“So, is this little reveal enough to make you pack up shop?” Saber asks, letting his messenger bag fall back to his hip and crossing his arms over his chest.
And I don’t have an immediate answer. Is it? Is the fact that Reginald placed this opportunity in front of me a reason not to accept it? I’ve spent months wracking my brain for an answer, and this is the only one that has suited. Besides, I’ve already set the stage by parading my faux-Glitter lip gloss about the palace for the last two days, and news of my party is spreading like wildfire through the grapevines of the nobility. It feels like a high-speed rail engine—too much momentum to stop. “No.” I mean to declare the word, but it comes out in a whisper.
Saber looks down, hiding his face, but I catch his expression nonetheless. He’s disappointed. Which doesn’t make sense either. Why does he hold me to such a high standard? Why is he repulsed that I’m enmeshing myself in his industry? “Your decision.” He removes and unrolls an odd white contraption from his bag and drops to one knee. “If you could lift your skirts.”
“Excuse me?” I nearly shriek, pulling my hem back and away from his hands.
But he only looks up at me with impatience. “Should I give you my bag instead? So you can carry your miniature drug lab into the palace on your shoulder?”
Oh. It’s some kind of pouch, then, to fasten under my skirts. Still. “I’ll do it,” I say, holding out my hand for the fabric.
“Oh, so you’d like me to hold your skirts up waist-high so you can reach beneath them with both hands.”
My face flames so hot I have trouble drawing breath. He has a point, but admitting that means I must let him…
“This is ridiculous,” I say, turning my head away and lifting my hem perhaps halfway to my knees. “Watch yourself under there.”
His only reply is a snort.
He does a decent job, his gaze decidedly vacant as he reaches under my gown, hands barely skimming my thighs, then carefully securing a Velcro strap about my hips, just below my tight bodice. It’s the work of less than half a minute, but my insides explode with butterflies at each intimate brush of his fingers, and by the time he withdraws his hands, I feel I might very well swoon.
The belt is heavy with my supplies, but they hang balanced on either side of my hips, much like my panniers, and so feel almost natural. I step back and forth a few times and admit, “This will be fine, I think.”
Saber says nothing else, and I’m turning back toward Giovanni’s when he grabs my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. “If you don’t listen, you’ll wish you had,” he says, and the calm in his voice belies the strength of his grip. But I don’t sense anger. More like desperation. He almost looks…scared? “You seem to think you’re dealing with something that’s a happy cross between alcohol and sleeping pills.”
I open my mouth to protest, but can’t say anything because it’s actually a good articulation of precisely what I thought.
“Glitter’s going to send them flying because they’ve never had anything like it before, and they’ll be begging for more. As long as you make sure no one gets too much, you should be fine. Remember what I said—it’s plenty strong; better too little than too much. If you ever suspect anyone of getting close to the truth, threaten to cut them off. Trust me, losing their fix will be the strongest threat you can make.”
Like with my father. I pull at my arm again, hard enough that Saber realizes how tight he’s holding on and releases me. I clear my throat and straighten my hat.
“And try to limit them to one container at a time.”
“Why? Variety sells.” Between lipstick, foundation, and rouge, I’d rather hoped to sell several doses at once, in the interest of front-loading my income.
But I suppose if they were to apply multiple kinds of Glitter-infused makeup, they’d be taking an instant double or even triple dose. My heart pounds as I realize that Saber has just saved me from a simple, stupid, possibly deadly mistake. It must show on my face, because he relaxes—not entirely, but enough that I notice.
“Looks like maybe I’ve finally gotten it through that pretty head of yours.”
I’m not sure whether to be complimented, insulted, or simply shocked.
“Better too little than too much,” he repeats.
I think I nod. He spins away with hardly a sound and turns the corner so gracefully I could believe he vanished into thin air—might even convince myself he’d never been there at all.
I SET MY hands at my tightly bound waist, drawing courage from the deep, stiff curve I find there. My new bot tightened my corset to its preset measurement this morning, and once again, it wasn’t enough. We managed another full two centimeters before I felt prepared to tackle this soirée.