Molli merely shrugs and peers around the embarrassingly ornate room.
A thought strikes me, and I kick off my heels and grab Molli’s hand. “Come,” I say, pulling her farther into the room, toward the enormous bed. “I want you to be numbered among the very select group of people who can say that they’ve jumped on Marie-Antoinette’s bed.” She seems reluctant in the face of the ostentatious room, so I drag her all the way through the golden gate before running a few steps to jump and flop down on the priceless brocade spread.
Molli hesitates, her eyes scanning the ceiling—looking for M.A.R.I.E.’s ubiquitous eye, I’m certain—but a smile lifts the corners of her mouth, and a few seconds later she’s sprawled beside me, her gown a velvet half-circle surrounding her legs, panniers sticking up on either side of her hips. She looks over at me, then down at her skirts, and we both start to laugh.
I take advantage of the moment to glance down and check that the vial of Glitter is still in place. Unwilling as I was to let it leave my person, it spent half the afternoon tucked in my sweaty palm, then the other half pushed down my corset and nestled in the valley of my cleavage. Also sweaty—my nerves are getting the better of me.
The appointment with the royal modiste made that a particular challenge, but though the moody designer clucked her tongue in disapproval when I wouldn’t let her so much as touch the laces of my unfashionably overcinched stays, she didn’t press the issue, so my vial was safe.
“This room is amazing.”
“It’s not like you haven’t been here before. It’s so often open.”
“But it wasn’t yours,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “M.A.R.I.E. hasn’t changed anything. Not in five years of vacancy since the former Queen died.”
“But you will, won’t you? A few things, at least.”
“Indeed,” I say. “I think I’ll tidy up my mess.”
“Be serious.”
My smile feels fake, but I’ve practiced for hours in front of a mirror and I know she won’t be able to tell. Lying to Molli is harder than lying to anyone else. Harder on me. She’s easy to convince—thinks all too well of me and would never suspect me of untruth. “Of course I will. In time.” Not a promise I intend to keep. In time, I’ll be gone.
“How are you coping?” Molli asks in a whisper, and it’s that question that nearly breaks me, sending a searing throb into the top of my throat.
“Coping is what I do.” My voice wavers, and I don’t hide it. Here, when Molli and I are together, I can drop my façade. It feels like removing a literal weight I’ve been struggling to bear all day, even if the conversation solves nothing.
“It must be quite a change, though, sleeping all alone on this enormous bed…?” Her voice drops away and she looks at me meaningfully.
“Yes, alone,” I say, answering her real question. “My mother would have his manhood stuffed and mounted for display, otherwise.” There’s something supremely satisfying about saying that with a dazzling smile on my lips.
“There are consolations, of course,” I say when Molli doesn’t respond. She’s likely shocked at my blunt words, even in privacy. “After all, among Versailles’s blissfully wed nobility, what is the most common marital complaint?”
Molli considers this for a moment, then smirks. “They’re never home,” she says, angling her chin jauntily.
“Precisely. And few keep hours as long as the King himself. There’s a possibility that I shall see him even less now than I used to.”
“Will you be lonely?” Molli’s chin is so close to my shoulder that I feel her warm breath.
While I appreciate her unfeigned concern, I can’t help but bristle at the implication that I’m in need of some sort of rescue—that my problems are so shallow as to be solved by a little company. But of course the answer to her question is yes. Yes, I’m lonely. Even in a room full of people, I’m lonely. Trapped by the people who should keep me safe, sharing a secret with those I despise.
Of course, none of that factors into Molli’s inquiry. All she knows is that I have an overbearing mother, an embarrassing father, and an unwanted political engagement to our wealthy, powerful King, which I refuse to elaborate upon. What good could possibly come of inflicting on Molli the knowledge that her sovereign lord killed not only a young member of his own court, but also a part of me? It’s not a lack of trust; it’s my own reluctance to destroy something as beautiful and innocent as Molli. Those often-trite parental words for your own good come to mind.
