Everything’s ready.
About half of my new gowns were delivered from the royal modiste just this morning, so I’m as decorated as the room in an oh-so-innocent pink satin gown with candy-floss feathers sprouting from my coiffure. My eyes are fully lined in black—the feminine equivalent of war paint. I’ve learned, and not only from Lady Mei and her exquisite talents, never to underestimate the power of cosmetics. And isn’t that sentiment apropos today.
I can’t help wishing Saber could see me like this, instead of in the drab getup I’ve worn to Paris both times. Or the hastily chosen outfit from Wednesday’s lever, the day he snuck into the palace. I can’t seem to banish him from my thoughts—to whittle him down to nothing more than a gear in Reginald’s oily engine of crime. The look in his eyes, the way he grabbed my arm so desperately…the more I think about it, the less I can attribute his apparent distaste for me to a simple cultural divide. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if he simply hates his job—but if so, why continue?
A knock sounds from the doorway and I nearly jump out of my skin, but it’s only Lord Aaron and Molli, arriving early at my behest. I’m grateful for the distraction. I don’t need moody green eyes on my mind right now.
“Come in, come in,” I say, beckoning. I close the door quickly behind them. We have only a few minutes, but I don’t want anyone who might be loitering outside to see the elaborate décor until I’m ready for the unveiling.
The throne room is draped in white and rose silk with bunches of fresh flowers tied at every ruche. Tall crystal candlesticks grace every table, and I ordered the use of the palace’s nicest set of tea china. Miniature spoons lean against the edges of twenty-five gold-rimmed teacups, and fine tungsten strainers balance on top.
Lord Aaron takes my hands and air-kisses my cheeks an instant before gushing his appreciation. “It’s divine, Danica. You said you were going to outdo yourself, but this is incredible!”
Molli rushes to the tables to observe the tiny delicacies I’ve ordered, which are décor as much as the actual decorations. Delicate cake pops with curlicued swirls of ivory fondant and pale pink buttercream frosting, tiny macarons in four shades of pink, two raised platters with hundreds of white-chocolate-drizzled cream puffs in perfect croquembouches, a three-tiered tray of miniature cakes with frosting piped to make them look like tiny wrapped gifts in an array of pastels, a veritable mountain of iced marchpane, and a nod to the gentlemen in the form of an oak board filled with ham-heavy petites quiches, assorted cheeses, and charcuterie.
“I won’t be able to eat any of this, Dani. It’s too pretty!”
I glide over and lean close to her ear. “I’m assured it tastes twice as good as it looks. I was hoping you two would fill a plate before the rest of the guests arrive,” I say. “That way, no one will feel awkward, being the first.”
Molli has always loved sweets, and the standoffish look she’s giving the confections melts away instantly. “If you insist,” she says, feigning reluctance theatrically. Having Molli here makes everything feel better and worse at the same time, and dwelling on that too long only makes my stomach upset.
“I do, but just a moment,” I say, taking her hand and pulling her close to Lord Aaron so we stand in a tight triangle. “I have one other favor to ask.” I try to sound friendly rather than terse. But terse is how I feel—wound like a spring, ready to pop at the slightest provocation.
As though sensing my distress, Lord Aaron takes one of my hands—bare, as I haven’t yet donned my elbow-length gloves—and rubs my fingers for a few seconds, then raises them to his lips and brushes a kiss across my knuckles. “Name it,” he says softly.
“Wear some of my new line of cosmetics?”
Lord Aaron raises an eyebrow at that. His clothing is always fine and in exceptional taste, but even in a culture that caters to fops and the effeminate—regardless of their sexual orientation—his makeup, when he wears it at all, is tastefully understated.
“On your lips, or your cheeks. Not too much. I’m assured there’s historic precedent,” I add, though that’s an exaggeration at best. I haven’t asked anyone—I’m making assumptions. But if anyone checks up on me, I’ll forget who it was who told me it was acceptable.
Fortunately, glitter as an adornment reaches back into prehistory, and brand loyalty is already a feature of the cosmetics trade around Sonoman-Versailles.