Glitter

  It was a convenient storm of circumstances, really. Sonoma Inc. made its fortune and fame in 2036 by ending a worldwide famine caused by a plant disease that spread uncontrollably and killed nearly every type of grain on Earth. Sonoma’s agricultural labs were the first to engineer seeds that could resist the blight. Which, of course, netted a tremendous fortune when every country in the world wanted its product.

  Enter France, on the brink of economic disaster. France offered to sell the Palace of Versailles only when it came down to a choice between preserving its landmarks and feeding the French people because of said famine. And Sonoma needed something to do with all that profit. But the company hid its intentions by using a puppet corporation—the Haroldson Historical Society—to complete the purchase, luring the powers that be to grant them full sovereignty. The French government had been, unquestionably, utterly deceived.

  Sonoma likes to point out that we paid full market value for the place and saved France’s economy—which is technically true. But we did it through trickery and at the expense of one of France’s most prized landmarks. I find the grudge entirely justifiable.

  My car pulls into a quiet street on the very edge of Paris, scant kilometers from the palace, where there are several shops a bit more friendly to us Louies. A nearly identical black sedan is waiting at precisely the location I specified, at exactly the moment I requested. I have to give this criminal credit for his ability to follow directions.

  My car pulls to a stop alongside the other, and I emerge just far enough for its occupants to see me. Instantly, the vehicle’s rear passenger door springs open; within, I spy a set of knees clad in dark pants, but that’s the only view I’m afforded of the man I paid ten thousand euros to meet.

  When I slip into the confines of the sedan and look up at a masculine face, however, I feel a melting within my chest. His hair is a dark brown, and his sea-green eyes belie the obvious Asian skin and features. His brows are high and sharp, his form lithe and slender as he lounges like a great cat, one arm draped over the back of his rear-facing seat. Something in his eyes, no, his very presence, makes my spine rubbery with the strange feeling that I’m not quite safe, and a thrill of tingling excitement bursts to life in my stomach. Before I can move, before I can even speak, the door closes on its own, the man nods, and the car pulls slowly forward.

  I’m not certain what to make of this person. Even sitting in the car he’s tall, but then, so is the King. This person is a different kind of powerful, a kind I’ve rarely encountered. He’s lean, but with corded muscles that even his too-large shirt and suit jacket can’t hide. His hair falls across his cheekbones—unfashionably short in my world—and his eyelashes are long, longer than my own would be without their usual enhancements. But he’s…so young. I expected an older man, and what I get is this figure who’s probably younger than the King.

  And I want…I suppose that’s it, truly. I want. Want to slide nearer and brush that hair out of his eyes and see if his skin is as warm as it looks. Want to feel whether the power that radiates from his body is a matter of clothes making the man or something…deeper.

  Oh.

  I force down the inconvenient and ill-timed wanting; what I do here will determine my future. I meet his eyes, even if only through my semitransparent veil, and try to get hold of myself. His eyes blaze with an anger that I don’t understand. He hasn’t said a word, clearly waiting for me to speak first. It’s a move I know well and use frequently. But I’m not in charge today. I’ll be forced to begin.

  Even as I make the attempt, my voice catches in my throat. I clench my stomach muscles—a motion he couldn’t possibly see even if I weren’t tightly laced into my stays—and lift my chin to try again. The illusion of confidence is far more important than actually possessing the feeling. Yet another mantra from my dance instructor. I stall for a moment and use the time to peer up at him through my veil as I compose myself. He can see my face, but I’m reasonably certain he can’t make out the fear in my eyes.

  “You’re punctual, that’s appreciated,” I say in French. The words come out barely above a whisper. My heart is racing in my chest and I’m complimenting his punctuality?

  He says nothing.

  “I meant what I wrote in my note. I’m prepared to discuss an opportunity that I think will be immeasurably profitable for both of us.”

