The keypad is out of his pocket again, and soon we’re on our way up.
“Let me help,” Lord Aaron says, taking the handkerchief from me and swiping at a spot beneath my right eye.
“Thank you,” I say, and even that tiny phrase makes my eyes mist again, and I pull out my fan and flutter it at my face. If I’m not entirely ready when the lift doors open on the top floor, at least I’m presentable.
Though His Majesty is the last person I expected to be waiting for me.
He stands there with one eyebrow raised, staring at us as if we’re children with our hands in the cookie jar. “Couldn’t resist, could you, darling?”
The blood in my cheeks is simmering and my feet feel nailed to the floor.
He takes me in from slippers to pompadour. “You’re a bit mussed. That won’t do for the gala. Much of the press is already here, and I want you looking perfect.” He extends his gloved hand, and I know I have no choice but to take it. He pulls me from the lift and looks down his nose at Lord Aaron.
“Lord Aaron? Really? I wouldn’t have suspected such a frivolous dandy had the know-how to pull this off. My compliments.”
“Received,” Lord Aaron says flatly.
“Nonetheless, you can’t imagine I’m genuinely pleased. Off with you now. Your privileges are revoked.” The King starts to turn and then stops, looking back over his shoulder at Lord Aaron. “All of them. Confined to quarters. M.A.R.I.E., see to it.” He peers down at me, looking maddeningly unruffled. “Gads, love, your friends are all getting into such trouble.”
I OPEN MY eyes on the morning of my wedding with the dismal thought that I might actually end this day a married woman.
After escorting me from the lift, His Highness wouldn’t let me escape his grasp, and that phraseology is in no way metaphorical. My fingertips remain clamped in his gloved hand the entire night. He fairly flaunted me before the attending press, and there was nothing I could do but smile.
Afterward, I was escorted to my rooms, and the watchers placed at every exit made no effort to conceal themselves from me. Apparently His Majesty decided that M.A.R.I.E.’s eyes were insufficiently all-seeing.
This morning I was sent a com from the medical center informing me that my father is still ill and receiving both fluids and medication intravenously. There’s mention of multiple seizures, and a declaration that the cause is still unknown despite tests. I’m relieved he survived the night. I’ve no idea how drastic withdrawal can be, and there certainly isn’t anyone left for me to ask. Still, as long as he’s alive and a patient in the Marie-Antoinette Medical Clinic, he’s essentially a hostage.
Lord Aaron is out of reach to me. Though his house arrest gives him a damned good alibi, it cripples my ability to get away. It’s possible I could hack my way out on my own, but not while being watched so closely.
Waking up this morning was like a Wednesday lever, except that all of the ladies were hired by the King and none of them was my friend. The wedding is in two hours, and I’ve yet to be permitted to leave the room. I’m fully decked out in my wedding gown of outrageous width and weight, and my hair is piled so high I feel a bit off-balance. I have no doubt I look exquisite, and take absolutely no pleasure in that fact.
I’ve seen what feels like thousands of one-line coms pop up on my Lens wishing me good fortune on my big day, but with Molli and Mother dead, Father indisposed, Lord Aaron under full lockdown, and Saber imprisoned, every well-wishing feels hollow. How have I come to this place where thousands of people are at my beck and call and yet I’ve not a true friend or family member left to hear from? Both Lady Mei and Lady Nuala sent rather long, rambling coms that looked both friendly and intimate, but my relationship with them is as much a lie as my romance with the King.
I managed to slip into my dressing room alone for all of two minutes and shoved the nearly one million euros into my panniers in a lingerie sack. I was forced to rip out the bottoms of the tiny pockets in this wedding gown, as I certainly couldn’t have requested such a thing when it was being sewn. Even though I can’t fathom a way in which I can escape, I need to stay prepared.
There’s a light knock on my door, and an unfamiliar woman flanked by four security guards appears. “I’ve been asked to escort you to a small salon just off the Royal Chapel,” she says dully. “We need you in place before the press are let in, a quarter of an hour hence.”
The blood drains from my face. The moment has arrived.
“Your Grace,” the woman prompts with more than a hint of impatience.