I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“You understand, then, why I couldn’t allow him to remain at your side. Oh, one more thing,” he says, leaning down so his mouth is close to my ear. “You’ll be pleased to know that, owing to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding your mother’s death, safety protocols have been revised—no more unmonitored offices in the residential areas of the palace. A life could have been saved. Alternative arrangements will be made to ensure the business privacy of our noble board members, of course, but we’d hate to have a repeat incident.”
What he doesn’t say is that he knows Saber and I have been spending many hours alone in that unmonitored space. He assumes he knows what we were doing there.
That’s not where we did that.
“We wouldn’t want anything to happen to your surviving parent, would we?” His last words come out in a growl, and I understand that this is a threat. And not an empty one. If my father were to die, the King would lose nothing; my father’s shares and votes would pass to me, and the King—already assigned as my guardian and taking it upon himself to authorize my otherwise illegal underage marriage—would wield them. “Consider yourself under lock and key,” His Highness says in a whisper.
We’ve finished our circuit of the large room and are approaching the group of loud, tipsy men again. My entire body is numb, and it’s only my hand tucked into the crook of His Highness’ arm that keeps me moving forward at all.
“You must join us in a toast, my pet,” His Majesty says, pushing me toward the center of the circle and effectively ending our private conversation. “They got in a case of Henri Jayer Cros-Parantoux—five thousand euros a bottle, and that a bargain, I’m assured.”
The men around him chuckle.
“Here,” he says, putting a tiny silver goblet into my gloved hand and closing my fingers around it, seeming to understand that I’ve grown too numb, too frazzled, to grip it without assistance. “To us.”
I take the small glass of outrageously expensive wine without a word, and in one gulp, I toss back an ounce of liquid worth nearly six pots of drugged cosmetics. “Indeed,” I say, whipping out my fan and fluttering it over my chest as my throat begins to burn. “This has been enlightening.”
I leave without a backward glance.
TONIGHT IS THE last fête before selected press members descend upon us tomorrow, and the King has requested that we give an informal performance of the elaborate dance we’ve been practicing for three weeks. The one we’re supposed to perform for all the cameras tomorrow night. The one that made him realize he truly does want me for his Queen.
The one I taught Molli.
I know my face must be going back and forth between being flushed with mortification and white from despair, but I can’t seem to get hold of my emotions tonight.
As the music plays, I can feel the oily weight of His Highness’ eyes on me—mostly the part of me below my shoulders—and it’s all I can do not to flee the hall. Finally, we strike our last pose and His Majesty comes forward, clapping his hands. He grabs me tight and forces a kiss on me.
“My Queen in nearly every way,” he declares to a smattering of applause. “How glorious it’ll be when you’re finally fully mine,” he says, for my ears only. His fingers tighten on my bodice, a centimeter below my breasts, and a groan of want rumbles low in his throat.
The King finally lets me go and leads me to the high table, where course after course of delicacies is placed before me. I try to eat—I know I’m going to need my strength—but even the desserts can’t tempt me.
The champagne, however, goes down fine.
“Of course I’m delighted,” I say, beaming at yet another noble as I walk through the crowds once the meal is finally complete. I couldn’t say which noble; they’ve all become a blur, and when this one moves on and a new one steps in front of me, I notice nothing until he shakes my arm hard.
“Danica, are you okay?”
My eyes must have been completely out of focus, and I’m uncertain for how long. “Lord Aaron,” I say in a whoosh of a sigh. “Take me for a turn about the room? I fear I’ve had more to drink than I realized.”
“Certainly.” Instead of offering me his arm, Lord Aaron places a firm hand at my waist, steadies the nearly empty flute of champagne in my hand, and steers me rather defensively through the milling crowd toward the balcony doors on the far end of the Hall of Mirrors.
It’s a small balcony, and I’m not sure coming here was a great idea, but Lord Aaron says something to the other two occupants sotto voce, and they drop quick bows and leave. Then Lord Aaron turns his back to the warm, overfilled hall and shields his hands as he pulls out a small wireless keypad and fiddles with it.
“That…should…do it!” he says, pocketing the keypad as the sliding double doors hiss shut and lock with a click. “M.A.R.I.E. will figure it out in about ten minutes, but—”
“Ten minutes is a godsend, Lord Aaron, thank you.”
“You don’t look well.”
I laugh. “You certainly know how to ingratiate yourself with a lady.”
“I know how to be honest with a friend.”
That sobers me, and I nod. “You’re right. Is it obvious?”
“Probably only to me.”
“Or Molli, if she were here.” I shouldn’t have said her name. Instantly I’m blinking back tears.
“Or Molli,” he whispers, raising his own glass, which has a splash of port in the bottom. “May she know how well she was loved.” He tings his glass against mine and we both take a sip. “Where’s Saber?” Lord Aaron asks, staring out at the cloudy evening sky.
“Arrested.”
“Arrested?” Lord Aaron asks, his voice far louder than mine, and I have to shush him. “For what?”
“Carrying an illicit substance.”
