Lord Aaron offers me an arm and I grasp it genially. We walk in silence for a few minutes, our direction most definitely taking us farther from the palace. In half an hour I’ll have to return for an “emergency” appointment with His Royal Fussiness’ personal modiste, but for a few more minutes my time is my own.
Not that I mind sharing it with Lord Aaron—the only soul in Versailles who knows I’m trying to leave. Who’s helping to make it happen, even now. Some knights appear on white steeds; mine rides bejeweled heels with satin laces. The morning of Sierra’s death, I fled to Lord Aaron the instant my mother let me out of her sight, and told him everything.
Everything.
He didn’t react with disbelief or even horror—only grew silent as pensive concern lined his face. “It sounds to me like you need to get out,” he’d said in his soft, calm voice.
“What are the chances of that?” I replied—grumpily, I’m sure, as my tears had finally dried and I found things no better than before, with the added indignity of puffy eyes and stuffed sinuses.
“High, perhaps.”
That got my attention. “How?”
The conversation that followed was unexpected, to say the least. I’d heard of the Foundation for Social Reintegration, of course, since they manage to sneak protesters into the palace a few times a year—self-righteous vandals, mostly, with a vague “social justice” ax or two to grind. They’re a joke among the residents because they’re always going on about breaking our chains and escaping our captors, as though courtly life at Versailles Palace were a punishment rather than a privilege. We don’t even pay rent. No one is a captive in Sonoman-Versailles.
Or so I thought.
But sitting there that morning, listening to Lord Aaron, I realized that was exactly what I was: a prisoner, wearing chains forged not of steel, but of circumstance.
He spoke of the Foundation’s charitable arm, explained how it primarily helps ordinary Sonoma Inc. employees when they lose their jobs and discover they have nowhere to go and little money to spend, thanks to their corporate citizenship and the unfavorable exchange rate between credits and euros. Then Lord Aaron revealed that the Foundation had even agreed to help disentangle him from Sonoma with his personal wealth intact—in exchange for a generous donation, bien s?r.
“Why would you want to leave?” I asked. Lord Aaron had always seemed enamored of palace life.
He shrugged. “I feel stifled here. Have for years. I wanted to…to explore what the world has to offer. To meet someone. I adore you and Molli, but…”
“Then go on a trip. Go to America and bring back a handsome Yankee boy and dress him up in satin and lace. Why leave forever?”
“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m no longer so sure.”
“But you were.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “And the Foundation has dedicated experts working with them—they know the bureaucratic hurdles, they can handle the red tape. It was a way to completely extricate myself from Sonoman-Versailles without sacrificing my fortune. Without sacrificing the lifestyle that I, personally, would rather not do without.”
I had to smile at that. As loyal and adventurous as he can be, Lord Aaron is soft. I couldn’t imagine him so much as washing his own tea dishes, much less laboring for a living.
“So when I turned eighteen and received full control of my assets, I started those wheels turning.”
It was almost too much to take in. Except that he was still in the palace. “What changed your mind?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“Sir Spencer?”
He shrugged and smiled sadly.
“But I don’t have any assets. And I can’t simply leave—I’ll have to hide.” Of that I felt certain: if I were to walk away from Versailles before my eighteenth birthday, Mother would find a way to claw me back. The only way out of this arranged marriage was to disappear. For that matter, as a witness to his crime, the only way for me to be safe from the King would be to disappear forever.
That, the Foundation couldn’t manage—in fact, while I remained underage, they couldn’t even get me out of Sonoman-Versailles. But they had referred Lord Aaron to a contact they sometimes used to perform…special extractions. Enter the esteemed Reginald.
“The room isn’t so bad,” I say with a tight smile, finally answering Lord Aaron’s inquiry after my well-being. “It’s only the most elegant boudoir in the palace. That softens the blow some.”
“Are you going to last?”
“Last?”
“Until your birthday. Until you can leave.”
My heart feels hollow. “Just lasting. I wish it were that simple.”
“Isn’t it, though? If you’re ready to go on your birthday, the Foundation can finalize your paperwork and whisk you away.”
“To where? To what?”
“So you’re not going to leave?”
“I didn’t say that.” I pull a fan from my reticule and waft air toward my chest, where beads of sweat are nestling around the vial of Glitter. “Even when I reach my majority, the Foundation’s help won’t be sufficient. The Foundation offers rehabilitation. What I need is witness protection.” I hesitate. “I need someone who can give me a new name, a new face, even, so that when I leave, no one will be able to find me.”
“Not even me?”