  He steeples his fingers and leans forward as though listening intently. A move calculated, I’m certain, to make me feel at ease. But it appears forced, and instinct raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

  I fight the urge to lean forward myself—to close the distance between us. To feel his breath on my face and—what is it that draws me to this…criminal? For of course that’s what he is—a dangerous criminal. I pause at that thought. Is it the danger? That sort of foolishness certainly occurs often enough in the romantic novels I’ve read. Is that what’s happening here? But no. If I were attracted to dangerous fellows, I’d be throwing myself at the feet of the King. Is it because I have, on some level, considered becoming a criminal myself?

  I study him closely, and a prickling sense of wrongness wriggles through the haze of attraction. He’s young, yes, but I’m hardly one to question youth. His dress is a touch sloppy—or at the very least, not personally tailored—but what I’ve seen of Paris has suggested to me that this is the norm rather than the exception. Still, there’s something…

  “You’re not who I asked to see,” I say, forcing my voice to flow out utterly calm: a sea of glass.

  A slight widening of the eyes is his only response.

  “I must speak with the person in charge of this operation. That’s clearly not you.” I give a graceful gesture at his figure with a swirl of my wrist that takes some of the sting of the insult away. I hope. Though a large part of me is simply glad he’s not who he was pretending to be: a drug lord.

  “Did you expect a court dandy in fancy clothes, then?” he says. In French for certain—but not with a native accent.

  I take a moment to inhale his voice, which is deeper than I’d anticipated, and with a hint of gravel. “Your clothes tell me nothing, sir; it’s in your eyes.”

  That makes him angry. But it’s true. His eyes are fire and rebellion, and the head of this sort of operation would have need of neither. Running a successful business, even an illicit one, fills men’s eyes with confidence, satisfaction. This person in front of me longs for more in life.

  It’s a feeling I can well understand.

  “Are you going to take me to your employer, or have we both wasted our time?” I ask, pinning him with my eyes.

  “I have no employer.”

  “We’re going to mince words, then?”

  I note a telltale twitch at his jawline. Without breaking eye contact, he mutters, just loud enough for the Nav computer to pick it up, “Take us to him.”

  I’m not the least bit familiar with the streets of Paris, so I don’t bother to look out the windows and try to guess where we’re going. I’ve put my life in this man’s hands, and at this moment, I feel it. Anything could happen and no one in the world would know if he slit my throat and tossed me into the Seine. My fingers tremble as I clench them in my lap, and I’m struck by how stupid it was to put my trust in people who deal in illicit wares. But soon, sooner than I’d have guessed, the car stops and the young man climbs out. A figure in black takes his place.

  And my long-fractured world explodes into dust.

  “Look who we have here,” he says, amusement floating on his voice.

  Liberté. The light is better here than it was in the catacombs, so this time I can read the word tattooed on his neck. Inside, I feel like I’ve been knocked over by an ocean wave and am trying to figure out which direction is up, which direction means air and light and life. For a few seconds I hold very still, looking at—though not truly seeing—the man’s face.

  The younger one slides back into the car from the other side, seating himself next to the man I first met in my soj
ourn to the catacombs. I wonder now if they were both there that night too. If the young one was one of the faces in shadow; if his were among the scurrying feet.

  If he was the one who cut the satin laces on my corset.

  A steady heat rises to my cheeks.

  The young man gives a whispered order, and the car pulls away from the curb. Only after I’ve counted to twenty in my head—twice—do I trust myself to speak without shouting.

  “I suppose I ought to say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, monsieur, but I don’t like to lie.”

  In response the blackheart laughs heartily, shamelessly, then doffs his hat, and I see his face clearly for the first time. “If you don’t mind my asking,” the tattooed man says once the sedan is driving along smoothly, “I told Saber not to bring you unless you specifically asked to see me—how did you know?”

  Saber. Odd name. “It seemed an obvious ploy,” I reply, not elaborating. Especially not in front of Saber himself. The spark of attraction makes me at least attempt to avoid offending him.

