Glitter by Aprilynne Pike
This is apparently correct, because the crowd perks up.
Lady Medeiros takes control. Of the women, of the crowd, of the entire situation.
Of me.
I don’t protest when she peels the thick robe from my shoulders, exposing my barely hidden chest, and though she glances skeptically at my already-donned silk corset, she doesn’t comment. Gabriella picks up the brush and pulls it through my long hair as Lady Anaya takes my hand and begins rubbing a sweet-smelling lotion into my nail beds. Apparently I’m to do nothing for myself, and that’s why the crowd was so disapproving when I tried.
As they work, the women fill the air with inane chattering about the latest spat between Duke Lancel and Lady Grey—all in French, mais bien sûr. So naturally do they gossip that I find myself wondering why I’ve never heard of Duke Lancel and Lady Grey, shortly before I realize that they don’t exist. Whether rehearsed or improvised I can’t tell, but this is a play—a farce, truly, a show of casual, girlish fun so far from the truth it strains credulity.
Our audience behind the railing, where I doubt anyone can hear even one word in ten, is rapt.
When Lady Medeiros pulls the sleeves of my shift off my shoulders, it’s all I can do not to jump and pull them back up. Not even the lowest-cut gown I’ve dared wear in public reveals so much. I blush fiercely enough to feel it, and the audience murmurs with delight; through the chatter of my attendants, I swear I hear a tourist remark approvingly on my “unfeigned innocence.”
I want to murder them all.
In swift, efficient movements, Lady Medeiros diffuses scented rose water onto my chest and shoulders, then pats me dry with a linen cloth. It’s the most humiliating luxury I’ve ever experienced. I’m relieved when Lady Medeiros replaces my sleeves and pulls me to my feet, grinning at me with a severity that I belatedly realize means I should be smiling too.
I acquiesce.
The women drape gown after gown across the bed, layering them with a few accessories, waiting for me to choose one. I try to focus, to do my best, but all I really want is to cover my near-nakedness and get these people out of my room.
Still, a Queen must dress like one, and for all I remain seventeen, unwed, and untitled, Queen is the role I’m playing in Versailles these days. So I select an ensemble of colors, fabrics, and accessories that will best enhance my finest qualities.
I simply do it with great haste.
Lady Medeiros tosses the emerald-green robe à la Piémontaise over my head, and the smooth satin hisses down over my shift, armoring me at last against the intrusive gaze of the audience. My fingers toy with the texture of the tiny embroidered detailing all around the bodice, and I stand straight so she can fasten the closures in the back.
“It doesn’t fit,” Lady Medeiros hisses, close to my ear.
“It most certainly does,” I argue out of the corner of my mouth. “I wore it last week.”
“It’s five centimeters from closing.”
Of course. “You haven’t tightened my corset.”
“You slept like this?”
I turn and give her what I will later consider my first Queenly staredown.
Her throat convulses, but then she nods. “Turn. I can pull the laces through the open back.”
As she yanks on my corset laces, squeezing my already-confined torso down to my accustomed measurements, the women across the railing titter to one another, doubtless commenting on what they see as nothing more than masochism for beauty’s sake. Lady Medeiros grumbles that she has to pull the laces so hard they tear at her delicate fingers, but I feel the world click into rightness as the boning of my stays digs into my abdomen, pulling everything back together. Soon my waist is small enough to fasten the tiny hooks down the back of my gown, beneath the ornamental cape that falls from my shoulders.
“I changed my mind about the hat,” I announce as soon as the final hook is set. “I’ll take that one.” I point at a wide-brimmed bonnet designed not for luxury or decoration but for actually shading one’s face from the sun. It’ll require a simpler hairstyle—hardly more than a loose, over-the-shoulder braid—cutting the duration of my torment by twenty minutes at least.
Lady Medeiros reads my mind and casts me a sly smile that communicates her approval.
Once my hair is bound and my hat affixed, each of the three ladies takes turn after turn adorning me with smaller accessories. Far too many: a watch pinned just above my breast, a chain of delicate white gold around my neck, a row of lace tucked carefully into my low neckline—not awkward for anyone, that move—a bracelet, thin leather gloves, teardrop pearl earrings, a brooch on my hat, two more for my silk shoes, a ring big enough to be worn on the outside of my glove, a sash about my waist. Finally, another spritz of rose water and then the three ladies—I suppose I must call them ladies, girlish as they are, since each has more than ten years on me—adopt a posture of attention, brimming with anticipation.
Of what?
“Kiss their fingers,” Lady Medeiros hisses at me.
This I remember. A Queenly tradition for more than just the lever. I step forward and offer each lady my hands, palms up. They place their fingertips in mine and I raise their fingers to my lips and kiss them quickly, and as I release them, each woman drops into a deep curtsy, her skirts a perfect circle around her.
They stay low, their heads bowed, until I kiss Lady Medeiros’s hands and she joins them in their subservient position. As soon as she does, the room bursts into applause, and it’s all I can do not to flinch away from the din.
Without so much as glancing at their audience, the ladies rise and file out the back door—the very one through which the infamous Marie-Antoinette made her fabled escape, so many centuries ago. I’m not sure what exactly I’m supposed to do, but in a fit of improvisation, I follow them.
