“Are you going to last?”
“Last?”
“Until your birthday. Until you can leave.”
My heart feels hollow. “Just lasting. I wish it were that simple.”
“Isn’t it, though? If you’re ready to go on your birthday, the Foundation can finalize your paperwork and whisk you away.”
“To where? To what?”
“So you’re not going to leave?”
“I didn’t say that.” I pull a fan from my reticule and waft air toward my chest, where beads of sweat are nestling around the vial of Glitter. “Even when I reach my majority, the Foundation’s help won’t be sufficient. The Foundation offers rehabilitation. What I need is witness protection.” I hesitate. “I need someone who can give me a new name, a new face, even, so that when I leave, no one will be able to find me.”
“Not even me?”
A twinge in my heart. “Not even you,” I say, smiling to cover it.
He clears his throat and looks away. “So you still think that man from the catacombs is the way to go?”
“I do,” I whisper, realizing that in saying so, I’m halfway to committing to my insane scheme.
“But how will you pay for it?” His face splits into a grin and he chuckles wryly. “Please don’t ask me to help you steal the Zhào jewels again. I’m not sure I’d survive.”
I laugh. “That was quite a night, wasn’t it?”
In addition to titles, pensions, and room and board at one of the world’s premier architectural landmarks, the first Sonoman King—Kevin Wyndham—persuaded board members to participate in his unusual endeavor by making gifts of historic jewels that came as part and parcel of his purchase of the palace. The particular piece Lord Aaron and I purloined—a cluster of glittering sapphires on a golden chain—is rumored to have belonged to King Louis XV’s mistress, the famous Madame de Pompadour. The Zhào family displays it rather garishly, right in the front atrium of their apartments. Lady Mei is always complaining of how gauche it is, but her comments over the years gave Lord Aaron and me just enough information—on top of our hacking skills—to steal the necklace from her family in the dead of night.
“Taking it wasn’t half so bad as having to put it back three hours later,” I say wryly. I remember the tingling of my fingers, the sweat rolling down my back as the horizon grew pinker and we were still crouched in front of the elaborate jewel case, trying to break through that final firewall before the household awoke.
“Indeed,” Lord Aaron said, chuckling. “If I’d known you were going to be such a failure, I’d have left a few back doors open.”
I ignore his faux rebuke. “You must have been furious—me bursting in on you at sunrise, demanding your assistance.”
“I wasn’t pleased to see you at that hour, I do confess.”
“I was so stupid,” I say, sobering now. “I thought I could have everything.”
We stroll through the orchard, veering away from a rowdy group of young ladies who’ve been edging closer to us. “What’s your plan now?” he asks.
“I haven’t decided for sure. But I have…potential.”
“Spill.”
“It’s illegal,” I whisper.
“So is killing the lady you’re trysting with.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“Sometimes I think perhaps they do,” he says, stopping and looking at me gravely. “I’d do something illegal to save your life; I hope you’d do the same for me.”
I let out a short, skeptical laugh. “That’s the beginning and end of your standards? What if it hurts people?” I don’t want to think too hard about that, so I clear my throat and continue. “Or the kingdom? What if it brings down the kingdom?”
“Then you leave, I leave—I imagine a goodly number of others leave—and to the devil with the kingdom,” he adds with a little more heat. “At its heart it’s only a corporation full of massively wealthy people.”
But I focus on his first statement. “You leave? How will you leave?”
“The Foundation,” he says. “I still fund it, you know.”
I stop, my slippered feet crunching on the gravel walk. “Really?”
“Ever ready with plan B.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get caught?”
“What would they punish me for? It’s not against the law.”
“It’s socially unacceptable. Which is practically the same thing.”
He shrugs. “I’d survive such a relatively small scandal. But if the Foundation is contacted by someone less able to afford its services than I was, I want them to be able to get what they need. That’s all.”
“I didn’t peg you as a philanthropist.”