  “After our encounter in the catacombs, I didn’t expect ever to see you again,” he says. “And I admit, I only accepted this meeting out of sheer morbid curiosity. What could the shimmering diamant of Sonoman-Versailles’s costume-court want with a peasant such as myself?”

  “I didn’t know it was you, did I?”

  He smirks. “No, I think you did not.”

  Already wearied by this man’s uncouth manners, I hold up one of the patches I took from my father yesterday. The man silences himself at the sight, though he continues to smirk. Annoyingly. “Now, Monsieur…?”

  “Are you seriously asking my name?”

  “You know mine.”

  “Everyone knows yours.”

  I lean forward, forcing myself to remain calm. “I did send you ten thousand euros. And you know I have every intention of conducting further business with you in the future.”

  “S’pose it can’t hurt,” he says after a long pause. “Reginald. Friends call me Reg, so you may refer to me as Reginald.”

  I don’t react. “Tell me about the patches. What are they, exactly?”

  “Papaveris atropa.” He reaches into his jacket and removes a very small vial filled with what looks like finely ground silver dust. “That’s what the chemists call it, anyway. The newest thing in…street pharmaceuticals. So new most of the media hasn’t even gotten a sniff of it yet.”

  “Really?” I ask, not hiding my skepticism.

  “How do you think we got it past all the sensors in your palace?”

  That would explain it—if he’s telling the truth. “They don’t even recognize it?”

  “That’s right. Totally new. But it’s going to blow the others out of the water. A complex blend of opiates and gengineered belladonna, processed for transdermal delivery. Directly to the skin,” he adds when I blink uncomprehendingly. “It induces bliss like heroin but leaves you conscious, and with most of your wits. Truly top of the line, for the more cultured consumer.” He shakes the vial so the substance inside catches the sun and throws bits of light around the car. “This is ten thousand euros’ worth.”

  “So little?” I ask, not managing to hide how breathless it makes me.

  “A little goes a long way,” he replies with another smirk. “But you can sell it for four to five times my bulk cost.”

  The numbers start ticking in my head again. “Addictive?”

  “As hell.”

  “Hmmm.” I’m not entirely happy about that, though Reginald declares it as if it were a selling point. Still, how bad can it be? I stare at the tiny vial of powder. “It must have a name. A simpler one, I mean.”

  He grins, showing teeth that are crooked and far from white. “On the street we just call it Glitter.”

  I DIDN’T EXPECT him to send me home with the vial. Yes, I’d given him the price of that surprisingly small amount of Glitter, but in my mind I’d already written off the expense as bribery. Thus my standing in the palace gardens an hour later with no idea what to do with my illicit prize. I peer into the glass canister, where the tiny silver crystals catch the light of the afternoon sun. So much potential—when it was an idea it was nerve-racking. Now that it’s a physical thing, and in my possession, I’m terrified.

  “Danica?”

  Startled, I clench the vial so tightly I immediately fear it’ll crack—which makes me emit a tiny shriek and loosen my grasp.

  “My apologies,” Lord Aaron says, giving me a chagrined bow.

  “None of that,” I say, forcing the muscles in my face to slacken as I stride over to kiss him on both cheeks, keeping my fingers out of sight until I can slip the vial down the front of my bodice. One of the oldest hiding places available to a lady—still marvelously effective. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but if I tell him, it feels as though I’ve made my decision and there’ll be no going back.

  “How are you?” Lord Aaron asks, his hands on my shoulders, our cheeks nearly touching. “With the move and everything, I mean. We haven’t had a chance to talk since the other night.”

  My instinct is to check around us for listeners, to angle away from M.A.R.I.E.’s unblinking eyes. But then, that’s the reason I chose to walk in the orchard as soon as I returned from Paris: no such worries here. Robotic assistance remains just a few blinks away, but I feel safer outside the walls of the palace. An illusion, perhaps. I never noticed the omnipresence of surveillance before. Now that I’m hyperaware, it truly feels inescapable.

