Which would have been an incredible sum if I hadn’t been trying to raise five million. A measly six percent of the money I need, two months of my engagement already gone. Tears sting my eyes as I run my finger along what would, for many, be a glee-inducing stack of money. I’m wallowing in self-pity, and I know it, but—
My fingertips touch a loose piece of thin string. Still blocking the box from M.A.R.I.E.’s view, I peer into the space without opening the lid any farther; the empty loop of string is knotted into a circle just the right size to secure a small brick of paper bills.
I gasp and flip the top fully open, snatching up the offending string between my thumb and forefinger. A small enough amount to miss in a cursory glance, but large enough to devastate my efforts. Who? When? Why? The questions rage, a hurricane in my head, but one answer rises to the top, and as soon as it does, I know it’s the only possibility.
Father.
Rage burns away reason and I stand, clap the lid shut, and storm from the room, the box tucked under my arm.
He would know. The box was a gift from him. I kept it on my dressing table in plain sight until my mother invaded my rooms. If someone knew what they were looking for, how long would it take to find a box this size in a bedroom with little space for concealment? Less time than an afternoon tea party, I’d wager, if my mother and I were both in attendance.
His study doors are closed, locked, but I know the override. I tap out the sequence on the doorframe’s decorative inlay—a simple numeric keypad, really, but of course it’s not allowed to look like what it is, not in Versailles—and hold still just long enough for a face scan. Without knocking, I push my way through the heavy oak doors.
A scuffle of shoes. The thud of something hitting the ground. He’s not alone.
“No!” My father’s voice is gravelly but strong. “I’ve paid you!”
That brings me up short. I watch a man in a dark cloak bend to sweep up a stack of scattered bills, the glint of a knife at his hip. I should move. I should run. Alert security. Something.
But I freeze. There’s something bad, something dark and secret happening here. And I am fear’s slave.
My father, for once, is the active one. “Please,” he begs again. “You’ve been paid.”
I feel the cloaked man look at me, even though I can’t see his eyes under the shadow of his hood. They don’t waver from my face as he spins a small envelope through the air to my father. He starts to back away, and finally I find my nerve.
“Stop!” My voice bursts out so much smaller than it sounded in my head. I try again, but already he’s running down the short hallway to my father’s bedchamber—with a stack of money that belongs to me. Dropping my box onto the desk, I follow the cloaked figure, but the weight of my skirts and the width of my panniers hamper my progress. I round the corner as the criminal—what else could he be?—disappears through a small panel at the back wall.
I run to the wall and fall to my knees, pulling open the door and reaching into the blackness of…the clothes chute. Of course. A criminal just escaped my father’s chambers through the damned laundry chute.
MY FATHER WASN’T meant to be a nobleman. Not really. He was born into the gentry. We were happy and well supported by his middle-management position at Sonoma Inc., which his mother held before him. Then his stepbrother died, young and unexpectedly, and willed Father his voting shares and place at court. By accident. The document was a prenuptial formality—a relic of their parents’ marriage. My step-uncle would have gotten around to updating it eventually, but no one expects to die in their twenties.
After that, everything changed. My father instantly moved his family from the city of Versailles into the palace. Into the kingdom. I was caught up in the excitement too. I’m sorry to say I took after my mother in that way—hungry for the glitz and glamour of the palace. By the time I made my début, I was so anxious to be a part of the scintillating court of Sonoman-Versailles that nothing could have held me back.
Anger bubbles over as I link to my father everything that’s happened to us in the last few months—even though much of it truly isn’t his fault. I need someone to blame, somewhere to vent my fury, and the obvious person just escaped.
“You’ve ruined everything!” Sobs are trying to force their way into my throat, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let my father see me cry. It doesn’t matter that I was never going to save enough money anyway—with someone stealing from me, it really is impossible.
I feel so young, suddenly. The last few months have forced me to grow up quickly. But now, slumped on the floor and watching my father stare at his parcel, I feel very much like the teenager everyone seems to have forgotten I am. I’m too young for this game with its life-and-death stakes.
He’s staring at the envelope, cradled in his hands as though it were a newborn child, utterly unaware of the daughter whose dreams he’s shattered. “What is that, Father?” I say levelly.