It’s Wednesday.
Wednesdays have been a part of my life ever since I moved into the palace at fourteen. But my duties are now very different, and as I peer out beneath my lashes, I curse His Royal Highness for not specifically mentioning that, even though I’m not yet the Queen, I’m apparently expected to take over all the responsibilities of sleeping in this room.
Including the public display of the Lever du Roi, the Rising of the King—of which the Queen’s awakening has, since its inception, been the more interesting part.
They’re here in my room, probably a hundred tourists sardined into the fifty-person space on the other side of the golden rail that, thankfully, separates me from the masses. And they’re practically foaming at the mouth over their chance to gawk, to watch an underage young woman dress—a full half of the voyeurs are here for that, I’ve no doubt.
My fingers itch with rage and embarrassment as I try to figure out how to gracefully pull down a shift that’s only centimeters from exposing my derrière to the room. To the world, likely, since these days every tourist has a recording device that streams directly onto their personal but all-too-public profile.
Roll to the left, I finally decide. That’ll require me to cross the foot of the bed with no camouflaging robe at hand but will keep my shift from rising higher. The lesser of the two evils, maybe.
But first—more important than anything else—I slide my hand under my pillow and grip the tiny tube of Glitter in my fist. Contraband secured, I count to three before rolling to the edge of the bed and, somewhere in the rising volume of delighted whispers, detect a groan or two of disappointment when the white silk drops to cover my legs again. As much as diaphanous silk ever does, that is, which isn’t completely.
I pretend I don’t see them—that I’m unaware of the flash photography they were all forbidden to use when they first entered the palace—as I stride around the foot of my bed, across the thick carpeting. My guests, at least those standing in the first few rows, can probably make out my nipples where my breasts press against the confines of my shift. If it were possible for tabloid editors to feel gratitude, I’d expect thank-you coms to arrive over breakfast.
I tunnel-vision on the wall panel that conceals my personal washroom, hoping that my backside isn’t showing too plainly through the thin silk of my inadequate clothing. Much as they might wish to, not even the perverts who’ve been watching me sleep can deny me a trip to the carefully concealed water closet—a concession to modernity about which even the French government doesn’t complain.
After closing the panel behind me, I release a loud breath, halfway to a sob. It’s the only hint of a breakdown I can allow myself, or I won’t be able to stop. I hate that I didn’t think of this. I saw a lever once on the Internet, with the former Queen. Her ladies were waiting beside her bed when she awoke, ready to hand her a modest satin robe. Her hair was carefully plaited from the previous night, and thinking back, I realize she must have slept in light cosmetics in order to be presentable for the mass of tourists she knew would be waiting. She looked stunning. Beyond glamorous to a twelve-year-old girl.
Seems less glamorous now.
“We don’t have to suffer the paparazzi,” Lady Mei told me one day after I’d been complaining about our Wednesday obligations. “Not the kind that jump out of bushes and peep in your windows, at least. Ours come each Wednesday and must stay behind the ropes. It’s not a terrible deal, in the end. At least we can be ready.”
Except that I’m not ready.
“M.A.R.I.E.!”
But she’s not here on Wednesdays. Not in the Appartement de la Reine. Or, to be fair, du Roi; this is a burden the Queen and King bear together. The Baroque fa?ade we put on display for the world once a week must not be tainted by modern trappings. No bots, no screens, no M.A.R.I.E.
I rush to my toilette table and open a large glass bowl of scented talc, an essential piece of kit for the sensitive skin beneath my corset. Deep into the chalky powder goes the vial of Glitter. Turn the tap, water, a quick wash, and then I reach for my Lens.
Who can I call? Who might have any idea what needs to be done?
I want to call Molli—especially after last night—but if she even knows the routine, she’s not an early riser. She’d have to get herself presentable before she could come and help do the same for me, and even then it might be the proverbial blind leading the blind. Lord Aaron would be perfect, but in keeping with the Baroque, the lever maintains historic gender divides. And Lady Mei? Assuming her elaborate toilette was complete enough for her to dare to be seen in public, she would instantly, and gleefully, spread my shame around the court, our friendship notwithstanding.