My brain screamed at me to run—this was the King—but that girl. I had to help. I couldn’t leave her after that sound. My feet moved forward of their own accord, crunching on the broken china. One piece jabbed through my slipper, stinging my instep, but I hardly registered the sensation.
I approached the fallen figure, staring, detached, as though she were…not a woman at all. Something else: an elaborate tableau one of the artists at court might stage for our amusement, perhaps. She was lying on her back in a shimmering satin nightgown with a wide décolletage that had slid to the side, leaving one shoulder tantalizingly bare. She wasn’t staff, as I’d expected from such a lurid encounter, but a lady of the court, though I didn’t recognize her. Her curly red hair must have been coiffed to perfection for the ball, but now it tangled like tentacles around her face. Her arms were splayed—one rested by her side, the other arched up near her head.
“Is she dead?” I whispered before reaching out to touch her. But I drew my hand back before making contact.
The rustle of buttons and ties ceased and I sensed the King approaching behind my shoulder. “I didn’t mean to” was all he said, peering down at his handiwork.
I stared at her chest, willing it to rise. But nothing happened. I suddenly realized where I was: standing in an unmonitored hallway with a dead woman and the person who’d killed her. Panic started to cast its net over me, and I began backing away from him, lifting my nightgown’s hem so I could run.
“Danica!” My name sounded in a whisper, but it cut through the fog in my brain. Not from the King, but from the other end of the hallway.
My mother. I hurried to her and yanked on her hand, trying to pull her along with me. “He killed her,” I hissed, desperate to explain.
“Shhh,” she said, pulling me close and taking my face in her hands. “I will handle this. Do you understand?” I caught a telltale glint in her eye.
The cobweb-thin platinum ring encircling the edge of a network Lens was enough to alert me to its existence. I’d taken mine out in preparation for bed, and would be willing to wager the King wasn’t wearing his. The ice in my stomach melted a little as I realized there would be a record of whatever happened next.
My mother turned to the King and raised herself to her full height. No one who saw her at that moment would have guessed she’d been raised working-class and had only gained entrance to the nobility by marrying my father. She looked almost as much a queen as the portraits that lined the palace walls—even in a white nightdress and shawl, with her long hair wound into a thick braid, face washed free of cosmetics. When she spoke, somehow she managed to sound aghast, motherly, and poisonous all at once. “Justin, what have you done?”
As I arrive at the Grayson suites, I shake off the memories of that awful night two months ago. That was the last moment when I truly believed everything would be all right. That justice would be served. That my mother was on my side. I know better now—Angela Grayson is always on Angela Grayson’s side.
After closing the entrance doors behind me, I don’t bother checking on my father—considering his behavior helped to set this latest catastrophe in motion, he can rot in his study for all I care. I go straight to my room, where an unfamiliar pair of bots are busying themselves with my wardrobe. Most of the bots look exactly the same: powdered wigs, blank-faced masks, and red velvet livery with gold trim. But these bots are a touch more formal. More gold braid. Royal bots.
“Send them out, M.A.R.I.E.,” I command, knowing she’s listening. She’s always listening.
The bots leave my room immediately; I wasn’t certain they would. I could imagine His Majesty revoking my credentials, or requiring M.A.R.I.E. to get his direct approval before following my commands.
I flop to my stomach on the lightly carpeted floor and pry a wooden box from where I’ve wedged it under the side rails of my bed. My fingernails work the delicate catch, and after turning my body to shield the box’s contents from the ceiling-mounted dome that serves as M.A.R.I.E.’s ever-watchful eye, I peer inside.
The twine-bound stacks of euros I dig out are both comforting and depressing. I didn’t give up. I’ve spent several weeks selling every piece of jewelry I could get my hands on, though after the Frenchman’s reaction in the catacombs I’m a great deal more discerning. No antiques, no large pieces that have been worn to highly publicized events. Just the smaller bits I’ve been given over the years. Or my mother’s jewelry, when I could get away with it. Occasionally, a piece acquired via some amateur sleight of hand. Unfortunately, all of these put together are worth far less than the better jewels. By last week I was out of pieces to hawk—and not quite three hundred thousand euros richer.