“I guess,” Saber says, slicking his hair back with a comb and a bit of water and attempting, once again, to pull it back with a ribbon.
I appreciate the effort, but he’s going to need another few centimeters before that becomes even remotely feasible.
“Will I do?”
I seize the opportunity to scrutinize him from head to toe. He does look quite fine, but more importantly, he looks like he belongs. “Stunning,” I say, allowing myself a moment of honesty.
But he apparently takes my praise for sarcasm and shoots me an exasperated look.
“I mean it.” I consider laying a hand on his arm but lose my nerve. “You’ve done a commendable job blending in. Everyone has accepted you as my secretary without so much as a second glance.”
“Except your beloved fiancé, who thinks I’m your lover.”
I’m certain I fail to keep the annoyance from my eyes. “He thinks nothing of the sort. Not truly. He merely likes to torture me.”
“Torture you?” He laughs. “Is that what that was?”
My cheeks are hot and surely bright red as I try to shove away the memory of Saber standing there, just watching the King paw at me. “What would you call it? I’m doing this, all of this, to get away from him.”
“So I gather. I don’t know why you agreed to marry him in the first place—even breaking up with a King has to be easier than all this.”
“If only that were true,” I say softly, before clearing my throat.
“I don’t…I don’t understand this thing you guys do,” Saber says, waving his hand vaguely. “I mean, I get why you live here. Free rent! And even why the first group of you lived like this. I mean, that Kevin Wyndham guy? Apparently he was crazy.”
“Eccentric is a more appropriate word,” I retort, a bit offended. “He loved the culture he created. Adored it.”
“Whatever. But after he died, why not go back to normal?”
“Normal is in the eye of the beholder, to borrow the phrase.” I fight the urge to put my hands on my hips and lecture him. “No matter how a child is raised, they think theirs is the normal life. The fact that I was brought up in silk and satin skirts, had a miniature pony cart to get about, and lived in the shadow of one of the greatest castles in all of Europe meant nothing to me.”
“You have to know you’re different, though.”
I chuckle. “It isn’t that we don’t know the rest of the world exists—with Paris not fifteen kilometers distant, we could hardly have simply not noticed—it’s just that as a whole we aren’t very interested in the rest of the world. Sonoman-Versailles is home. Our customs are home.”
“It’s just so…engrained. Everyone here seems to really think it’s great to live here. Like this. Doesn’t it feel fake?”
“It’s not fake,” I say with a wry smile now. “It’s art. We live our art.” I swallow hard and look up at the gilded walls. “You may doubt my words, but I’ll miss it dreadfully.”
“Not me,” Saber says, though his tone isn’t quite so scornful.
Nonetheless, a change of topic is in order before I make myself maudlin. “Tonight is the Grand Couvert, a big dinner, essentially. I’ve arranged for you to sit with a friend of mine, Lord Aaron. I imagine you’ll get along famously. Mostly you’ll be collecting money from those in attendance who’re due. Watch for some of the older ladies—they’re liable to tuck bills right into your breeches.”
Saber opens his mouth, and then claps it shut. I don’t give him time to recover before I sweep from the room, knowing he’ll follow in my wake.
His Highness insists on perpetuating the farce that he and I are lovesick fools, and I can hardly contend the point in front of an audience. So I paste on a grin as he pops small bits of cheese and fruit into my mouth, and simper again as he feeds me spoonfuls of dessert. I hesitate when he tips his glass of champagne toward me, then decide that getting as much alcohol into my system as I can might make the night go faster.
We’re on the third tray of desserts—after about nine courses of everything else; even eating lightly, I feel uncomfortably full within my corset—when His Majesty rises from his seat and taps his crystal champagne flute with his solid-gold spoon.
Chairs clatter and clothing rustles as everyone in the line of open salons endeavors to rise with their sovereign. I’m beyond grateful that the small handful of us at the high table on the dais aren’t required to observe this particular nicety. Instead I sit very still and stare at the bubbles in my glass.