“Illicit? Not…” He gestures at the smear of Glittery rouge at the top of his own cheekbone. He’s probably shut off M.A.R.I.E.’s microphones as well as hacking the door closed, but we should keep our voices low anyway.
“Not precisely, no,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But similar. The important part is that the charge might be legitimate.”
“Who spilled?” Lord Aaron asks.
“Who else? Lady Cyn.”
“Shall we ruin her?”
“I haven’t the time.” Though, sadly, this move of hers may mean I now have all the time in the world. His Majesty’s plan has derailed my own more thoroughly than he can possibly know. I suspect he thought himself clever, cutting off the room he assumed Saber and I were trysting in. But despite Lady Cyn’s malicious tip, I don’t think the King actually knows the true nature of the Glitter. With the patches in his security staff’s possession, it may only be a matter of time, but clearly what he’s concerned about is my running off with a paramour—not escaping via a fortune in dirty money.
Still, since the King has reinstated the monitoring in my father’s rooms, even if I had Saber to help me, I’ve no way to make more product. Nothing to sell. And still half a million shy. Besides which, the thought of leaving Saber is killing me.
“I’m short my fee,” I confess to Lord Aaron with a quavering voice.
“Your fee?”
“To the man in the catacombs. And without Saber, I can’t…make it up.”
Lord Aaron nods; then his eyes widen as he puts the pieces together. His jaw drops open and he stares at me for long seconds. “You’ve been…this—” He points at his cheek again, then straightens and laughs. “You’re brilliant.”
But I shake my head. “Not brilliant enough. Not brilliant at all, really. Just desperate. And not without”—I choke on the word and have to clear my throat—“without consequences,” I finish in a whisper.
“Oh, Dani,” Lord Aaron says, softly, but with a terrible edge of understanding. “What have—”
“Please do not ask me,” I interrupt, my voice so wobbly the words barely get out. “There are secrets so dangerous one shouldn’t
even confess them to the dearest of friends.”
He hesitates, then whispers, “Like, perhaps, that one is in love with a newlywed nobleman whose father-in-law intends to use him to usurp the King?” Lord Aaron’s face is utterly devoid of amusement. “Only to be two days too late to save my dearest friend from a hellish marriage?”
So Lord Aaron knows. That means Sir Spencer knows.
“The King is aware,” I whisper.
“Of course he is. That’s why you’re getting married in two days.”
It’s to be all-out corporate warfare, then. “It’s possible my secrets are even worse,” I say with a tight smile.
“Worse than the usurpation of an entire kingdom?”
“No. Worse because if I say the words aloud they might collapse my soul, which already rivals the Tower of Pisa in its skew.”
“What can I do?” Lord Aaron asks after a very long silence.
“I don’t know. My safe place is…no longer safe. The cosmetics are in one place, and the…special ingredient in another, and I can’t get the two of them together. And I’ve only”—I glance through the glass doors to the enormous clock on the wall—“about thirty-six hours to think of something else.”
“Why think of something else when what you’re doing has been working?”
“I can’t!” I protest. “I have no product.”
Lord Aaron taps a finger against his lips. “If you did, could you make the money you need tonight?”
“I intended to convince several people to buy extra, with the excuse that I’ll be headed off on my honeymoon next week. That would have taken me above what I need.” I peer up at him from under my lashes. “The hope was to have something to…take with me.”
“Understood.” The LED on the double doors starts blinking, and Lord Aaron’s gaze flits over to it. “M.A.R.I.E.’s initiating an override; Cinderella time.”
I let out an exceptionally unladylike snort and lift the edge of my gown. “It’s always Cinderella time here, Lord Aaron.” I blink back tears; the champagne is making me downright morose. “And I suppose it always will be, now.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Aaron says sternly, “you’re giving up too easily. Come,” he adds, offering his arm as the double doors slide open. “I’m going to introduce you to the delightful world of preorders.”
The idea strikes me as something I should have come up with myself, and I groan. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’d have thought of it if you hadn’t been drowning your sorrows in quite so much champagne,” Lord Aaron says, sliding a sideways glance at me. He’s likely right. “Come; follow my lead.”
“You’re going to help me?”
“Have I ever done anything else?”
His words are so true. I’ll owe Lord Aaron favors until I’m cold and rotting in the ground. “Thank you,” I say softly, because that’s all the volume I can manage with the lump in my throat.
On Lord Aaron’s arm, I flit through the ballroom, trying my best to act the part of delighted bride-to-be—a role I’ve been sadly remiss in the last two weeks. Lord Aaron gushes about a prolonged honeymoon at an Italian villa, a tale that grows more extravagant with each telling. “Two weeks!” he exclaims to Duchess Darzi. “So order accordingly, and Her Grace’s supplier promises to deliver the day after the wedding.”
“Splendid!” the duchess proclaims, and arranges to have her fee sent to my rooms in the morning.
Everyone is caught up in the whirl of the festivities, the splendor of the invented honeymoon, and the heart-racing promise of larger quantities of Glitter; tall stacks of money are handed over almost without thought. By the end of the night, my pannier pockets are weighted down with three hundred thousand euros, with nearly half a million promised on the morrow.