As soon as the door closes behind us, the false smiles are gone and Lady Medeiros heaves a sigh of relief, rubbing at her fingers. “We all expect double pay for that circus.”
“My thanks” is all I manage in reply, but I know she hears the acquiescence in my voice. I have no idea how difficult it will be to wrangle extra credits from the King, who has given me exactly enough control over my finances to maximize his convenience and my dependence, but I’ll probably manage.
Satisfied, my erstwhile attendants traipse away, down to the less-gawked-at lower level of the palace where they all, no doubt, reside.
“You were worth triple,” I whisper once they’ve gone.
IT WAS ONE tiny clause that France had hoped to use to revoke the sale of the Palace of Versailles and its grounds when the true identity of the Haroldson Historical Society was revealed. I once looked up the exact wording in the archives; France’s contract had included an obligation to “restore, maintain, and display the Palace of Versailles as a museum of the French Baroque.” The archives included a formal letter from France insisting that the newly installed King of Sonoman-Versailles fulfill the contractual obligation or return the property.
King Kevin Wyndham, the great-grandfather of my current fiancé, replied that of course they would be displaying the palace. “Why,” he wrote in flourish-heavy script, “would I spend billions to renovate a historical landmark if I had no intention of showing it off?”
Thus we have our Wednesdays.
One day a week, the Palace of Versailles is open to the public. Meaning that we, the palace’s regular inhabitants, are also open to the public.
Not our private apartments. Well, not the typical citizens’ private apartments. As I’ve been so rudely reminded, the suites of the King and Queen—or not-yet-the-Queen, in my case—are fair game. We’re separated from the masses by velvet ropes and are welcome to ignore or indulge their attentions at will. But we must be appropriately garbed, eschew uncamouflaged electronic devices, and speak French.
France tried to argue that one day a week wasn’t sufficient display, but the original King Wyndham had already tripled the number of viewable rooms and added to them pe
Wednesdays always infect me with an acute case of cabin fever. Except for the more famous walks through the palace gardens, most of the extensive grounds are off-limits to tourists. So for as many Wednesdays as I’ve lived in the palace, weather permitting, I’ve retreated to the outdoors as soon as possible. I’m rather a keen shot at croquet as a result.
Today, my first Wednesday as Queen, everyone apparently wants to be seen speaking to me, so each time I try to get out of doors, I’m waylaid. I pride myself on a fairly slow-burning temper, but by the time afternoon rolls around, my fuse has grown quite short. Molli has been kind enough to stay by my side, but she can hardly keep others from me. A baroness I don’t dare offend has been yammering at me for almost a quarter of an hour with naught but the occasional nod to spur her on, when I sense more than see someone turning in my direction at the end of the hallway.
And nearly sputter in panic.
Saber, cloaked—wearing a feathered cap, even—strolling down the corridor as though he belongs. I can’t tear my eyes from him and am certain that everyone else is the same. Likely all the tourists who buzz around us as well.
“Baroness Sunderly, I’m so sorry,” I say, cutting her off and not even turning my head in a pretense of looking at her. “It appears I’m needed. By the King,” I add, invoking the almighty K word to shut her up. I pull my arm away from Molli even as her fingers grasp at me.
I pivot on my heel, my silk skirts flaring in a circle, and walk as quickly as possible toward him. His expression is amused as I approach, and I can hardly believe he’s nearly smirking over this utter catastrophe. As I draw near, my arm darts out and I grab his shoulder and turn him about to walk beside me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
But rather than answer, he twists away from my hand, stands in front of me, and executes a courtly bow, with his hand outstretched, a trifolded, sealed parchment in his fingers.
I’m so stunned by this gesture—commonplace in the palace—that for a moment I forget what to do. Tiny beads of sweat are forming on my brow, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, deafening me to the noise surrounding us. Instinct plays its part, and my fingers reach out of their own accord to take the parchment. For just a moment he resists, and when I tug harder he whispers, “Calm down,” in a tone that somehow simultaneously both demands I do so and puts me oddly at ease. Which I certainly need; I’ve already said too much while wearing my Lens.
I look down at the seal. Not only do I not recognize it, but it looks…fake. I break it anyway and open the parchment.
Take me someplace we can talk. S.
A note from Saber. My cheeks flush hot in sheer pleasure, and the flutters in my heart are for an entirely different reason now. I call myself an idiot in my head in four different languages as I fold the parchment again. “For my father, of course,” I improvise. “Right this way, monsieur.”
I turn and collide with Molli, who must have been standing directly behind me. I haven’t committed such a clumsy act in at least a year. I’ve got to regain control.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter to Molli. “Business for my father.” I expect her to be staring at Saber with the same rapt fascination I did upon our first meeting, but she scarcely acknowledges his existence, just looks at me oddly.
“Cover for me?” I whisper, though the request barely makes sense. It’ll keep her here while I deal with Saber; that’s all I need.