“It’s possible I have ulterior motives.”
“Such as?”
He swings his walking stick and raises an eyebrow at me. “If I should one day find myself wanting to leave with a terribly handsome lad in tow, who’s tired of being a puppet in his father-in-law’s machinations, it would be most fortuitous to have an organization such as this one indebted to me.”
“Touché,” I say, tapping his shoulder with my fan. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you have such plans.”
“No, you should not,” he says with a vaguely condescending smile. After several paces in silence, he remarks, “I can’t believe he moved you into the Queen’s Rooms. He’s such a pompous ass.”
“Oh, that’s the least of what he is.” I mean for the words to sound playful, but they don’t, and a lump catches in my throat. I bend and toss a handful of pebbles into the pond. Lord Aaron stoops and grabs his own handful, though he throws his one at a time, and for a while the only sound is the gentle plop they make as they break the surface of the water.
“Are you sorry you stayed?” I ask.
“I wish I could be.”
I glance over at him, an eyebrow raised in question.
“The only thing worse than not being able to be with the one you love is not being able to even see him.”
“Do you think the time will come? After Lady Julianna’s father—”
But he shakes his head vehemently. “I can’t hang my hopes on that. That part is out of my control. I have to be happy—enough—with what I have. Then anything else I get is cream, and if nothing else happens, I won’t spend my life feeling I’ve been robbed.”
“An enviable philosophy,” I say, and I mean it. I step closer and lay a hand on Lord Aaron’s arm, itching to change the subject. “Escort me back? I have an appointment with the royal modiste.” I say the words with a lofty lilt.
“A new gown?”
“A new wardrobe. The King took one look at my gown and insisted my current fashions are unsuitable for a King’s consort.”
“Consort?” Lord Aaron says in indignation. “Did he say that?”
“Indeed.”
“Ass.”
“Indeed,” I repeat, a smile hovering at the corners of my mouth.
THE DOORS TO the salon just outside the Appartement de la Reine bang open, and it’s all I can do not to fall off the dressing stool, where I’ve been perched for over three hours, being fitted for every sort of gown one could imagine. They’ve only just started on this one, so I’m standing in little more than my undergarments, corset, and stockings, but I refuse to flinch as his eyes find me and appreciation flares to life.
“Ah. Justin,” I say flatly, and a wave of stifled laughter rises up from one side of the room.
His eyes go blank and a hint of color rises on his cheeks as he realizes he has an audience. I invited Molli and Lady Mei to sit in on the fitting—unfortunately, I didn’t select a private enough corner when I asked them to join me, and two other ladies, Rebekah and Lady Seidra, overheard. It’s a high enough social honor to be invited to attend the future Queen that they gleefully wormed themselves into the invitation as well. It’s not that I don’t like Rebekah or Lady Seidra, but being attended while wearing only rather flimsy undergarments is far less awkward when s
aid attendants are one’s more intimate friends.
At this moment, however, I’m grateful for the extra eyes. And reddened cheeks and embarrassed giggles.
“Dani,” he says in mock deference, though I can see the tension in his jaw. “We need to talk.”
I gesture wordlessly at the trappings draped over every piece of furniture in the room.
“You need a break,” he snaps. “They do too.”
“Omniscient as well as omnipotent, are we?” I murmur, for his ears only.
“Don’t you?” he snaps at the giggling group of girls, only Molli looking white-faced and concerned.
“Indeed, Your Highness,” Rebekah says, dropping into a deep curtsy.
“Most weary, Your Highness,” Lady Seidra says in a matching tone, as though they hadn’t been sitting on a settee being served tea and refreshments for the last hour. The King makes a shooing motion and the ladies scurry away. Molli pauses at the doorway and touches the corner of her eye, indicating that I should com her ASAP. She casts one more frustrated glare at the King’s back and closes the door behind her.
