His bluntness might be refreshing, were he not using it to bludgeon me.
It’s not like I have a choice. Telling them what the cosmetics truly are is out of the question. I trust the discretion of my fellow nobles about as far as I trust His Majesty the King. If any of them guess what’s really in my special cosmetics, their likely refusal to make future purchases will be the least of my problems. I have to keep the dosage low enough that they don’t realize they’ve been drugged at all—that they just feel good whenever they use the makeup I gave them, so they’ll buy more.
This will also maintain a veneer of plausible deniability for me; how was I to know what was in the historically appropriate makeup my supplier sold me? I was as duped as anyone! All the court of Sonoman-Versailles needs to believe is that my secret makeup supplier is the best in the world and my product well worth the outrageous price.
And it’s temporary, I remind myself. A few months. Nothing can be so bad for a few months. It’s not like this can kill them—look at my father. He’s been using for ages.
“Once they put it on their skin, you’ve got about five minutes before—”
“Euphoria will kick in, yes. I remember from watching my father,” I interrupt.
Saber gives me a silent stare, and I’m just starting to think I’m going to have to say something—possibly even apologize—to get him going again when he resumes. “You watched your father receive a very high but carefully moderated dose of a substance he’s been using for over a month. This’ll be different. The reaction of first-timers can vary from a pleasant drowsiness to fits of bliss to manic energy—even at doses low enough that they’re unlikely to realize they’ve been drugged. We almost never start newbies on doses as high as your father.”
A prickle of unease travels up my spine. “Why not?”
“Reginald needed him hooked hard and fast, didn’t he?”
My entire neck grows warm. There’s something wrong here. “Why would—”
Saber’s face flushes red, and I realize he’s told me something he shouldn’t have.
“My father was targeted.”
Saber tries to get the conversation back to the supplies, but I’m having none of that.
“This is why my father’s the only noble in the palace using Glitter, and also happens to be getting it from the only Parisian drug dealer, who happens to know that his daughter is trying to escape from Sonoman-Versailles.”
When Saber’s mouth snaps shut, I know I’m onto the truth. This isn’t about my father. This isn’t even precisely about Glitter. This is about me. Seemingly unimportant words from my conversation with my father sail into my thoughts. About the night he met Reginald.
We talked.
About what?
You, mostly.
Pieces like little bits of a puzzle are coming together in my mind, revealing one brilliant, devastating whole. My father was bait. Getting Glitter into the high-priced world of Sonoman-Versailles was Reginald’s aim. Possibly since the moment he realized who I was in the catacombs. “This is a setup.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar!”
My accusation makes Saber’s fidgeting hands still.
“He’s been playing an elaborate game of chess with my life.” I count off on gloved fingers. “He knew who my father was when he approached him in the tavern. He gave him free merchandise, knowing he would become a regular client, which was bound to attract my notice eventually. And he’s too careful for me to put this all down to coincidence. The pieces are lined up precisely where he wants them.”
Saber says nothing, which only confirms the veracity of my theory. Reginald would have denied it, but he’s not here.
I’m practically speaking to myself now as I verbalize my thoughts even as they form in my head. “He wanted the Sonoman-Versailles market, but he knew I wouldn’t give it to him unless I thought it was my own idea. I’m such an idiot.”
“Pretty much.”
I grit my teeth against a violent retort. It’s strange, talking to Saber. He’s a minion of some kind—I don’t know exactly what his role is—but he acts like he’s doing me a huge favor by deigning to even speak with me. Like I’m a rotten fruit he’s been assigned to clean up. Not simply like he’s better than me, but like there’s something wrong with me.
To be treated like a distasteful chore doesn’t sit well. Worse, I want to impress him—this silent, moody person. I want to sparkle for him and see his eyes light up when I come around. But he scarcely seems even to see me. His eyes slide away whenever they meet mine, and I know it’s not because he’s shy. I can tell.