“Are you asking if I’ll miss my parents?” I give a self-deprecating laugh at the diversion.
“Will you?” Molli asks. “You got on well with your father, at least.”
“Well enough, I suppose. But I said farewell to the man my father used to be a long time ago. To tell the truth, leaving their home was a relief. The only part of this whole experience that has been.”
I see her swallow hard, then nod. An electronic chime sounds, and she slips off the bed and peers into the mirror on my new dressing table to see if her hair needs repairing. “I hate this faux candlelight,” she grumbles. “It flattens my complexion, which is actually one of my best features.”
“Come now,” I say, joining her and rearranging my skirts. “Your complexion is brilliant, always has been. It practically—” Glitters.
“Are you all right?” I’m not sure how long I must have been standing in silence when Molli’s voice breaks through my haze.
“Molli,” I say tentatively. “What if you had a cosmetic—a foundation, or maybe a liquid rouge—that had specks of something iridescent in it? Don’t you think that could catch even the electric candlelight and help prevent your complexion from looking so flat?”
“I can’t think the Society would approve,” Molli says, invoking the name of the committee that keeps our dress and appearance in line with historical precedent.
“I can’t see why not. Surely glittery substances have been used much further back in time than the Baroque. Why, mother-of-pearl must date at least to the Renaissance.”
Transdermal delivery. An oil-derived base.
The second—and final—dinner chime sounds, and we both look up, in the direction of the camouflaged speaker.
“I’d better hurry,” Molli says. “My parents will be waiting for me.”
Before she can get away, I stop her, grasping both her hands in mine. “Thank you for coming. You’ve made everything so much better.”
The door clicks closed behind Molli, and I nearly sprint to the small office tucked behind the boudoir. I wish I could send a com, but it’s far too risky. Instead I pull out a half-sheet of parchment and my fountain pen and glance at the clock. Three minutes. I’ll have to write fast.
Dear Reginald,
I have an idea.
MY DREAMS HAVE grown strange since I moved into Marie-Antoinette’s rooms. The only way women quit these apartments is through death, and I can’t help but wonder how long my own occupancy will last. Nightmares are nothing new, not since that night in the servants’ corridor. But lately it’s not the King whose face I flee too slowly—sometimes, inexplicably, it’s my own. And last night I saw Saber’s face too, his eyes as piercing and unfriendly as they were when we met. These dreams are uncomfortable at best, so when consciousness begins to tug me from my nocturnal wanderings, I welcome it.
As I float between wakefulness and slumber, something seems different, but I can’t figure out what. A breeze plays over my skin, tickling my leg where I’ve kicked my covers away; my thigh is bare nearly to the garter-loops of my corset. Bleary-eyed, I squint at the enormous expanse of bed surrounding me and pat about, searching for the edge of the sheet.
At my movement a ripple of hushed murmurs meets my ears, and my hand freezes.
The breeze. That’s it. There’s never a breeze. Not unless I specifically ask M.A.R.I.E. to generate one. The buzz around me takes on new significance as clarity pierces my sleep-addled brain.
It’s Wednesday.
/> Wednesdays have been a part of my life ever since I moved into the palace at fourteen. But my duties are now very different, and as I peer out beneath my lashes, I curse His Royal Highness for not specifically mentioning that, even though I’m not yet the Queen, I’m apparently expected to take over all the responsibilities of sleeping in this room.
Including the public display of the Lever du Roi, the Rising of the King—of which the Queen’s awakening has, since its inception, been the more interesting part.
They’re here in my room, probably a hundred tourists sardined into the fifty-person space on the other side of the golden rail that, thankfully, separates me from the masses. And they’re practically foaming at the mouth over their chance to gawk, to watch an underage young woman dress—a full half of the voyeurs are here for that, I’ve no doubt.
My fingers itch with rage and embarrassment as I try to figure out how to gracefully pull down a shift that’s only centimeters from exposing my derrière to the room. To the world, likely, since these days every tourist has a recording device that streams directly onto their personal but all-too-public profile.
