going to outdo yourself, but this is incredible!”
Molli rushes to the tables to observe the tiny delicacies I’ve ordered, which are décor as much as the actual decorations. Delicate cake pops with curlicued swirls of ivory fondant and pale pink buttercream frosting, tiny macarons in four shades of pink, two raised platters with hundreds of white-chocolate-drizzled cream puffs in perfect croquembouches, a three-tiered tray of miniature cakes with frosting piped to make them look like tiny wrapped gifts in an array of pastels, a veritable mountain of iced marchpane, and a nod to the gentlemen in the form of an oak board filled with ham-heavy petites quiches, assorted cheeses, and charcuterie.
“I won’t be able to eat any of this, Dani. It’s too pretty!”
I glide over and lean close to her ear. “I’m assured it tastes twice as good as it looks. I was hoping you two would fill a plate before the rest of the guests arrive,” I say. “That way, no one will feel awkward, being the first.”
Molli has always loved sweets, and the standoffish look she’s giving the confections melts away instantly. “If you insist,” she says, feigning reluctance theatrically. Having Molli here makes everything feel better and worse at the same time, and dwelling on that too long only makes my stomach upset.
“I do, but just a moment,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her close to Lord Aaron so we stand in a tight triangle. “I have one other favor to ask.” I try to sound friendly rather than terse. But terse is how I feel—wound like a spring, ready to pop at the slightest provocation.
As though sensing my distress, Lord Aaron takes one of my hands—bare, as I haven’t yet donned my elbow-length gloves—and rubs my fingers for a few seconds, then raises them to his lips and brushes a kiss across my knuckles. “Name it,” he says softly.
“Wear some of my new line of cosmetics?”
Lord Aaron raises an eyebrow at that. His clothing is always fine and in exceptional taste, but even in a culture that caters to fops and the effeminate—regardless of their sexual orientation—his makeup, when he wears it at all, is tastefully understated.
“On your lips, or your cheeks. Not too much. I’m assured there’s historic precedent,” I add, though that’s an exaggeration at best. I haven’t asked anyone—I’m making assumptions. But if anyone checks up on me, I’ll forget who it was who told me it was acceptable.
Fortunately, glitter as an adornment reaches back into prehistory, an
d brand loyalty is already a feature of the cosmetics trade around Sonoman-Versailles.
“Very well,” Lord Aaron says, with a light grin.
“Here,” I say, retrieving two special pots from my reticule. One is the lipstick I’ll wear for the next few months—the one I wore for the ball last Wednesday. Both are made with costume glitter, not Reginald’s narcotic. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. In fact, Lord Aaron is ever the indulgent sort; given the truth, he might well opt to try the real thing. But I can’t give it to them, not after seeing my father. Not after Saber’s warning. Hopefully, when I pass the spiked cosmetics around, my friends won’t feel the need to reapply. I still don’t think the small doses I’m giving everyone else could possibly be that harmful, but with these two, I don’t want to chance anything.
“Glitter,” Lord Aaron says, reading the sticker on the pot I’ve just handed him. I was pleasantly surprised that Reginald provided a subtle, elegant font for the label. I feared a gauche, glitter-enameled name in Comic Sans.
“Fitting, I think,” I say with a smile.
A few nights ago, under the pretense of visiting my father, I set everything up in his office. It wasn’t very difficult; the inverter hot plate melted the cosmetic bases in less than a minute, and the scale worked beautifully to measure out the tiny doses of Glitter. So small were the doses that most batches of makeup required additional costume glitter to achieve the right look.
It was odd to look at the little pile of Glitter sitting on the scale. “Better too little than too much,” I muttered to myself. Easier said than done. Less than in a spoonful of sugar, such as one might add to a single cup of tea, and it was literally hundreds of doses. The mathematician in me is impressed by the sheer profitability of such a substance.
The most time-consuming part was using the pipettes to carefully transfer a mere two grams of the liquid mixture into fifty empty makeup pots. It seems like such a meager amount, but Saber suggested that the ideal dose to sell is a single week’s worth. If anyone would know, he would.
The guilt has set in, sharp and cutting as an actual blade. I truly did consider my endeavor as a matter of simply giving a harmless high to the lords and ladies of the court and fleecing them for the cost. And it will be for only a few months at worst. But Saber’s warning, and his disdain, have been holding me back like invisible hands, and though my path is clear, I struggle to move forward.
With a forced smile, I paint Molli’s lips the sparkly red that matches mine and let Lord Aaron apply just a touch of glittering rouge to his cheeks at the small mirror by the closed doors. When he tries to hand his back, I suggest, lightly, that they both keep the little pots I’ve given them.
“You’ll be toasted as trendsetters by the end of the week,” I say with a wink. “Now shoo, the both of you, and get food.” With lips and cheeks ashine, they acquiesce, Molli with an adorable giggle so perfectly happy and innocent it makes my heart twinge.
About a minute after I’ve commanded M.A.R.I.E. to open the doors, a hovering footman announces Lady Cynthea Lefurgey. It’s a delicate balance, being on time without being early, and I’m sadly unsurprised that she strikes it well.
I am surprised, however, that she chose to wear red. Not the best color against her auburn hair, but a gorgeous ensemble clearly designed to outshine my own outdated red dress from the assembly last Wednesday. As lovely as it is, she now clashes rather terribly with the pink décor.
“Lady Cyn,” I say with my most demure smile. “So very pleased you could attend. And your sister.” I drop a perfect curtsy and trust that Lady Cyn will be paying close enough attention to realize I aim my bow only at her sister. Her younger sister.
The flush at the top of Lady Cyn’s cheeks tells me she noticed.
