Glitter by Aprilynne Pike
“No, no,” I say. “A pair of riding boots would be more suitable.”
“Thank you for that,” Saber breathes when the tailor scurries off after the requested footwear, grumbling about mismatched outfits and the besmirching of his reputation with the Historical Society.
I intend to speak as I meet Saber’s eyes—to say something snarky about being a gracious taskmistress—but the genuine gratitude in his expression drives the words from my head and I avert my eyes with a blush.
It’s going to be a long two months.
“M.A.R.I.E. keeps track of us in three ways,” I explain as I lead him toward the Queen’s Rooms, several changes of fresh-fabbed livery in his arms. “Biometrics, radio tags, and audiovisual addressing. Anyone who isn’t broadcasting an authorized key to the local feed is automatically treated as a visitor, meaning they get extra attention from the audiovisual addressing. It’s easy to misdirect if you know how to DOS it with your Lens, but…” I notice that I’m getting a penetrating look from Saber. “What?”
“You’re smart,” Saber says, continuing to regard me with furrowed brow.
Unsure quite how to respond, I roll my eyes. “I didn’t dream of being a Queen when I was taking all my advanced programming classes.”
“I figured…whatever. You have state-of-the-art technology, blah, blah. Continue.”
His rudeness is jarring at best, but I soldier on. “The point is, you’re going to need this,” I say, handing him a Lens case. “The Lens is your best friend and your worst enemy. It can tell you where most anyone is, but it also keeps track of where you are—”
“I know how Lenses work,” Saber snaps, with sudden heat. “I’m from Paris, not the Stone Age.” Although Sonoma prides itself on keeping the occupants of the palace on the very cutting edge of technology, I do need to remember that the rest of the world is only a very small step behind. “Just tell me what I need to do and make sure I don’t get caught doing it. That’s all I need from you.”
I snap my spine straight at his sudden anger and push back an urge to tear up. Everything Saber says feels so personal, and for some reason the emotional shield that works quite well against people like my mother and the King has no power to protect me from his words. I nod as we pass students, pensioners, and kept spouses lounging in the rooms leading up to my bedchamber. One woman approaches to ask if she can procure a pot of rouge. I don’t remember her name but pretend we’re the most intimate of acquaintances. “At the assembly tonight,” I say softly. “I’ll have everything.”
She titters and runs off, and I swear I can feel Saber’s glare searing into my pompadour. I catch sight of Molli sitting in a chair across the vestibule, reading on her tablet. She doesn’t raise her head, but something in her posture tells me she knows I’m there and is trying to avoid eye contact. I’d ignore me too, after this morning. Still, in all our years of friendship, it’s so rarely been Molli who’s been the avoider, and it’s a sharper sting than I would have predicted. I owe her an apology. But what kind of apology can I give that isn’t packed with more lies?
Saber and I are both silent until we’re safely ensconced in my bedchamber.
“Alone at last,” Saber says, and anyone would think it was an attempt at humor if they couldn’t see the flash of bitterness in his eyes.
“Oh, we’re never alone,” I say, and before he can utter any potentially damning response, I add, “M.A.R.I.E., fire,” to illustrate my point.
His eyes dart over to the fireplace as flames burst to life within. “Then why are we here? There are…quieter places.”
“Indeed,” I say, grateful the message was received. “And we shall visit them soon. But I thought you’d like to see your lodgings first. Put away your clothing.”
His eyebrows rise a fraction as his gaze sweeps to the enormous bed.
My cheeks flush when I realize the question he’s silently asking.
“Not with me!” I say quickly. Too quickly, and now we’re both blushing. It’s not as though I didn’t try to think up something different. But I can hardly risk assigning a ghost employee to the dormitories, I’m not foolish enough to ask him to share an apartment with my mother, and I’m far too embarrassed to even suggest he share quarters with my pathetic father.
