“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.