Roll to the left, I finally decide. That’ll require me to cross the foot of the bed with no camouflaging robe at hand but will keep my shift from rising higher. The lesser of the two evils, maybe.
But first—more important than anything else—I slide my hand under my pillow and grip the tiny tube of Glitter in my fist. Contraband secured, I count to three before rolling to the edge of the bed and, somewhere in the rising volume of delighted whispers, detect a groan or two of disappointment when the white silk drops to cover my legs again. As much as diaphanous silk ever does, that is, which isn’t completely.
I pretend I don’t see them—that I’m unaware of the flash photography they were all forbidden to use when they first entered the palace—as I stride around the foot of my bed, across the thick carpeting. My guests, at least those standing in the first few rows, can probably make out my nipples where my breasts press against the confines of my shift. If it were possible for tabloid editors to feel gratitude, I’d expect thank-you coms to arrive over breakfast.
I tunnel-vision on the wall panel that conceals my personal washroom, hoping that my backside isn’t showing too plainly through the thin silk of my inadequate clothing. Much as they might wish to, not even the perverts who’ve been watching me sleep can deny me a trip to the carefully concealed water closet—a concession to modernity about which even the French government doesn’t complain.
After closing the panel behind me, I release a loud breath, halfway to a sob. It’s the only hint of a breakdown I can allow myself, or I won’t be able to stop. I hate that I didn’t think of this. I saw a lever once on the Internet, with the former Queen. Her ladies were waiting beside her bed when she awoke, ready to hand her a modest satin robe. Her hair was carefully plaited from the previous night, and thinking back, I realize she must have slept in light cosmetics in order to be presentable for the mass of tourists she knew would be waiting. She looked stunning. Beyond glamorous to a twelve-year-old girl.
Seems less glamorous now.
“We don’t have to suffer the paparazzi,” Lady Mei told me one day after I’d been complaining about our Wednesday obligations. “Not the kind that jump out of bushes and peep in your windows, at least. Ours come each Wednesday and must stay behind the ropes. It’s not a terrible deal, in the end. At least we can be ready.”
Except that I’m not ready.
“M.A.R.I.E.!”
But she’s not here on Wednesdays. Not in the Appartement de la Reine. Or, to be fair, du Roi; this is a burden the Queen and King bear together. The Baroque façade we put on display for the world once a week must not be tainted by modern trappings. No bots, no screens, no M.A.R.I.E.
I rush to my toilette table and open a large glass bowl of scented talc, an essential piece of kit for the sensitive skin beneath my corset. Deep into the chalky powder goes the vial of Glitter. Turn the tap, water, a quick wash, and then I reach for my Lens.
Who can I call? Who might have any idea what needs to be done?
I want to call Molli—especially after last night—but if she even knows the routine, she’s not an early riser. She’d have to get herself presentable before she could come and help do the same for me, and even then it might be the proverbial blind leading the blind. Lord Aaron would be perfect, but in keeping with the Baroque, the lever maintains historic gender divides. And Lady Mei? Assuming her elaborate toilette was complete enough for her to dare to be seen in public, she would instantly, and gleefully, spread my shame around the court, our friendship notwithstanding.
Damn, damn, damn!
I try to think of ladies older than me, who might have participated in the lever with the old Queen. Lady Camille Medeiros! She’s always been friendly to me at assemblies, but she’s older than she appears. And a countess in her own right. I’m certain she must’ve been invited to attend the Queen at least occasionally. I blink, activating my Lens, and hurry to the mirror so my own reflection can act as my screen for a video call.
“Call Lady Camille Medeiros,” I command. “Mark it urgent.” Even if she’s still abed, surely even a countess will answer an urgent call from the future Queen.
One, two, three, four, five, six, sev—
“Your Grace?” Lady Medeiros’s large, dark eyes appear in a tiny square in my peripheral vision.