The public rooms of the Queen’s wing are quite large and, as one would imagine…public. However, behind the Queen’s Bedchamber is a spiral of small rooms that are not only not open to the public, but have mostly been repurposed. One of the largest rooms, formerly the library, was turned into the bathroom. The Cabinet de la Méridienne is my dressing room, the library annex became the room in which my very large gowns are stored, and so forth. There’s a small room that was once called the Duchesse de Bourgogne’s Cabinet—the history of which, I confess, I don’t know—that’s now a small guest chamber.
It seemed like a better idea before my new assistant turned out to be Saber.
I lead Saber through the concealed door beside my bed and down a short hallway to a small, fanciful—and very feminine—chamber. White detailing covers the walls and molding, and soft lace curtains cover the single window, which overlooks a private courtyard reserved for the use of the Queen and her intimates. I push back a hysterical giggle as Saber stares at the light blue daybed with silken drapes scalloped along the top and hanging down on either end. It barely looks large enough to fit him at all, and though it’s likely more expensive and elegant than any bed he’s ever slept in, it seems most unsuitable.
But it keeps him near me and gives him access to all of the concealed passages associated with the Queen’s Rooms. As long as I avoid drawing attention to our unorthodox arrangement, I doubt anyone will question it. Everyone will assume he goes somewhere at night, like the rest of the servants.
Saber doesn’t seem to be nearly as pleased. He’s dropped his parcels to the floor and is regarding the bed with resigned disbelief.
“M.A.R.I.E., tidy up,” I say, so automatically I don’t even consider Saber’s reaction. A bot rolls in from the hallway leading from my bedchamber and immediately begins picking up the parcels and unwrapping them.
“Hey!” Saber begins, moving as if to stop the bot, and I grasp his arm with both hands, holding him back. I’m not sure how I’d explain it if my new employee were to actually break a top-of-the-line Amalgamated service bot.
He hesitates and looks down at me—something many men are physically incapable of doing. Particularly when I’m sporting heels. Though the look he’s giving me says let go, almost of their own accord my fingers tighten on his arm, feeling the ripple of muscle there. It’s strange to want to say so many things and feel the words stick in my throat.
He despises me. He’d likely despise me even more if he knew the reactions I have when he’s near.
“It’s better if you let them,” I say, struggling to regain my poise. “Even if you unpacked on your own, they’d rearrange everything once you were gone. It’s their way. M.A.R.I.E.’s way.”
“So this is how it’s going to be?” he asks softly. Venomously. “I sleep in here like your pet, follow you around and take orders, do your bidding in my cute little uniform? Did you actually need help, or were you just trying to lure me to the palace?”
“I didn’t know it would be you,” I explode.
“You had to have suspected.”
“I thought—” I thought he was too important. But I don’t want to remind him of the insult Reginald gave him in Paris. That he’s nobody. Indignant tears sting my eyes, and I blink them back. “I’ll have you know I’ve been running on fewer than four hours of sleep at a time for a fortnight. I can’t keep up on my own, and I can’t risk sending the work out. This,” I say, gesturing at the dainty room, “is the safest place for you to be in the entire palace. And not just for my sake; what do you think His…he would do if he discovered the truth about you?”
More emotions race across Saber’s face than I could possibly attempt to decipher, but finally his shoulders slump. “I’m so
“I’m sorry too,” it’s my turn to say. And I mean it; I sense Saber’s not one to apologize easily. “Come, let’s leave the bots to their duties—I’ll show you the back corridor.”
“You know,” Saber says, following me, “you don’t have to talk so formally when we’re alone.”
“Pardon?” I ask, pausing with my hand on the door handle.
“This formal speech,” he says, waving his hand vaguely through the air. “When it’s just the two of us, you don’t have to…” His voice trails off. “Damn. You have no idea what I’m talking about. It’s not an act, is it?”
I simply stare, still uncomprehending.
“You talk all…hoity,” he says, not meeting my eyes again.
“Do I?”