I blink rapidly, trying to locate my mother and hoping she isn’t in the family quarters. Thankfully, my Lens tells me she’s decided to head to the great luncheon that’s laid out every Wednesday to make up for the loss of serving-bots to bring meals to individual quarters. My stomach growls at that thought—I missed breakfast, thanks to the great lever débâcle.
I steal glances back at Saber as we stroll down the north hallway. He was deliciously gorgeous in his otherworld clothing, but since I was raised in Baroque culture, our style is apparently my preferred mode of dress even for non-Sonoman citizens. What was masculine and appealing is now devastating and magnetic. His breeches cling to lean thighs as he walks, and his fitted waistcoat highlights the subtle triangle from hips to shoulders. I can’t make myself look higher than his neck when my cheeks still feel so flushed, but I can feel his eyes boring into my back and can quite easily imagine the light green surrounded by dark lashes.
Within minutes we enter my father’s study, and I’m surprised to find my father upright and fairly alert. Saber nods politely but says nothing, and I favor my father with my best smile. “Might we borrow your study for a few moments? Alone,” I add when he doesn’t stir.
My father looks at Saber for a long moment but silently acquiesces and treads down the narrow hallway to his bedroom.
“You’re going to use this as your safe room?” Saber asks before I can turn fully back to him.
I hold up a hand and hurry to the bathroom to pop out my Lens. “Always better to be cautious,” I say, coming back and dabbing at my cheek with a handkerchief. “But we should hurry. I’ll have no warning of my mother’s return now.”
Saber nods. “Reginald thinks your idea is brilliant.”
“Truly?” I ask, warmth spreading through me both at the compliment and at the gentle roll of Saber’s voice.
“He suggests an oil-based cake-type makeup and sends word that powder won’t work.”
Ignoring the odd sensation of discussing cosmetics with a man, I simply nod. “We can do a cake foundation, a rub-on rouge, and lip gloss, then.”
“You’re sure you want so many types?”
I nod. “Variety is important. It must seem exclusive without being boring.”
He only shrugs in response. He removes a piece of paper from his pocket, and I draw near as we discuss the profit margins for the bases, the price of the Glitter, and a few branding suggestions. “This room should be perfect for blending,” Saber says, looking around. “I’ll bring you a mini–inversion plate that can accommodate a 250-milliliter beaker, which is all you should need, and—”
“No, stop,” I interrupt. “You can’t possibly intend for me to create the cosmetics here. I’m not a scientist.”
But Saber’s already shaking his head. “Simple mixing, I assure you. It can barely be called cooking, much less science. The bases melt easily; you add the Glitter, pour it into miniature pots, done.”
“Why can’t Reginald send me completed product?”
“Cut your profits in half, for starters,” Sabers drawls, as though he understands how important the money is to me and despises me for it. The sting I feel at his disapproval hurts more than it ought, and I try to swallow it back. “Reginald’s actually giving you a significant discount to hide what he’s doing from his regular Glitter people. He doesn’t want anyone else to know about this new method of distribution just yet. Also, he thinks it’d be easier to send supplies into the palace on your person; you’re way less likely to be searched than a large, mysterious package.”
I knit my brows and look around the room. “You’re certain I can manage this?”
“Trust me,” he says, reaching into his pocket and removing a tiny black canister with a dab of sparkling red paste about the size of a euro coin inside. He flips it through the air to me. It looks like a fancy sample from a high-end cosmetics company. “Reginald’s had me testing all night.”
I look up at him now, and only once I’m consciously looking do I see signs of weariness in his face. “I’m sorry I was the cause of your suddenly working so much overtime,” I say, very much meaning it. I only got the missive off to Reginald via cou
“It’s what I do,” Saber says, but he won’t meet my eyes. Perhaps sleep-deprived grumpiness is the reason for his cold treatment of me. But then, what was his excuse before?
“This is perfect,” I say, looking at the cute little pot. “It’s tiny and looks quite exclusive.”
“If you can come up with a name, Reginald will have labels made.”
“Can’t we just call it Glitter?”
“But that’s what it’s called on the street.”
“Still, it’s such an innocuous word. And in a completely different form from the patches Reginald peddles. No one would note the correlation. Besides, it would prevent me from slipping up in conversation.”
Saber just shrugs. “I’ll check it with Reginald. I think that’s everything.” He looks down at his list. “You should go so that this meeting looks as though it were between your father and me. Send word when you’re ready to meet in Paris again to pick up supplies.” He turns his back, fully dismissing me, and I try not to feel rejected.
Now my work truly begins.
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS’ contemplation, I choose red.
Once I’ve determined the color, the rest follows easily: a gown from Marie-Antoinette’s personal fashion book, crimson lips, ruby ribbons in my hair. I’ll twine them up in the back, with cascading curls in front that bounce by my face and flirt with the bare skin above my décolletage—early seventeenth-century hair, a faux pas to pair with a dress from the other end of the Baroque (doubly so on a Wednesday), but only slightly more daring than the monochrome ensemble I have in mind. A single color for a single purpose: tonight I must strain propriety.
Assuming I can find a way to get myself dressed at all.
When I get back to the Queen’s Bedchamber after a long walk to calm my nerves, it still hosts a milling crowd—if smaller than the one that greeted me upon waking.
A crowd, and no bots.