He looks up and blinks. The confusion in his eyes makes it all too clear that he didn’t notice me entering the room at all. At all. Not when I startled the criminal, not when I slammed the laundry chute closed, only now, when I shout directly at him.
“What. Is. That?”
“Dani…Dani, I—” He tries to conceal the envelope behind his back, of all places. But I’m surging with adrenaline and far more nimble than he, gown and all. I expect him to fight, but when I wrench the envelope away he crumples to the floor and begins to cry.
The anger drains from me, replaced by something so much worse. Pity. Disillusionment.
“Father, don’t,” I say gently. But I keep hold of the envelope. I study it, baffled. It’s sealed and there’s nothing written on it, but the lack of a pressed wax circle on the back suggests that it’s from outside Sonoman-Versailles—which would explain why he had to pay for it with euros. The packet is lumpy and bulging. With a quick glance at my father, I slip a finger beneath the flap and tear it open. I tip the envelope and pour a stack of about fifteen beige squares onto my hand. The sound of weeping fades from my awareness as I try to figure out just what I’m looking at.
“What is it, Father?” Though I’m not snapping anymore, I do hold the squares in my fingertips high above him, waving them out of reach.
“Forgive me. I needed it,” he says, stretching his long arms upward, woefully shy of their mark while he kneels on the floor in front of me.
“Needed what, Father?”
“I needed it.”
I grit my teeth and curse my grasping, devious mother for driving him to this, curse the King for stealing what was left of my childhood, and even curse my father’s pox-ridden stepbrother for dying and putting us all in this unbearable situation in the first place. “Tell me exactly what this is or I swear to you I will toss it down the chute after that criminal who gave it to you.”
“No, no!” he says, splaying himself on the floor. “You can’t.”
“Then tell me!”
He’s no longer weeping in earnest, but tears continue to leak down his once-dignified face, wetting the craggy beard I remember stroking as a child. Back then it was a carefully trimmed goatee that he pomaded to a jaunty point at the end of his chin. “You must not tell. You mustn’t. It’s such a secret. I promised him no one would ever know.”
He looks up. I’d almost forgotten how vibrant his eyes can be. Mine are brown. Mother’s, too. But his are green. Once, they were striking against his deep olive skin—a reminder of his Israeli descent. Now the color only makes his pallor look more sallow.
“They make me forget. But if…if I don’t have them, I can’t—please.” He stretches his hands out for the patches, and he makes such a pathetic picture, I can’t do anything but hand them over.
It doesn’t matter; it’s already too late. The money is gone and the criminal with it. May as well let Father have whatever that stuff is—lord knows I can’t do anything with it. My skirts pouf around me as I join him on the cold stone floor, feeling thoroughly defeated and wishing I could curl up on his lap the way I did as a little girl.
I turn to my father, and he freezes in terror. One of the patches is in his hand and he’s peeled off half the backing. I squint at the square, and even in the dim light I see something sparkle on the adhesive side. His eyes leap from my face to the patch and back again. Then, some sort of decision made, he pushes up the unbuttoned cuffs of his linen shirt and pulls another patch away from his skin. My stomach churns—the surface of his arm is crisscrossed with blackened lines where residue from the adhesive clings. He finds a clean(ish) spot and rubs the new patch on. Only then does he release his breath in a long, luxurious sigh.
“It makes me happy,” he says, his voice sparkling with bliss.
Then it dawns on me. “It’s…it’s a drug, isn’t it?”
After a moment, he gives me a barely perceptible nod.
I slump against the wall. Despite the sloth, self-indulgence, and gluttony that are not only accepted but expected in the palace, illicit substances are absolutely forbidden. Thus far the courts have upheld Sonoma’s dearly bought corporate sovereignty, but INTERPOL is always lurking and looking for an excuse to burst through our protective veil and find a way to help the UN seize it back. There isn’t much that can pierce the legal web of power and immunity that Sonoman-Versailles enjoys, but the international narcotics trade is one, and there are ridiculously crushing penalties for those who would dabble.
“How much did you pay for it?” I whisper.
“Six hundred euros.”
My eyes snap to the envelope. Fifteen. The numbers tumble through my head. Forty euros apiece. I narrow my eyes. “How many times?”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his eyes become even emptier. Guilt or confusion? I can’t tell.
“How often do you buy this much?” I clarify, pointing at the envelope. How much have you stolen from me?
“He comes once a week,” my father whispers.