“No one important will know,” I amend, and don’t bother to watch for her reaction. I turn to a drawer in my credenza instead, rustling through a few tissue-paper-wrapped items. “Here,” I say, holding the embroidered black silk stomacher across my waist while I wait wordlessly for my mother to pull the strings tight in the back. I stand, frozen in place, for nearly a minute before I finally feel her begin to thread the satin ribbons.
I’m not convinced that even the solid black of the adorning piece will work with what I’d hoped would be a completely red canvas, but once all the pieces are put together, I scrutinize myself in the mirror and decide it does. My purpose tonight isn’t to scale the heights of fashion. The gown is slim, with smaller panniers than usual, drawing attention not to my hips, as a fuller skirt would do, but pulling the eye upward with a triangular bodice. The deep red complements my olive skin and dark brown hair beautifully, and the shiny satin has neither pattern nor excessive trim—nothing to catch the eye.
To match the last-minute stomacher, I add a black lace panel to my low, square neckline so even my shadow of cleavage is less distracting. My makeup features a dark, smoky eye, and I’ve coated my eyelashes more heavily than usual. Now the crowning detail.
I reach into my satin reticule and pull out small ceramic pot of red lip paint.
With glitter in it.
Not the tiny black pot Saber flipped to me; this contains a fine but simple silver glitter I found in the bottom of my trunk. From a costume at some point, I imagine. I didn’t even make too excessive a mess when I mixed it with some shiny red lip gloss an hour ago in my bathroom. Away from the prying eyes of my spectators. It’s not perfect—the costume glitter isn’t nearly as fine as in Saber’s mixture, so the glossy red paste is a bit gritty as I brush a red curve onto my lower lip. But once I’ve painted bottom and top, the sparkling effect is rather stunning.
“Perfect,” I whisper at the mirror through sticky, coated lips.
“What in the world is that?” my mother asks, glaring at my audacious mouth.
“The next big thing, Mother,” I reply, smudging one uneven line. “The next big thing.”
“PARDONNEZ, EXCELLENCE?” THE French rendering of my new title sounds from outside my wardrobe. The minion His Highness always has flitting around him at formal events is standing just outside the golden gate that cordons off my personal space. Matt-something-or-other. At the sight of me, he bursts out with a high-pitched “Aaah!” and pushes his way through. He pauses a meter from where I stand and drops into a deep bow, then continues in French. “Your Grace, His Majesty the King requests your presence.”
Odd. “He mustn’t worry; I’ll join him in time to be announced. The ball doesn’t begin for another quarter of an hour.” I wave the man away dismissively and begin buttoning my finely embroidered gloves without waiting to see if he goes.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” the man says, dropping another subservient bow. He’s easily twenty years my senior and certainly wouldn’t be putting on this syrupy display were there not a dozen wide-eyed tourists soaking in every moment, eyes gleaming unnaturally as their Lenses subtitle our conversation for those who don’t speak French. “His Highness needs to consult with you before the ball.”
I raise an eyebrow and fix the man with my most irritated glare, and it’s almost amusing how quickly he begins to quake beneath it. Sometimes an audience is helpful. I tuck that little tidbit away for use in the future.
“H-he was most insistent,” the man stammers, and I wonder if my supposed beloved hired him because he’s so easy to boss about.
This wasn’t my plan, but perhaps I can turn it to my benefit. “Help me, then,” I say, thrusting out my still-unbuttoned glove. “I cannot leave this room improperly dressed.” He almost chokes at the inferior task I’ve given him, but he can hardly refuse, and soon his nimble fingers have fastened twenty tiny seed-pearl buttons on each arm.
“Lead on,” I say sweetly when he drops my left hand.
Murmurs of delight surround me as I glide down the halls of the salons in my finery, treading a roped-off path. Wouldn’t want any eager tourists to reach out grubby hands and touch my pristine satin gown as I glide by, after all. Judging by their excited whispers, I’ve impressed them—the Americans especially—but the King will be another matter.
The reedy assistant leads me to the King’s Private Office, where His Highness conducts much of his personal business, and closes the double doors behind me. His Royal Highness is sitting at his Chippendale desk, already dressed in a formal coat, with perfectly curled hair. I’m a little shocked to see him holding a small tablet—screens are supposed to be off-limits on Wednesdays, especially in the popular royal quarters. But I remember his comment earlier about the rooms M.A.R.I.E. automatically ceases to record when he enters. Why don’t I have a room like that?
“Must we both waste our time?” I ask after he sits silently for the better part of a minute, eyes fixed on the screen.