It’s like accompanying a magician—Lord Aaron waves his wand of false promise and money appears. But like all magic, it’s an illusion. There will be no delivery the day after the wedding. I’ll be gone, the court will have been tricked, and though he says nothing about it, we both know I’m leaving Lord Aaron to pick up the pieces.
ON THE MORNING of the day before my wedding, I receive word that my father is severely ill. The physicians suspect food poisoning. I’d suspect the King’s hand, if I didn’t already know it was withdrawal.
The patches Saber was bringing for my father were confiscated by security, so he hasn’t had a hit in more than twenty-four hours. I don’t know what to do. I have one pot of real Glitter left in my reticule; I could go and ease his suffering some. But the best I can do is postpone the inevitable, because I’m leaving Versailles today, one way or another, and I haven’t the power to bring him with me. Perhaps Father’s being cut off is best for everyone.
My conscience is frayed nigh to pieces; months ago I asked myself if my life was worth what it would take to raise this money. At the time I said yes. Now that it’s nearly done, I’m not so sure. Is it truly worth saving your life if you lose your soul in the process? But like a cart careening down a hill, I’ve set too many processes in motion. At this point they’re being carried out with or without my cooperation.
I’m watched wherever I go, but so many wedding gifts and cards are arriving in my chambers that no one notices the thick envelopes I sneak into my pockets.
At two in the afternoon, I hit my goal.
By five I have nearly a quarter of a million euros to keep for myself.
Using the phone he provided, I send a text to Reginald to let him know I have the money. He doesn’t send a response. I’d feel inordinately better if I knew for sure there’d be someone ready to pick me up at Giovanni’s.
There’s someone around me at nearly every moment of the day, but at least the toilet is still a private event. I don’t know what to bring, and finally I settle on the jeans and shirt I used the night I tried to escape in the catacombs. My half-boots will match well enough, and no one will think it too odd that I’m wearing them, even with my more formal gown. I’m beginning a new life—there’s truly nothing else to bring that won’t mark me as a former citizen of Sonoman-Versailles. I roll the clothes tightly and scrunch them into the cage of my panniers on the left side. The right is stacked with euros. I’m as prepared as I can be and am simply waiting for the ridiculous ball tonight to be over. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, looking forward to something; for months I’ve been begging the clock to stop, to turn back. Two hours before the ball, I’m dressed and ready when Lord Aaron presents himself at my door, all smiles and low, flourishing bows.
“Your Grace,” he says, bending to kiss my hand. “I have a present for you,” he adds softly. “I think I can override the system to let you visit Saber in the prisons, and still make my way in after the soirée. If you’re game to risk it.”
My chin trembles, but I know my answer without having to think. “Of course.”
“I’m taking Her Almost-Highness on a stroll,” Lord Aaron informs a stern-looking woman—one of my new staff, who, knowing His Highness, must be trained much more thoroughly in security than in couturiery. “We shan’t leave the palace,” he assures her before she can protest.
She lets us depart, but about ten seconds after we leave the Queen’s Bedchamber, I glance back and see one of the younger new maids—even younger than me, I think—stepping through the double doors with an armload of satin, looking for all the world like she’s been sent on an errand.
“We have a tail,” I murmur to Lord Aaron.
“As expected. Not to worry.” He laughs brightly at something I haven’t said, but I don’t dare join him. My nerves are stretched tight, and any sound I made would be false and brittle.
He carries my hand in his, held formally high, and chatters and giggles all the way down one hallway and then another. The girl continues to follow us, her cheeks red as it becomes evident that she’s on no errand for the dressmaker.
“A little faster now,” Lord Aaron says as he approaches the end of a long wing.
We turn and he looks up at the
ceiling. “Blackout spot.”
“Really?” This is a new secret.
“Not always,” Lord Aaron says, confirming my suspicions. “Just for the next five minutes. Here!” He nearly swings me around another corner and into a lift waiting with its doors open. “Press B, quick!”
I hear the young woman’s footsteps, but the doors close fully before she makes it around the corner. “It’s going to be obvious where we’ve gone,” I say.
“A little faith, Dani, please.” Lord Aaron pulls out the wireless keypad he used on the balcony yesterday evening. “We’re not hiding—of course she’ll know where we’ve gone. But now she can’t follow us, can she? At least not without running to the emergency stairs on the other end of this wing, which she may or may not have clearance to enter.” He pulls a length of optic fiber from his pocket and patches it into a small opening in the lift panel. “More likely she’ll wait for the lift to return, and that’ll be her mistake.”
“Jam the lift; of course.” An elementary bit of hacking.
“Done,” Lord Aaron says, snatching the fiber back out and curling it into his fist as the doors open on the starkly modern—and thus barren-looking—basement. “This way,” he says after glancing down at his tablet, fingers flying across the surface, inputting coordinates. I recognize this as an update to his location hack—he’s telling M.A.R.I.E. that our Lenses aren’t on the grid. I suppress a twinge of curiosity—or maybe jealousy. He’s always been a better hacker than me. Ironically, I was always too worried about breaking rules.