“Lady Medeiros, I need assistance,” I say in a rush, letting my Lens focus on my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s a quick fix for certain, but it allows Lady Medeiros to see me in all my disheveled glory. “There are so many people here for—” I hesitate. I’m babbling, and I cannot afford to show such weakness in front of powerful nobility. Not now. “I need a lever,” I say calmly.
“By the looks of you, you’ve missed most of it already, Your Grace,” she says, her tone gently scolding.
“I confess, I was ill prepared.” It’s the only concession I’ll make. To say that I received no warning that I’d be taking up some of the Queen’s duties along with her rooms would reveal that I’m out of favor with the King; to confess that I needed such warning would imply either clumsiness or distraction on my part. I can afford to have the nobility saying none of these things about me, especially not right now.
But I have to give her something, because I need her. The ghost-image of Lady Medeiros being projected into my right eye is fully dressed, and if her hair isn’t as formal as might be preferred for a royal assignment, it’s at least coiffed. It’s enough. “I’m certain with your reputation at court that you waited on the Queen. You were the first lady I thought of,” I add, making a play to her pride.
“You’ll need more than me.”
“I trust your resourcefulness.”
She hesitates.
I give a bit more. “Please?” I whisper.
Lady Medeiros’s lips part and she licks her bottom lip, and I know I’ve won her over—at least for now. “Gabriella will be awake,” she finally says. “Lady Anaya, too. But I might need as much as ten minutes.”
“I can begin my own toilette,” I say. “I’ll be exceptionally slow. They won’t know the difference.”
“Don’t underestimate them simply because they aren’t wearing gowns,” Lady Medeiros says seriously. “Our lady Queen never did.”
She might as well have slapped me, and my cheeks burn hot. “Hurry,” I say, and end the call before she can see the sheen of moisture in my eyes. I shake tension from my hands and gasp for air to fight back the tears.
Five seconds. Ten. Regain control.
My long, wavy hair is tousled in what I would otherwise call sexy bed mess, but sexy is not what I’m going for today. My shift is as bad as I feared, leaving little to the imagination, but even if I were in my wardrobe instead of my washroom, where I would actually have a change of clothing, I haven’t time to unlace my corset. Perhaps with the help of a bot or two—but of course, it’s Wednesday.
So
I don the only robe in the bathroom—a terry cloth number that looks more like a towel than a part of my morning bedroom set, but better terry cloth than another gallery for the “celebrity wardrobe malfunctions” feed.
A collective Ooooh! sounds from the crowd as I emerge, eyes downcast, and I have to bite back a gag at the unfairness of it all. A simple warning that this was going to happen: “With the Queen’s chambers occupied, we must, per agreement with the Fifth Republic, reinstitute exhibition of the Lever du Roi. Vive la France!” Is that so much to ask from the man who intends to marry me? In my pique, I wonder if he did this on purpose. This seems like the sort of prank that would amuse him.
My dressing table has very few cosmetics on it—something I’ll change before next Wednesday—but enough for me to playact some kind of routine while my last-minute staff makes its way to my rooms. I perch on the edge of the dressing room table, and the murmur of the crowd takes a tone of displeasure as I begin brushing the curled ends of my hair.
Apparently, this is wrong.
Lady Medeiros was right—I shouldn’t have underestimated them. Every person in the gallery paid a premium to attend, to witness firsthand the live performance of a piece of French culture that dates back centuries, reenacted today for the first time in over five years. For all I know, there are die-hards in the crowd who spent months watching old webcasts of weekly levers.
I must be the biggest letdown.
Using the general buzz of the crowd as my guide, I put down the brush and reach for a small pot of face cream instead.
More negative noise.
I have to ignore it as I rub daubs of the white stuff into my face—the only other substance on the table is a perfume diffuser, and it’s decorative. In other words, empty. I’m on the verge of rising and retreating to the bathroom again when I hear a door open behind me and a cascade of giggling.
I turn with a cool half-smile as three thirtysomething matrons—Lady Medeiros in the lead—enter through a back door, their arms draped with gowns, hands filled with bottles, fake smiles fixed on their faces.