“A bit. Okay, a lot. I guess I thought you relaxed a little when you weren’t on show.”
“On show?” I find myself feeling slighted, though I can’t put my finger on precisely why.
“Around normal people.”
“Oh.” I pause, then say, “No, this is actually how I speak—my apologies if that disappoints you. Though now that you bring it up, I think the problem is going to be the opposite. It’s your vernacular that isn’t quite the thing here in the palace. It’s a bit…vulgar.”
He just grins, apparently not feeling slighted in the least.
I look away from his smile. “You’ll give yourself away in three words. I think it best that you not speak to anyone we encounter at all.”
“Oh, goody,” he grumbles.
“That sort of response is precisely what I mean.”
“So was yours.”
“I suppose it was.” I peer up at him, trying to think. “Most of the board members who have secretaries are endlessly whispering back and forth. Hissing like snakes, in point of fact. That may be the most logical course for us as well. When in doubt, you can simply speak French.”
Saber sighs. “You’re the boss.”
Then why does it feel the other way around?
SABER IS SUITABLY impressed by the organization in my father’s study, and even more so by the lack of M.A.R.I.E. waiting to accommodate our every need.
“It’s my safe place,” I say, then chastise myself for revealing something so personal.
“Where’s your father?” Saber asks when I clear my throat and turn my face away.
“Down the hall in his room,” I say, pointing. “Asleep. I checked on him before I unlocked the desk. He can never know.”
“Certainly not,” Saber agrees grimly.
“He’s no danger, though. Beyond being an addict. Easily mollified and mostly harmless. It’s my mother you have to watch out for.”
“And she lives here?”
“Not in my father’s chambers. She sleeps in my old room.” I run my fingers along the edge of the desk. “I keep everything in here.” I unlock each drawer and explain how I’ve been running things and which duties I’ll need him to take over.
“It’s a pretty slick operation,” he says, and I’m about to thank him for the compliment when he continues. “I doubt that drugging people against their will has ever been so profitable.”
The warm flush of shame—which I’ve grown very good at ignoring—kindles in my chest, hotter and more painful than usual. Though I’d always hoped the business would grow fast, it’s exceeded all my expectations. Which means I have to face the fact that the drug is stronger, more addictive, than I assumed at the outset. That Saber’s warnings were as dire as he said. But it’s too late to change anything, and all I can do is try to fight the guilt and soldier on. I’m halfway into the proverbial woods, and continuing forward seems like the only reasonable choice.
“I don’t understand you,” he says after a long spell of silence. “I was there that night, you know.”
My mind goes instantly to the night the King killed Sierra. He was there? How?
“In the catacombs.”
Oh. That night.
“That very first time. You were…” He pauses, and I’m not certain I want to know what his impression of me was, that awful night. “Desperate,” he finally says. “And you seemed so small, but real. So real. Then, two months ago, you got into the car with me in Paris and you were a different person. Bold and controlling but ultimately—” He cuts himself off and is silent for several seconds. “What happened to her?”
“To who?” I ask, fear a cold block of ice in my throat as I wonder for a moment if he’s referring to Sierra.
“The girl in the catacombs,” he says as he picks up a pot of Glitter rouge and peers at the smooth circle within. “She’s gone.”
“I—”
“I liked her,” Saber finishes, tossing the pot onto the desk with a clatter.
—
AT HIS INSISTENCE that he isn’t tired, I leave Saber in my father’s study to put away our newest batch of supplies and make himself familiar with the microlab. He wanted to start blending the makeup as well, but it’s too risky during the day. My mother might walk in at any moment. At night she’s nearer, but with my light feet and her long history with sleep aids, I actually feel more confident in my ability to avoid detection. Saber rolls his eyes but promises to only organize things, and I hurry out of my parents’ apartments.
I have amends to make.
Blinking rapidly, I come around a corner and look up to see the very person I was just queuing up my Lens to locate. We both slow as we approach, the air thick between us, though Molli manages a wan smile.