  Lord Aaron offers me an arm and I grasp it genially. We walk in silence for a few minutes, our direction most definitely taking us farther from the palace. In half an hour I’ll have to return for an “emergency” appointment with His Royal Fussiness’ personal modiste, but for a few more minutes my time is my own.

  Not that I mind sharing it with Lord Aaron—the only soul in Versailles who knows I’m trying to leave. Who’s helping to make it happen, even now. Some knights appear on white steeds; mine rides bejeweled heels with satin laces. The morning of Sierra’s death, I fled to Lord Aaron the instant my mother let me out of her sight, and told him everything.

  Everything.

  He didn’t react with disbelief or even horror—only grew silent as pensive concern lined his face. “It sounds to me like you need to get out,” he’d said in his soft, calm voice.

  “What are the chances of that?” I replied—grumpily, I’m sure, as my tears had finally dried and I found things no better than before, with the added indignity of puffy eyes and stuffed sinuses.

  “High, perhaps.”

  That got my attention. “How?”

  The conversation that followed was unexpected, to say the least. I’d heard of the Foundation for Social Reintegration, of course, since they manage to sneak protesters into the palace a few times a year—self-righteous vandals, mostly, with a vague “social justice” ax or two to grind. They’re a joke among the residents because they’re always going on about breaking our chains and escaping our captors, as though courtly life at Versailles Palace were a punishment rather than a privilege. We don’t even pay rent. No one is a captive in Sonoman-Versailles.

  Or so I thought.

  But sitting there that morning, listening to Lord Aaron, I realized that was exactly what I was: a prisoner, wearing chains forged not of steel, but of circumstance.

  He spoke of the Foundation’s charitable arm, explained how it primarily helps ordinary Sonoma Inc. employees when they lose their jobs and discover they have nowhere to go and little money to spend, thanks to their corporate citizenship and the unfavorable exchange rate between credits and euros. Then Lord Aaron revealed that the Foundation had even agreed to help disentangle him from Sonoma with his personal wealth intact—in exchange for a generous donation, bien sûr.

  “Why would you want to leave?” I asked. Lord Aaron had always seemed enamored of palace life.

  He shrugged. “I feel stifled here. Have for years. I wanted to…to explore what the world ha
s to offer. To meet someone. I adore you and Molli, but…”

  “Then go on a trip. Go to America and bring back a handsome Yankee boy and dress him up in satin and lace. Why leave forever?”

  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m no longer so sure.”

  “But you were.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “And the Foundation has dedicated experts working with them—they know the bureaucratic hurdles, they can handle the red tape. It was a way to completely extricate myself from Sonoman-Versailles without sacrificing my fortune. Without sacrificing the lifestyle that I, personally, would rather not do without.”

  I had to smile at that. As loyal and adventurous as he can be, Lord Aaron is soft. I couldn’t imagine him so much as washing his own tea dishes, much less laboring for a living.

  “So when I turned eighteen and received full control of my assets, I started those wheels turning.”

  It was almost too much to take in. Except that he was still in the palace. “What changed your mind?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Sir Spencer?”

  He shrugged and smiled sadly.

  “But I don’t have any assets. And I can’t simply leave—I’ll have to hide.” Of that I felt certain: if I were to walk away from Versailles before my eighteenth birthday, Mother would find a way to claw me back. The only way out of this arranged marriage was to disappear. For that matter, as a witness to his crime, the only way for me to be safe from the King would be to disappear forever.

  That, the Foundation couldn’t manage—in fact, while I remained underage, they couldn’t even get me out of Sonoman-Versailles. But they had referred Lord Aaron to a contact they sometimes used to perform…special extractions. Enter the esteemed Reginald.

  “The room isn’t so bad,” I say with a tight smile, finally answering Lord Aaron’s inquiry after my well-being. “It’s only the most elegant boudoir in the palace. That softens the blow some.”