“A toast!” the King pronounces jubilantly. “And an announcement. You’re all aware that our great nation will soon celebrate the centennial of its founding.”
He pauses as a wave of polite applause rolls through the rooms.
“The event will be attended by everyone in residence at the palace, of course, but also by Sonoma Inc. administrators from around the world, representatives from our corporate partners, ambassadors, dignitaries, and yes, even our beloved press.” He pauses for the crowd’s predictably wry laughter.
“It’s a very special time for me,” the King continues soberly, and a hush falls over the crowd. So quiet the King hardly needs the speakers M.A.R.I.E. engaged as soon as he opened his address. “But also a solemn one, as I always expected to celebrate our hundredth anniversary with my parents. Their untimely passing came as a great shock to me, as I’m sure it did to each of you, but I can think of no better way to honor their memory than to make this the most glorious celebration in the history of Sonoman-Versailles. So in their name, and in pursuit of our own joy and happiness, my beloved affianced and I have chosen to crown the centennial with the solemnization of our marriage.”
The crowd bursts into applause, and I can’t keep my head from swiveling to peer up at him, trying to figure out what he’s playing at. The centennial is in three weeks, more than a month before my eighteenth birthday. It completely destroys the timeline set by my mother—the timeline by which I’ve been setting my own financial expectations.
The King reaches out and grasps the tips of my fingers, and I’m grateful I’m wearing gloves. “I’d like you all to raise your glasses with me in a special toast to my bride of choice, Her Grace and your future Queen: Danica Grayson.” He lifts his glass high. “To the future Queen!”
The ocean itself could not have tumbled me more wildly than the wave of sound that rolls forth from the assembled court as they spew back the King’s echoed words. He’s tugging on my hand, and I realize I have to rise. My knees barely support me, but somehow I manage, and His Highness draws me close beside him.
“This wasn’t the deal,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Smile, bitch.”
And I do. Because there’s no other choice. Our glasses are refilled by circling bots, and His Majesty continues to raise his in all directions, punctuating his gestures with sips of champagne. Lift and sip, lift and sip. I try to do the same, but my stomach roils and burns, a volcano in a sea of alcohol. I have to simply wet my lips and pretend to swallow while sucking deep breaths in an effort to hold nausea at bay.
I thought I had time to spare. Instead, I have none at all, and I can almost hear each moment passing, an insistent digital beep counting down the seconds before my life explodes.
At last the King sets down his glass and makes a great show of kissing my hands before leading me off the dais and out of the salons. I try to pull away the instant we’re through the doorway, but though he drops my hand, the King’s fingers immediately find my arm. He pulls—really drags—me, and my last sight before I stagger into the King’s private office is Saber’s eyes, watching.
Then the door slams.
“Would you like to tell me just what the hell that was, Justin?” I demand, recovering myself as quickly as possible.
He doesn’t even look ruffled, never mind having just bodily dragged me into this room. He bends, looking into a mirror and fixing an errant strand of hair. “That was me foiling a secret ouster. Someone in court has private plans.
Plans I have to stop.”
“By wedding a minor,” I say cynically.
“By having the Queen’s shares active and in my corner,” he says, straightening. “The marriage was always going to be a scandal anyway, and the headache of guardianship paperwork is easily delegated to an overpaid attorney. Meanwhile, my opponents are going to call an emergency meeting the day after the centennial celebration, while the relevant players are all in Sonoman-Versailles. Ordinarily, such a secret meeting of the nobility would be impossible to arrange.”
“Secret?” I say. “Then why do you know about it?”
He turns and fixes me with a hard glare. “Sonoman-Versailles is my kingdom. I know about the meeting because it’s my business to know everything that’s happening in Sonoman-Versailles.”
I force myself not to twitch under his gaze, instead raising one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug.
“Duke Tremain has been rallying support to overthrow me. It’s an age-old story: a kingdom is created, succession rolls forth for a few generations, the kingdom thrives, the people are happy, and some bastard says, well, can’t have that. Need a good bloody war.”