The King raises an eyebrow at me, and fire smolders in my stomach. The seamstresses he ignores utterly, despite the way they rush about. He never behaves as well in front of the “help” as in front of subjects. Telling, that. “Come,” he says, snapping his finger as he strides toward my bedroom.
I will not come like a dog at his snap. I remain motionless on the stool, not even looking at him. From the corner of my eye I watch him approach the doors and turn to address me, and I see the moment of confusion when he finds me not directly behind him.
“Darling,” he drawls, and gives me a half-bow. “Won’t you come rest yourself and chat with me?”
There’s really no point in resisting, but I wish I could. I join him beside the door, whapping his hip with the bare cage of one of my panniers just because. “Go ahead, M.A.R.I.E.”
The doors open before us and close as soon as we pass through.
“What the hell were you doing in Paris this morning?”
I react by glancing up at the gilded bit of buttress that holds M.A.R.I.E.’s eye for this chamber.
“Forget that,” His Majesty says, waving his hand in that direction. “I have several rooms programmed to cease recording as soon as I walk in. This is one of them.”
Fear makes my most recent snack rise high in my throat. “How…reassuring.”
“Isn’t it?” A hint of a smile reveals his amusement.
I take a moment to retrieve a silk robe from where it lies draped over a spindle-legged armchair, and I tie it tightly around me. I wouldn’t call myself dressed, but now I’m at least decent. “Who says I was in Paris?” But the indignation is false. I knew I’d get caught—there are too many safeguards on my person to prevent it. Not to mention GPS. But I left my Lens at home, so he doesn’t know what actually occurred, and now I’ll work it into my story.
“The Nav computer on the car you seduced out of the fleet captain.”
“Seduced is a strong word.” A flirtatious smile is as far as it went.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I lower my eyelids and try to appear cowed. “I didn’t want you to find out.”
His Highness raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing.
“I went to visit my old dance instructor.”
He spreads his hand out to both sides. “Because…?”
“I haven’t always been like this,” I say, gesturing vaguely at my person. Ugh! I sound like a bad cinema film! “For example, this isn’t the nose I was born with,” I add wryly.
His Majesty smirks. “Truly?”
I clasp the front of my robe to my chest as though embarrassed and nod, my eyes sliding away from his. “I was only fourteen when we moved into the palace after my father’s inheritance. Before, we lived in the city of Versailles: part of the Sonoman-Versailles culture, but only on the fringes of the actual court.”
“So you had a Parisian dance instructor—move along.”
“Patience, Justin,” I say. “You know my mother, of course.”
He snaps his mouth shut at that. If there’s anyone who despises my mother more than I do, it’s him.
“This,” I say, gesturing between the two of us, “was always her dream, and as an only child I was her sole tool to get it. So imagine her dismay when I entered adolescence, grew far too quickly for my sense of balance to keep up, and sprouted a large and rather crooked nose. And don’t even get me started on my teeth,” I add, almost to myself. The memory of my accelerated orthodontia still makes my mouth ache. “My mother practically hid me for almost two years while she used my father’s new inheritance to mold me into bait. For you,” I clarify when His Highness looks confused.
“How stupid does she think I am? I was never going to consider you,” he says scornfully. “An untitled nobody? What a waste of money.”
My cheeks don’t even redden at his insult. The class system of the court has never meant anything to me. If I had my way, I’d still be an untitled nobody. With my old nose and gangly limbs, to be truthful. The perfect features, impeccable manners, and fey grace I’m known for at court are all as much a disguise as the costumes we wear at masquerades.
But worse, to me they represent the years of subservience I showed to my mother. Pursuing her dream through rigorous and painful methods, when all I truly wanted was to be a part of the glamorous court life, fringes or not. As on the night of Sierra’s murder, I did nothing. I let life happen to me. Not anymore.
“When I was at least acceptable in my sixteenth year, I had my coming out, but I continued to train secretly in grace and poise. I needed it,” I add, letting my lashes lower as though revealing a weakness, not simply baiting his rook with my pawn.