“Please,” I say, gesturing, “give your wrap to one of the bots and help yourself to refreshments.”
Lady Cyn says nothing, just turns toward the chaises and settees forming a large semicircle around the actual coronation throne I’ve had dragged forward and draped with white satin and pink bows as my own seat of honor. An eyelash’s width from truly over-the-top, but I think it works. Lady Cyn’s little sister, who currently outranks me, drops an unnecessary curtsy before scurrying after her horrible sibling. By the time I turn from her retreating back, there’s a line of six guests waiting to be greeted.
The younger brides of various board members follow behind Lady Cyn, then a handful of nobles’ daughters nearer my age. There are three other gentlemen—including, of course, Sir Spencer, for Lord Aaron’s sake. I’m unsurprised when the two of them bunch together, and I suspect they’ll be inseparable for the duration of the soirée.
Lady Mei arrives in the middle of the crowd, and I squelch the guilt that sprouts within my chest at the sight of her. I opted against bringing her early with Lord Aaron and Molli—she’s just so notoriously indiscreet. I have to draw the line somewhere.
None of this lessens the ache as she blows me a kiss over her lace-clad shoulder and turns to squeal over the miniature macarons.
Lady Giselle barely glances at me as she completes her greeting and goes straight to Lady Cyn’s side like a magnet, but Lady Nuala pauses to grip my hand. She leans forward and whispers, “I must apologize again for my behavior at the assembly. I know you must have realized what was actually meant to happen.”
I raise my eyebrows, insinuating agreement without actually saying anything.
“I considered it later, and you were absolutely right. Even if you had been more embarrassed by my…my actions, it would still have reflected badly on me. I should never have agreed to a scheme from which I had nothing to gain.” Her face is red, and I don’t dare glance at Lady Cyn to see if she’s watching us.
“Indeed.” I hold her stare but let a firmness slip in. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been so used. I recall another encounter with Lady Cyn.”
Lady Nuala’s face drains of blood until her cosmetics look garish on her ashen skin as she plainly remembers that awful day. “I should not…I should not have—”
“No,” I say, gently now, letting her a little off the hook. “Despite a certain lady’s opinion, one cannot tell someone’s potential by their current court ranking. An enemy can be quite expensive.”
“I will remember, Your Grace,” she says in a whisper.
“Very wise,” I say softly, squeezing her fingers. “A young lady who continues to show such wisdom will always be welcome in my circles.” She smiles with naked relief, and I can’t help but feel I’ve made a sort of conquest. I catch Molli’s eyes as a shaken Lady Nuala leaves me, and she returns my secret smirk.
Fifteen minutes pass before a soft chime dings through M.A.R.I.E.’s camouflaged speakers, signaling the arrival of all the guests. The doors automatically swing shut, barricading the intimate party inside. We all find our seats, and I beckon to one of the bots to bring in its silver cart, laden with delicate teapots.
“Please eat,” I say, gesturing at the lovely food as I take up the hostess role of pouring and distributing the tea.
When everyone has a cup, I glance up at the clock. Half an hour of food and drink. Then I’ll bring out the cosmetics. Half an hour to change my mind—to send everyone home after a relatively uneventful tea party with fabulous appetizers.
It would be enough.
I don’t have to do this.
My teacup clicks against my saucer, and I tighten my grip to stop my fingers from trembling.
What if I don’t? I’ll be stuck fending off the perverse sexual appetites of a sadist with no one to hold him in check. My mother assures me knowledge is my best protection; that forewarned is forearmed. But is it truly? Once the vows are spoken, the nuptial contracts signed, I’ll be his wife, but that won’t be the end of my mother’s plotting.
I’ll be an adult by that time, of course—I could seek an annulment, or file for divorce, or just say no. I could use the Queen’s shares and build an alliance against the King instead of for him. But the
moment I refuse to cooperate, I become a loose end. When I first fled Versailles I was afraid, but I didn’t yet fully appreciate the complexities of blackmailing so powerful a person. Whatever precautions my mother has put in place, I have no reason to suppose that they will work to my benefit. And once we’re married? Then what? How can a murderous King possibly be good for anyone in the kingdom? No one would be safe from that kind of power.
She has a tiger by the tail, but I’m the one staring up at his fangs. This is the only way I can restore myself as mistress of my own fate.
Though I raise my warm teacup to my lips, I don’t drink. My stomach is too nervous. Hopefully no one will notice. That’s what the food is for—a gourmet distraction. The chatter in the room rises at exactly the time I expect it to. Tummies are full, blood sugar is elevated, and the enjoyable part of the party is beginning.
Now or never.
I tap the edge of a crystal champagne flute with a small sugar spoon and wait patiently for the roomful of guests to turn to me. Once they do, I open my mouth, then freeze, petrified by the reality of what I’m about to do. Damn Saber and his sinister warnings! But my eyes find Molli’s smiling face, and somehow I remember to breathe, and like snow melting under the warmth of the sun, I can move again.
“Thank you so much for coming today,” I say, in the same voice I use for the King. The voice that says nothing in the world could give me more pleasure than being right here, right now, doing exactly what I’m doing.
My lying voice.
“I have one more little treat for everyone. Nothing too extravagant, I’m afraid,” I laugh. “But so many of you have been asking me about it that it seemed shamefully impolite to keep it to myself.” Apart from Lady Cyn, in fact, no one has mentioned it at all, but perception is reality. “I found a Parisian who imports the most delightful cosmetics—better than anything I’ve ever used before. And they have such lovely sparkle! Fortunately, glitter goes back forever, so I can wear it whenever I like. Even on Wednesdays.”