It’s amusing to see in the tourists’ midst a few men in evening coats, women with low-cut gowns of cheap cotton borne up by lumpy, uneven panniers and sparse powdered wigs fashioned into pompadours balanced precariously atop their heads. I suppose to them the resemblance is at least passing, but no woman in all of Sonoman-Versailles would be caught wearing so much as a shift of such shoddy tailoring.
I’m forced to wonder if this is what we look like to them. Can they not tell the difference? Judging from what I’ve observed, both in person and online, quality doesn’t seem to be very important in the rest of the world. I know the words for their clothing: T-shirts, jeans, shorts, polos. I’m not fascinated with the fashions of the rest of the world like some of the ladies are—but we have the Internet. We’re aware that we’re different. But I love our fashions, our culture. Always have. If I succeed in my task—if I can meet Reginald’s price—will I ever be able to dress properly again? A small enough price to pay for my liberty and my life, I suppose, but given my limited range of experience, will my own attempts to dress like them prove as absurd as their attempts to dress like me?
The music ends, and I drop a low bow to his Royal Highness, but before I can walk away, he clamps my fingertips in a bruising grip and gestures to the musicians to play another. Two dances, three. A fourth starts, and still he doesn’t let me go. I can’t simply decide to leave without making a scene, but if he tries for a fifth, I may be forced to beg use of the privy to get away. I’m working hard to gain his approval tonight—I want everyone here to be aware that he desires me—but sometimes my own level of success can be frustrating. I made this happen because it’s what I wanted to happen, I remind myself. I’m finally doing something, and it’s going to help me sell Glitter.
Finally His Majesty leads me off the dance floor and spends too long raising my hands to his lips in front of the gathered nobles, who give a soft patter of applause at his show of gentlemanly affection. Part of it—a goodly part—is simply that: a show. But some of it’s real. I flirt and toy with him, and he’s too simple to do anything but fall for it. Somehow, he’s convinced himself that the girl who watched him murder in cold blood could actually want him.
“I THOUGHT HE had you in his nasty clutches and was never going to let you go.”
Lord Aaron’s barely jesting comment rings as he and Molli swoop in from both sides, rather like birds of prey. I take his arm on one side and Molli twines our elbows into a friendly link on the other; momentarily, I savor the illusion of protection.
“You look quite lovely,” Molli says lightly. “Is the gown new?”
“No,” I laugh, “old. In fact my mother almost refused to fasten me into it, it’s so far expired.”
“What’s old is new, darling,” Lord Aaron says with a half-grin. “Who in the entire world should understand that better than us?”
I laugh again, a sound carefully practiced to be pleasant to the ear without truly drawing attention. It took ages to learn. “No, no,” Giovanni would say when I practiced. “You’re not a serving wench. You are a secretive siren.” I always thought his emphasis was on siren. Foolish young me.
“I have grand news,” I say, pulling Molli and Lord Aaron along with me as I stroll down the Hall of Mirrors, red satin train trailing on the ground behind me. “For all the tradition and protocol he’s broken in the process, His Royal Highness has indeed given me the Queen’s Rooms. All of them. So I’ve decided to have a tea party in the Salle du Sacre.”
Even if I weren’t expected to hold some kind of housewarming fête, I would want to so the court could stop whispering about it behind hands and fans and gossip about it openly instead. In addition, I’m going to use it to launch my new cosmetics line.
“The Coronation Room?” Lord Aaron asks, eyes big. It is a bold move, but if I’m ever going to meet Reginald’s fee, I’m going to have to become accustomed to boldness.
“Indeed.”
“What do you have planned for the party?” Molli asks.
It’s a reasonable question—one that’s about décor and food, not illicit-drug-laced cosmetics. “I haven’t gotten that far.”
“No time like the present,” Lord Aaron says, always up for party planning.
“Very well, whom should I invite?” I ask with a grin.
“That depends,” Lord Aaron says seriously. “What’s the purpose of the tea?”
He would never believe it if I were to tell him the truth—not even him. “To make as many people jealous as possible.” Technically true.
“Then put Lady Cynthea at the top of the list,” Molli blurts.
“She’s already there.”
We snicker, our gazes sliding to Lady Cyn, who’s posing for the cameras in her admittedly exquisite gown. I’m wondering if she understands the difference between sightseers and paparazzi when she catches us looking and, never one to resist even the most lamentable of challenges, lights up like an LED before excusing herself and stepping toward two of her friends for a brief tête-à-tête. The threesome then turn and come at us, Lady Cyn in the lead, her bronze dress making her look rather like the figurehead of a grand ship.