He’s looking bored now, with his hands jammed in his pockets. “As fascinating and admittedly amusing as this all is, what the hell does it have to do with your trip to Paris?”
“My dance instructor. Giovanni is a renowned ballet teacher. My mother spent a small fortune for him to instill in me the grace of a ballerina, without the ballet. I didn’t learn dances; I learned how to walk without tripping.” It’s a simplified explanation. Hours upon hours we spent in Giovanni’s mirrored dance studio, floating from pose to pose, my instructor’s swift hands correcting every angle, every tilt, every curve, until I could strike any pose to utter perfection in an instant.
“I went to Paris to see if he might be amenable to taking up our lessons again. The kingdom’s centennial is coming and I—I’m nervous.” The lashes-lowering thing again. Nervous, ha! I have a half-hour practice routine personally designed by Giovanni that I do every night without fail. I haven’t slid back, but I know the King won’t be willing to offer me that compliment.
Sure enough, His Majesty clears his throat. “While you are, indeed, lovely—no one can deny that, least of all myself—there’s always room for improvement.”
Ah, pride goeth before stupidity. “I was hoping you would say so,” I reply, giving him a coy smile. He narrows his eyes in suspicion, as he was hoping to provoke me. “I fear I’m slipping just a bit, right when I need to be my very best.”
“You certainly do,” His Highness agrees in a stern, magisterial tone that clashes ridiculously with our ages.
“Perhaps weekly lessons for the next month or two,” I suggest. That gives me my excuse for Paris on my GPS. “We wouldn’t want the media to detect anything amiss, would we?”
He grinds his teeth and says nothing. But after a long moment, he sighs. “Send a com, then. Fetch him here.”
“Oh, that’s not possible,” I retort, perhaps too quickly. “I must go to him.”
“I don’t see why.”
“His studio,” I say, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. And back when my mother was explaining it to me when I was fifteen, it seemed so, and so I parrot her words. “The floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the barre, the teacups and books that inevitably go crashi
ng to the floor when I make a mistake. Besides, how will you explain his very presence?”
The King doesn’t like it, I can tell. And he’s trying to find something wrong with it. But he could never suspect that I have the brains—or the guts—to do what I actually intend. “I’m not paying for it,” he says, evidently unable to let this go without a final jab. “Your mother will have to take it out of the Grayson household budget.”
I offer a smile of gratitude, but inside my belly, rage is boiling so hot it must be melting the rest of my organs. “I’m certain she’ll be happy to.” Happy that I appear to be making an effort.
“Now, I believe I have a fitting to finish,” I say, gesturing at the door.
His eyes are fixed on the deep V of my dressing gown, which I’ve forgotten to clench shut, and his mouth quirks up in a crooked smile. “Yes. I think I’ll sit in on the rest of that. Just to observe, of course. I’ll go fetch your friends, so they can see how very much in love we are.”
I turn away before he can see the angry flush rise in my cheeks.
—
“ENTREZ!” I CALL distractedly when someone knocks just as a bot is putting the final touches on my hair for the Grand Couvert—a fancy dinner the King holds every week for, as far as I can tell, no other reason than because Louis XIV did. It’s an outrageous expense, and as the resident of the Queen’s Rooms, I’m now expected to sit beside him on the golden dais: a trophy on display. This is my first one, and I’m dreading it. So I’m beyond cheered to see Molli’s face burst through my door.
“I’m sorry it’s so near to dinner bell,” she says in both greeting and apology. “I couldn’t come right when you commed. Mother needed my assistance.”
I rise from the dressing table and nearly run to her to throw my arms about her shoulders. “No apologies, please. I’m glad you came at all, after the abominable way you were treated this afternoon.” Despite His Royal Snootiness sitting less than a meter from the settee full of ladies, he uttered not a word to anyone, except to occasionally criticize one of the seamstresses.