Saber nods. “Reginald thinks your idea is brilliant.”
“Truly?” I ask, warmth spreading through me both at the compliment and at the gentle roll of Saber’s voice.
“He suggests an oil-based cake-type makeup and sends word that powder won’t work.”
Ignoring the odd sensation of discussing cosmetics with a man, I simply nod. “We can do a cake foundation, a rub-on rouge, and lip gloss, then.”
“You’re sure you want so many types?”
I nod. “Variety is important. It must seem exclusive without being boring.”
He only shrugs in response. He removes a piece of paper from his pocket, and I draw near as we discuss the profit margins for the bases, the price of the Glitter, and a few branding suggestions. “This room should be perfect for blending,” Saber says, looking around. “I’ll bring you a mini–inversion plate that can accommodate a 250-milliliter beaker, which is all you should need, and—”
“No, stop,” I interrupt. “You can’t possibly intend for me to create the cosmetics here. I’m not a scientist.”
But Saber’s already shaking his head. “Simple mixing, I assure you. It can barely be called cooking, much less science. The bases melt easily; you add the Glitter, pour it into miniature pots, done.”
“Why can’t Reginald send me completed product?”
“Cut your profits in half, for starters,” Sabers drawls, as though he understands how important the money is to me and despises me for it. The sting I feel at his disapproval hurts more than it ought, and I try to swallow it back. “Reginald’s actually giving you a significant discount to hide what he’s doing from his regular Glitter people. He doesn’t want anyone else to know about this new method of distribution just yet. Also, he thinks it’d be easier to send supplies into the palace on your person; you’re way less likely to be searched than a large, mysterious package.”
I knit my brows and look around the room. “You’re certain I can manage this?”
“Trust me,” he says, reaching into his pocket and removing a tiny black canister with a dab of sparkling red paste about the size of a euro coin inside. He flips it through the air to me. It looks like a fancy sample from a high-end cosmetics company. “Reginald’s had me testing all night.”
I look up at him now, and only once I’m consciously looking do I see signs of weariness in his face. “I’m sorry I was the cause of your suddenly working so much overtime,” I say, very much meaning it. I only got the missive off to Reginald via courier at eight o’clock last night. He and Saber must have been working ever since.
“It’s what I do,” Saber says, but he won’t meet my eyes. Perhaps sleep-deprived grumpiness is the reason for his cold treatment of me. But then, what was his excuse before?
“This is perfect,” I say, looking at the cute little pot. “It’s tiny and looks quite exclusive.”
“If you can come up with a name, Reginald will have labels made.”
“Can’t we just call it Glitter?”
“But that’s what it’s called on the street.”
“Still, it’s such an innocuous word. And in a completely different form from the patches Reginald peddles. No one would note the correlation. Besides, it would prevent me from slipping up in conversation.”
Saber just shrugs. “I’ll check it with Reginald. I think that’s everything.” He looks down at his list. “You should go so that this meeting looks as though it were between your father and me. Send word when you’re ready to meet in Paris again to pick up supplies.” He turns his back, fully dismissing me, and I try not to feel rejected.
Now my work truly begins.
AFTER SEVERAL HOURS’ contemplation, I choose red.
Once I’ve determined the color, the rest follows easily: a gown from Marie-Antoinette’s personal fashion book, crimson lips, ruby ribbons in my hair. I’ll twine them up in the back, with cascading curls in front that bounce by my face and flirt with the bare skin above my décolletage—early seventeenth-century hair, a faux pas to pair with a dress from the other end of the Baroque (doubly so on a Wednesday), but only slightly more daring than the monochrome ensemble I have in mind. A single color for a single purpose: tonight I must strain propriety.
Assuming I can find a way to get myself dressed at all.
When I get back to the Queen’s Bedchamber after a long walk to calm my nerves, it still hosts a milling crowd—if smaller than the one that greeted me upon waking.
A crowd, and no bots.
No bots to fetch a plate of charcuterie to make up for my missed luncheon. After my missed breakfast. No bots to remove my hat, cloak, and satin-laced shoes. No bots to assist me with my evening finery.