“I was looking for you,” I say before she can speak.
“I found you on my Lens,” Molli says. After everything, she decided to come find me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I don’t have a story, or an excuse. Not one I can tell her. But the sentiment is real. I am sorry. For more than I can ever confess.
“No,” Molli says, staring at the ground. “I was oversensitive.”
“You weren’t. I should have let you come.” That one is a lie, but I do wish I were in a position to have allowed her to come. I suddenly wish she’d met Giovanni when I first started going to him, and I picture lessons where we laugh when I mess up, and she claps when I master a pose. It would have been fun. “It’s this new dance,” I say, tucking her arm into mine as though it could erase the gaping falsehood I’m about to spin. “I just couldn’t get the steps. I needed help. I should have trusted you wouldn’t mock me.”
The Historical Society’s Master of Ceremonies wants to début a traditional dance number at a ball a few weeks hence. As a newly made high noblewoman, I’m expected to participate. As an untitled lady labeled of little value to the haughty court, my Molli is expected to sit out. Six months ago we’d have sat out together and neither of us would have cared. Now the imaginary distance between us chafes at us both.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t teach her the steps. Besides, I’ve been looking for opportunities to spend time with her. The last two weeks, I’ve hardly seen her at all as Glitter manufacturing has been draining such a large amount of my leisure time. Today is likely the best opportunity I’ll have for a while.
We gather in the Hall of Mirrors with Lady Mei and Molli and a few other court ladies our age. Lady Mei and her cousin Lady Kata are playing word games on their tablets, and Lady Nuala is reading an actual paper tabloid someone snuck in from Paris.
Molli and I go through the steps, side by side. I actually like this particular dance—it’s slow and graceful, making use of long lines and languid arms. Despite what I told Molli, I picked it up very quickly.
“It feels awkward,” Molli complains with a giggle. “It’s so slow.”
“Watch me,” I say, using a remote to set the music back to the beginning of the practice track, then striking the first pose. “It should be alluring. Sensual, even.” This is truly where Giovanni’s lessons shine through—steps that require an awareness of one’s entire body, from fingertips to toes. I’m
Somehow sensing what I’m about to find, I pull my limbs into a stiff, upright position—shoulders back, neck straight—and turn my head to see His Majesty watching me. His eyes are dark and intense, and before he can shutter them, I see that same look he gave Sierra Jamison in that shadowed hallway.
Animal wanting.
I’m used to His Highness’ lascivious looks—actions, even. But this is something more. A legitimate spark of desire beyond his simple propensity for agitation. It’s something real. A dark foreboding tells me that this is the first moment His Highness has realized I could be not only his unwanted affianced, but a compelling plaything.
He steps forward slowly, and an entirely different breed of terror squeezes my spine and dries my tongue. Not for my physical self—for something deeper.
“That was lovely,” he says.
I force myself to smile even as I struggle to make my legs hold me. His Highness places a finger under my chin, and though every cell of my body cries out against it, he bends his head and places a kiss on my lips. Not a hard, savage thing—but one that could almost pass as a caress from a gentleman truly in love.
Which is even more frightening, more invasive. The moment his mouth leaves mine, I duck my chin and slant my head to the side, hoping the flush on my cheeks looks like pleasure rather than rage.
I don’t know why I raise my eyelids; perhaps it’s that hint of premonition when one is being watched. Regardless, I meet Lady Cyn’s eyes and wish I’d stayed in my chambers today.
She’s frozen in the very act of stepping forward, her body balanced awkwardly. She must have seen exactly what I saw—that whatever the King was feeling today, there was no pretense, no act. The King wants me. Wants me desperately. I think Lady Cyn understands, now, that she’s lost.
But she also saw my eyes. She knows I’m utterly false. She’s lost her hopes, her dreams, her ambitions; all to a pretender who’s just as bad as she is.