I remain silent. He has a point.
“Only, these days we fight with votes and numbers instead of swords and guns.” The King flicks over a few pieces on a half-played chessboard. “He wants to replace me with that damned upstart Harrisford.”
Sir Spencer. I wonder if Lord Aaron knows. Or for that matter, I wonder if Sir Spencer knows. But he must. “One young king for another? Where’s his argument?”
But the King is already shaking his head. “A puppet. Tremain will rule through him for twenty years until he’s no longer a young king. Essentially a seamless succession. If my father were still alive…” His voice chokes off, and I feel an uncomfortable tightness in my throat.
“And you just assume I’ll support you with my shares?” I say, forcing a subject change. “I like Sir Spencer.” I raise an eyebrow at him, trying to look both calm and intimidating, but his eyes flash with a fiery hatred, and before I can take a breath he’s bearing down on me.
His hands go to my shoulders, shoving me backward so hard my head bounces off the wood paneling. Then—my nightmares made flesh—one large hand spans my throat and I struggle to breathe as his fingers tighten.
But they are not quite cutting off my air, I realize after a moment of blind panic. His fingers are higher, clenching at the sides of my jaw with aching strength, forcing my head up. “Your scheming mother left me with precious little choice but to marry you. In return, she promised to help me keep my kingdom.”
“But—”
“Shut up and listen!” he hisses, giving me a teeth-rattling shake. “I am a good CEO. A good goddamn King. I’ve planned this all very carefully, to disrupt the board’s coup while appearing to be an impulsive, lovesick fool. I’ve been planting seeds for weeks, and I will not let anyone—least of all you—get in my way.”
His hand is still bruisingly tight on my jaw, but his face softens and he steps closer, his body aligning with mine. His other hand trails lightly down my neck, rippling over my collarbones to the swell of my breasts pushed above my décolletage. “We could work well together, you know. I know you’re smart. Lord knows you’re headstrong. This engagement got off to a rocky start, but if you’ll give me a chance, I can be most accommodating.”
I try my best to squirm away, but he’s holding me fast and I’m afraid I’ll damage some tender part of me if I struggle too hard. His grip on my face is iron, and I don’t know which would break first: my jaw, or his hand.
“That said, marital bliss is not my top priority.” His fingers tighten suddenly, eliciting from me a squeal of pain. “You’ll vote with me at that meeting or I’ll transform your existence into a long and living hell. Don’t imagine your mother will save you. She couldn’t even if she wanted to.”
The tip of his tongue darts out to make a small sticky-wet spot on my neck, and I close my eyes against the violation. Then, abruptly, he releases me. He steps back so swiftly it’s almost as though there’s a hole in the air where he used to be.
“You underestimate me,” he says, and I’m so disoriented it takes me a moment to figure out where he is—back behind his desk, looking every centimeter the King he is. “You always have. Hell, everyone does. I’m nineteen, what could I know? But while you were reciting times tables, I was studying economics and statistics. You wrote stories about what you wanted to be when you grew up; I wrote analytical reports on administrative coups in multinational corporations. About the time you got your first crush, I took an entire corporation as my mistress.” He’s speaking quietly, scarce above a whisper, but every word strikes my eardrums like a shout. “I will not give up my company without a fight, and, Danica, I’ve been trained in the deadliest of corporate combat. I don’t take prisoners and I’m not particularly concerned about casualties. If you don’t want to be one of them, you’ll play the part your clueless mother has finagled for you and then you’ll stay the hell out of my way.”
I don’t flee. Not quite. I can’t bring myself to speak—I’m not certain I can open my mouth without breaking down.
But I don’t run. I pause and drop a curtsy, slow and graceful. Then, feeling the King’s eyes on my every movement, I turn and walk out of the room.
I SUPPOSE I should have known that Saber would be waiting outside the office door—the last person I want to see in this state. The sight of him shoves me over the edge, and I’m suddenly gasping for breath and blinking back tears that have no intention of staying put.
