Saber. Odd name. “It seemed an obvious ploy,” I reply, not elaborating. Especially not in front of Saber himself. The spark of attraction makes me at least attempt to avoid offending him.
“After our encounter in the catacombs, I didn’t expect ever to see you again,” he says. “And I admit, I only accepted this meeting out of sheer morbid curiosity. What could the shimmering diamant of Sonoman-Versailles’s costume-court want with a peasant such as myself?”
“I didn’t know it was you, did I?”
He smirks. “No, I think you did not.”
Already wearied by this man’s uncouth manners, I hold up one of the patches I took from my father yesterday. The man silences himself at the sight, though he continues to smirk. Annoyingly. “Now, Monsieur…?”
“Are you seriously asking my name?”
“You know mine.”
“Everyone knows yours.”
I lean forward, forcing myself to remain calm. “I did send you ten thousand euros. And you know I have every intention of conducting further business with you in the future.”
“S’pose it can’t hurt,” he says after a long pause. “Reginald. Friends call me Reg, so you may refer to me as Reginald.”
I don’t react. “Tell me about the patches. What are they, exactly?”
“Papaveris atropa.” He reaches into his jacket and removes a very small vial filled with what looks like finely ground silver dust. “That’s what the chemists call it, anyway. The newest thing in…street pharmaceuticals. So new most of the media hasn’t even gotten a sniff of it yet.”
“Really?” I ask, not hiding my skepticism.
“How do you think we got it past all the sensors in your palace?”
That would explain it—if he’s telling the truth. “They don’t even recognize it?”
“That’s right. Totally new. But it’s going to blow the others out of the water. A complex blend of opiates and gengineered belladonna, processed for transdermal delivery. Directly to the skin,” he adds when I blink uncomprehendingly. “It induces bliss like heroin but leaves you conscious, and with most of your wits. Truly top of the line, for the more cultured consumer.” He shakes the vial so the substance inside catches the sun and throws bits of light around the car. “This is ten thousand euros’ worth.”
“So little?” I ask, not managing to hide how breathless it makes me.
“A little goes a long way,” he replies with another smirk. “But you can sell it for four to five times my bulk cost.”
The numbers start ticking in my head again. “Addictive?”
“As hell.”
“Hmmm.” I’m not entirely happy about that, though Reginald declares it as if it were a selling point. Still, how bad can it be? I stare at the tiny vial of powder. “It must have a name. A simpler one, I mean.”
He grins, showing teeth that are crooked and far from white. “On the street we just call it Glitter.”
I DIDN’T EXPECT him to send me home with the vial. Yes, I’d given him the price of that surprisingly small amount of Glitter, but in my mind I’d already written off the expense as bribery. Thus my standing in the palace gardens an hour later with no idea what to do with my illicit prize. I peer into the glass canister, where the tiny silver crystals catch the light of the afternoon sun. So much potential—when it was an idea it was nerve-racking. Now that it’s a physical thing, and in my possession, I’m terrified.
“Danica?”
Startled, I clench the vial so tightly I immediately fear it’ll crack—which makes me emit a tiny shriek and loosen my grasp.
“My apologies,” Lord Aaron says, giving me a chagrined bow.
“None of that,” I say, forcing the muscles in my face to slacken as I stride over to kiss him on both cheeks, keeping my fingers out of sight until I can slip the vial down the front of my bodice. One of the oldest hiding places available to a lady—still marvelously effective. It’s not that I don’t trust him, but if I tell him, it feels as though I’ve made my decision and there’ll be no going back.
“How are you?” Lord Aaron asks, his hands on my shoulders, our cheeks nearly touching. “With the move and everything, I mean. We haven’t had a chance to talk since the other night.”
My instinct is to check around us for listeners, to angle away from M.A.R.I.E.’s unblinking eyes. But then, that’s the reason I chose to walk in the orchard as soon as I returned from Paris: no such worries here. Robotic assistance remains just a few blinks away, but I feel safer outside the walls of the palace. An illusion, perhaps. I never noticed the omnipresence of surveillance before. Now that I’m hyperaware, it truly feels inescapable.