“His studio,” I say, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. And back when my mother was explaining it to me when I was fifteen, it seemed so, and so I parrot her words. “The floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the barre, the teacups and books that inevitably go crashing to the floor when I make a mistake. Besides, how will you explain his very presence?”
The King doesn’t like it, I can tell. And he’s trying to find something wrong with it. But he could never suspect that I have the brains—or the guts—to do what I actually intend. “I’m not paying for it,” he says, evidently unable to let this go without a final jab. “Your mother will have to take it out of the Grayson household budget.”
I offer a smile of gratitude, but inside my belly, rage is boiling so hot it must be melting the rest of my organs. “I’m certain she’ll be happy to.” Happy that I appear to be making an effort.
“Now, I believe I have a fitting to finish,” I say, gesturing at the door.
His eyes are fixed on the deep V of my dressing gown, which I’ve forgotten to clench shut, and his mouth quirks up in a crooked smile. “Yes. I think I’ll sit in on the rest of that. Just to observe, of course. I’ll go fetch your friends, so they can see how very much in love we are.”
I turn away before he can see the angry flush rise in my cheeks.
—
“ENTREZ!” I CALL distractedly when someone knocks just as a bot is putting the final touches on my hair for the Grand Couvert—a fancy dinner the King holds every week for, as far as I can tell, no other reason than because Louis XIV did. It’s an outrageous expense, and as the resident of the Queen’s Rooms, I’m now expected to sit beside him on the golden dais: a trophy on display. This is my first one, and I’m dreading it. So I’m beyond cheered to see Molli’s face burst through my door.
“I’m sorry it’s so near to dinner bell,” she says in both greeting and apology. “I couldn’t come right when you commed. Mother needed my assistance.”
I rise from the dressing table and nearly run to her to throw my arms about her shoulders. “No apologies, please. I’m glad you came at all, after the abominable way you were treated this afternoon.” Despite His Royal Snootiness sitting less than a meter from the settee full of ladies, he uttered not a word to anyone, except to occasionally criticize one of the seamstresses.
Molli merely shrugs and peers around the embarrassingly ornate room.
A thought strikes me, and I kick off my heels and grab Molli’s hand. “Come,” I say, pulling her farther into the room, toward the enormous bed. “I want you to be numbered among the very select group of people who can say that they’ve jumped on Marie-Antoinette’s bed.” She seems reluctant in the face of the ostentatious room, so I drag her all the way through the golden gate before running a few steps to jump and flop down on the priceless brocade spread.
Molli hesitates, her eyes scanning the ceiling—looking for M.A.R.I.E.’s ubiquitous eye, I’m certain—but a smile lifts the corners of her mouth, and a few seconds later she’s sprawled beside me, her gown a velvet half-circle surrounding her legs, panniers sticking up on either side of her hips. She looks over at me, then down at her skirts, and we both start to laugh.
I take advantage of the moment to glance down and check that the vial of Glitter is still in place. Unwilling as I was to let it leave my person, it spent half the afternoon tucked in my sweaty palm, then the other half pushed down my corset and nestled in the valley of my cleavage. Also sweaty—my nerves are getting the better of me.
The appointment with the royal modiste made that a particular challenge, but though the moody designer clucked her tongue in disapproval when I wouldn’t let her so much as touch the laces of my unfashionably overcinched stays, she didn’t press the issue, so my vial was safe.
“This room is amazing.”
“It’s not like you haven’t been here before. It’s so often open.”
“But it wasn’t yours,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “M.A.R.I.E. hasn’t changed anything. Not in five years of vacancy since the former Queen died.”
“But you will, won’t you? A few things, at least.”
“Indeed,” I say. “I think I’ll tidy up my mess.”
“Be serious.”
My smile feels fake, but I’ve practiced for hours in front of a mirror and I know she won’t be able to tell. Lying to Molli is harder than lying to anyone else. Harder on me. She’s easy to convince—thinks all too well of me and would never suspect me of untruth. “Of course I will. In time.” Not a promise I intend to keep. In time, I’ll be gone.
“How are you coping?” Molli asks in a whisper, and it’s that question that nearly breaks me, sending a searing throb into the top of my throat.
“Coping is what I do.” My voice wavers, and I don’t hide it. Here, when Molli and I are together, I can drop my fa?ade. It feels like removing a literal weight I’ve been struggling to bear all day, even if the conversation solves nothing.
“It must be quite a change, though, sleeping all alone on this enormous bed…?” Her voice drops away and she looks at me meaningfully.