Damn, damn, damn!
I try to think of ladies older than me, who might have participated in the lever with the old Queen. Lady Camille Medeiros! She’s always been friendly to me at assemblies, but she’s older than she appears. And a countess in her own right. I’m certain she must’ve been invited to attend the Queen at least occasionally. I blink, activating my Lens, and hurry to the mirror so my own reflection can act as my screen for a video call.
“Call Lady Camille Medeiros,” I command. “Mark it urgent.” Even if she’s still abed, surely even a countess will answer an urgent call from the future Queen.
One, two, three, four, five, six, sev—
“Your Grace?” Lady Medeiros’s large, dark eyes appear in a tiny square in my peripheral vision.
“Lady Medeiros, I need assistance,” I say in a rush, letting my Lens focus on my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s a quick fix for certain, but it allows Lady Medeiros to see me in all my disheveled glory. “There are so many people here for—” I hesitate. I’m babbling, and I cannot afford to show such weakness in front of powerful nobility. Not now. “I need a lever,” I say calmly.
“By the looks of you, you’ve missed most of it already, Your Grace,” she says, her tone gently scolding.
“I confess, I was ill prepared.” It’s the only concession I’ll make. To say that I received no warning that I’d be taking up some of the Queen’s duties along with her rooms would reveal that I’m out of favor with the King; to confess that I needed such warning would imply either clumsiness or distraction on my part. I can afford to have the nobility saying none of these things about me, especially not right now.
But I have to give her something, because I need her. The ghost-image of Lady Medeiros being projected into my right eye is fully dressed, and if her hair isn’t as formal as might be preferred for a royal assignment, it’s at least coiffed. It’s enough. “I’m certain with your reputation at court that you waited on the Queen. You were the first lady I thought of,” I add, making a play to her pride.
“You’ll need more than me.”
“I trust your resourcefulness.”
She hesitates.
I give a bit more. “Please?” I whisper.
Lady Medeiros’s lips part and she licks her bottom lip, and I know I’ve won her over—at least for now. “Gabriella will be awake,” she finally says. “Lady Anaya, too. But I might need as much as ten minutes.”
“I can begin my own toilette,” I say. “I’ll be exceptionally slow. They won’t know the difference.”
“Don’t underestimate them simply because they aren’t wearing gowns,” Lady Medeiros says seriously. “Our lady Queen never did.”
She might as well have slapped me, and my cheeks burn hot. “Hurry,” I say, and end the call before she can see the sheen of moisture in my eyes. I shake tension from my hands and gasp for air to fight back the tears.
Five seconds. Ten. Regain control.
My long, wavy hair is tousled in what I would otherwise call sexy bed mess, but sexy is not what I’m going for today. My shift is as bad as I feared, leaving little to the imagination, but even if I were in my wardrobe instead of my washroom, where I would actually have a change of clothing, I haven’t time to unlace my corset. Perhaps with the help of a bot or two—but of course, it’s Wednesday.
So I don the only robe in the bathroom—a terry cloth number that looks more like a towel than a part of my morning bedroom set, but better terry cloth than another gallery for the “celebrity wardrobe malfunctions” feed.
A collective Ooooh! sounds from the crowd as I emerge, eyes downcast, and I have to bite back a gag at the unfairness of it all. A simple warning that this was going to happen: “With the Queen’s chambers occupied, we must, per agreement with the Fifth Republic, reinstitute exhibition of the Lever du Roi. Vive la France!” Is that so much to ask from the man who intends to marry me? In my pique, I wonder if he did this on purpose. This seems like the sort of prank that would amuse him.
My dressing table has very few cosmetics on it—something I’ll change before next Wednesday—but enough for me to playact some kind of routine while my last-minute staff makes its way to my rooms. I perch on the edge of the dressing room table, and the murmur of the crowd takes a tone of displeasure as I begin brushing the curled ends of my hair.
Apparently, this is wrong.
Lady Medeiros was right—I shouldn’t have underestimated them. Every person in the gallery paid a premium to attend, to witness firsthand the live performance of a piece of French culture that dates back centuries, reenacted today for the first time in over five years. For all I know, there are die-hards in the crowd who spent months watching old webcasts of weekly levers.
I must be the biggest letdown.
Using the general buzz of the crowd as my guide, I put down the brush and reach for a small pot of face cream instead.