“Yes, alone,” I say, answering her real question. “My mother would have his manhood stuffed and mounted for display, otherwise.” There’s something supremely satisfying about saying that with a dazzling smile on my lips.
“There are consolations, of course,” I say when Molli doesn’t respond. She’s likely shocked at my blunt words, even in privacy. “After all, among Versailles’s blissfully wed nobility, what is the most common marital complaint?”
Molli considers this for a moment, then smirks. “They’re never home,” she says, angling her chin jauntily.
“Precisely. And few keep hours as long as the King himself. There’s a possibility that I shall see him even less now than I used to.”
“Will you be lonely?” Molli’s chin is so close to my shoulder that I feel her warm breath.
While I appreciate her unfeigned concern, I can’t help but bristle at the implication that I’m in need of some sort of rescue—that my problems are so shallow as to be solved by a little company. But of course the answer to her question is yes. Yes, I’m lonely. Even in a room full of people, I’m lonely. Trapped by the people who should keep me safe, sharing a secret with those I despise.
Of course, none of that factors into Molli’s inquiry. All she knows is that I have an overbearing mother, an embarrassing father, and an unwanted political engagement to our wealthy, powerful King, which I refuse to elaborate upon. What good could possibly come of inflicting on Molli the knowledge that her sovereign lord killed not only a young member of his own court, but also a part of me? It’s not a lack of trust; it’s my own reluctance to destroy something as beautiful and innocent as Molli. Those often-trite parental words for your own good come to mind.
“Are you asking if I’ll miss my parents?” I give a self-deprecating laugh at the diversion.
“Will you?” Molli asks. “You got on well with your father, at least.”
“Well enough, I suppose. But I said farewell to the man my father used to be a long time ago. To tell the truth, leaving their home was a relief. The only part of this whole experience that has been.”
I see her swallow hard, then nod. An electronic chime sounds, and she slips off the bed and peers into the mirror on my new dressing table to see if her hair needs repairing. “I hate this faux candlelight,” she grumbles. “It flattens my complexion, which is actually one of my best features.”
“Come now,” I say, joining her and rearranging my skirts. “Your complexion is brilliant, always has been. It practically—” Glitters.
“Are you all right?” I’m not sure how long I must have been standing in silence when Molli’s voice breaks through my haze.
“Molli,” I say tentatively. “What if you had a cosmetic—a foundation, or maybe a liquid rouge—that had specks of something iridescent in it? Don’t you think that could catch even the electric candlelight and help prevent your complexion from looking so flat?”
“I can’t think the Society would approve,” Molli says, invoking the name of the committee that keeps our dress and appearance in line with historical precedent.
“I can’t see why not. Surely glittery substances have been used much further back in time than the Baroque. Why, mother-of-pearl must date at least to the Renaissance.”
Transdermal delivery. An oil-derived base.
The second—and final—dinner chime sounds, and we both look up, in the direction of the camouflaged speaker.
“I’d better hurry,” Molli says. “My parents will be waiting for me.”
Before she can get away, I stop her, grasping both her hands in mine. “Thank you for coming. You’ve made everything so much better.”
The door clicks closed behind Molli, and I nearly sprint to the small office tucked behind the boudoir. I wish I could send a com, but it’s far too risky. Instead I pull out a half-sheet of parchment and my fountain pen and glance at the clock. Three minutes. I’ll have to write fast.
Dear Reginald,
I have an idea.
MY DREAMS HAVE grown strange since I moved into Marie-Antoinette’s rooms. The only way women quit these apartments is through death, and I can’t help but wonder how long my own occupancy will last. Nightmares are nothing new, not since that night in the servants’ corridor. But lately it’s not the King whose face I flee too slowly—sometimes, inexplicably, it’s my own. And last night I saw Saber’s face too, his eyes as piercing and unfriendly as they were when we met. These dreams are uncomfortable at best, so when consciousness begins to tug me from my nocturnal wanderings, I welcome it.
As I float between wakefulness and slumber, something seems different, but I can’t figure out what. A breeze plays over my skin, tickling my leg where I’ve kicked my covers away; my thigh is bare nearly to the garter-loops of my corset. Bleary-eyed, I squint at the enormous expanse of bed surrounding me and pat about, searching for the edge of the sheet.
At my movement a ripple of hushed murmurs meets my ears, and my hand freezes.
The breeze. That’s it. There’s never a breeze. Not unless I specifically ask M.A.R.I.E. to generate one. The buzz around me takes on new significance as clarity pierces my sleep-addled brain.