I toss back my veil as he pulls me close, and I squeeze his neck so hard I wonder if I might be hurting him—but I can’t make myself let go.
“I’ve missed you, little faerie,” Giovanni says, gripping my hands in his. Despite his having been born and raised in Italy, his English is impeccable—I doubt there’s a European language he doesn’t speak—but unmistakably accented. He hesitates. “A faerie Queen now?” he asks, peering at my face as though he could stare into me. His consideration never fails. Unlike nearly everyone else in the world, he doesn’t assume congratulations are in order; he asks.
He’s always been that way. He saw through my mother almost immediately. Lessons became a haven of sorts after that. I could confide my troubles, and he’d tell me tales of his days on the road with traveling dance companies. It was a whole other world, there in that little dance studio. Not that the work was easy. Giovanni’s not one to slack in his responsibilities, and he demanded perfection. I often went home with aching muscles, only to wake even sorer the following day.
But when my mother asked if I was ready, Giovanni continued to tell her no, even when I was. As a fringe benefit, the extra practice carried me beyond mere proficiency, all the way to the supposedly natural elegance for which I’ve earned a reputation at court.
It was the least of what he gave me.
I blink furiously against sudden tears, and my Lens responds with the time.
I have five minutes.
“Giovanni, I’ve come to you because I trust you more than anyone else in this city. No, in the entire world.” Sad how true that is.
His soft blue eyes sober. “What can I do for you? Your com was most…general,” he says with a gentle smile.
“Pretend you’re giving me further instruction in grace and poise.”
“But you don’t need—”
“And do not ask questions when I come to you.” I press on before I can lose my nerve.
He pauses. Looks me up and down. I’m in a black robe à la Piémontaise today, simply cut. Subtle, if there is such a thing in Baroque fashion. Not severe enough to indicate mourning—not with my daring décolletage and dark green satin trim—but plain enough that Giovanni will deduce that I’m attempting to blend in. “How often will you be coming?”
“We’ll have a standing weekly appointment on the day of your choosing.” And though I know he’d be willing to do it for nothing, I add, “Your standard fee will be deposited, as before.”
He nods. His eyes are hooded and I know he wants to press further, but his affection for me holds him back. “Should I be concerned for your safety, chouchou?” is all he says.
My smile is calm, but sure and steady. “That need not be your concern.”
His expression darkens at my nonanswer, but he doesn’t say more.
I decide he deserves something. “I’m not going to be Queen,” I say. “Not if I can help it.” It’ll have to suffice. “Might I make use of your back door?”
He doesn’t like it, but I know already that he’ll help me. At two minutes of three I slip out the back door of his dance studio. No black sedan is in sight, but with a quick glance down the alley I find Saber waiting, a dark gray coat swathed around his shoulders despite the warmth in the air. He’s dressed to draw absolutely no undue attention to himself, and an unembellished black hat sits low on his forehead, shadowing his features. I walk over and stand before him, one eyebrow raised expectantly. “You’re taking me to Reginald?”
“Reginald doesn’t want to see you.”
“But—” I snap my mouth closed, refusing to argue with this man who, I must remind myself, though he’s handsome enough to have invaded my dreams every night these past few days, is simply a cog in the machinery of an illegal industry I’m being forced to participate in. A grumpy cog. I don’t want his friendship even if he were inclined to offer it. I don’t. “He promised me supplies, and he must know I can’t simply shuttle down to Paris at his bidding.”
“Can’t you?” Saber spares me a quick glance, and his eyes freeze me in place not only with their color, but also with their coldness. They’re green, a hue I always thought of as warm, but his gaze reminds me of nothing so much as iced crème de menthe.
I stand straighter, making full use of my above-average height, and lift my chin so the shadow from my hat covers only my eyes. “No, I cannot. I’m a lady of the court of Sonoman-Versailles, not to mention affianced of the King. I’m watched and questioned and badgered constantly.”
“Then maybe this isn’t a great idea,” Saber says, his face impassive, his lips barely moving.
I deflate, struggling to cover my dismay at the way this man—a drug dealer, for heaven’s sake—has seen right through me. I fix him with a stony glare, and he matches it.