I cover as best I can. Chin high, I pivot sharply and stride toward my rooms, taking the back way, hoping not to run into anyone who’ll bother to look too closely. Those I do encounter simply incline their heads and return to a quiet glass of port by the fire. I finally reach the small hallway that will take me through Saber’s bedroom to the back entrance of my own. I hear his feet behind me but don’t stop to look.
I tap out a pass code on the petals of an inlaid wooden rose, then peer into a lion’s eye for a retinal scan—sneaking out of the Queen’s Rooms is far easier than sneaking in—but finally the system allows me entrance and I hold the door open for Saber to slip in with me; then I turn and stride away, assuming he’ll get the message not to follow.
“M.A.R.I.E.,” I order as I walk, “clear my private chambers, please. Close the doors and bar them. I don’t wish to be disturbed again until morning. Not even by the King.” Especially not by the King, but that isn’t something one can explain to a machine. Not that anything I say to M.A.R.I.E. will actually stop him, I suppose, should he take it into his head to come calling.
As I work my way through the maze of small chambers behind my much-larger bedchamber, I ponder what sorts of hacks I might employ to escalate my credentials above those of the King, and how long I could prevent the IT department from locking me out again. For all her excellent AI, M.A.R.I.E. doesn’t reason. But her passivity has limits, and there’s an art to knowing how far those limits can be stretched. Want to hack into the King’s private bedchamber? It might be possible, with an advanced degree in machine intelligence. Less interesting windows and doors are generally susceptible to simple key cracks and well-timed denials of service. But barring entrance to the King? I’m not that good. And since I was pulled from my programming classes the day I was betrothed to the King, now I never will be.
For now, at least, M.A.R.I.E. has obeyed my commands and the bedroom is empty, the main doors shut tight. I slump into the chair at my dressing table and say quietly, “Hair, please.” A bot whizzes up and starts pulling pins from my high coiffure. My whole skull aches, and even though I think my hairstyle softened the blow against the wood paneling, the spot on the back of my head still feels bruised and tender.
Closing my eyes, I allow myself to slump over, the boning in my corset digging hard against my belly, leftover tears leaking from my eyes. After a few minutes, I hear a soft whir as the bots finish their task and
back away, waiting to be summoned again. But I’ve no energy to stir.
I knew my encounters with the King were growing steadily more violent, but now I see it’s much worse than that; he’s getting comfortable. Comfortable with me as a person, yes, but also comfortable with our situation. To hear him talk, you’d almost think he wanted to marry me.
Three weeks. Just a little less than three weeks. I try to tell myself that if my funds and clientèle continue to grow, I can possibly pull it off. But it seems hopeless.
“Are you okay?”
At the sound of Saber’s voice, I sit up ramrod straight. “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to gather up what might remain of my dignity, meeting his gaze in the mirror instead of straight-on.
“You didn’t send me away,” he says. “And you seemed…in distress.”
I shake my head at his words, wishing they meant anything. That he didn’t despise me and merely tolerate my presence because I’m an assignment from his employer. I take up a linen cloth from the table and set to work repairing my streaked face as best I can, trying not to look like I’m merely covering up the evidence of tears.
“Did he hurt you?”
“His existence hurts me,” I say dryly.
“Let me—” Saber takes a few steps forward, and I stiffen. He pauses, but when I don’t rise he takes a few more steps, then drops to one knee beside me.
I don’t look at him. But I can’t ignore the gentle touch of his hand on the very tip of my chin.
“I can see his fingers on your neck.”
The observation enrages me, and though I know it’s irrational even as I do it, I push him away and rise, my skirts swinging about in a circle at my feet as I put distance between us. “I’m not your concern.”
“Any person with finger marks around their neck concerns me.”
“You despise me.”
“I wish I did; maybe this whole thing would be easier.”
I stand there, my breath too short, hair tumbling down my back, with nothing to say. Thoughts whiz through my head, but I can’t slow them down enough to pluck a single coherent one out. He steps closer.