The soirée is in full swing, with bots—dressed in the traditional red-and-gold livery of the seventeenth century—whirring about with trays of champagne and canapés among gowns of silk and satin, and the frenzied click of hundreds of jeweled heels. Delectable scents of both food and perfume waft like clouds, filling even the spaces where bodies don’t fit. Orchestral tunes are piped softly through hidden speakers, and the sparkle of candlelight can’t help but dazzle. For the two years since my official début, this crowded, frenetic atmosphere was heaven on earth to me, and even now, the elegance tempts me to rejoin my peers and drink and dance away what has become of my life.
The salons swarm and buzz like a hive, though unlike insects, the drones here congregate around their king rather than a queen. The constant churn of people around my fiancé, the King, is actually terribly helpful; it takes only a glance to know which end of the salons to avoid. But even as I spot the hub of the milling crowd, His Majesty catches my eye and makes it very clear he wishes to speak to me.
I grab a flute of champagne from a serving-bot’s gyro-balanced tray, then hurry in the opposite direction.
Not that I make much headway. The crush of the throng is downright suffocating, and I make my way through it at a speed of approximately one meter per minute. Perhaps less.
He was waiting for me.
If he were a sensible, reasonable person, he’d simply have had M.A.R.I.E. schedule a meeting for the two of us in his private offices. But no, of course he’d rather ambush me in public. Cursed man. I’m not certain why I continue to expect some level of normal human decency from him.
I squelch panic when I sense a presence at my left side. Don’t look.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” says Molli, and twines one arm with mine.
Thank all deities in the known universe—and the unknown, for good measure. I grip Molli close to my side, already feeling better, but continue my dogged trek forward.
“His Majesty certainly has eyes only for you this evening.”
“I’d rather he had eyes for anyone else, and you know it,” I say without dropping the affected half-smile I use to deflect unwanted attention.
“I do, yes, but try explaining that to Lady Cynthea,” Molli says, inclining her head subtly toward a tall, elegant young lady in a gold brocade gown that sparkles with dots of what are no doubt very real jewels.
I stifle a smile at the mention of His Majesty’s mistress—perhaps mistress is the wrong word. Even girlfriend sounds wrong when half the twosome is engaged. I suppose technically she’s simply my fiancé’s bit of skirt.
“You’d think she was Queen, the way she holds court,” Molli says, her voice dripping with distain. The court is essentially split into two camps: those who support the Queen the King has chosen—me—and those who still think Lady Cyn, with her pristine bloodlines, is more worthy of the throne.
And, indeed, with a dozen members of the high nobility arranged in a semicircle before her, Lady Cyn does look like the true Queen holding court. As though hearing our whispered conversation, Lady Cyn turns her long, elegant nose toward us. Then she whispers behind her fan to a girl standing next to her and turns halfway, giving us her back. Not quite the cut direct—she doesn’t dare give me such a social dismissal—but a clear insult nonetheless.
I simply don’t care.
I used to. At my coming out, when my mother made it all too obvious that she intended to parade me in front of the King like a tasty slab of meat, Lady Cyn was quick to inform me that I was unwelcome in her territory. Only weeks apart in age, and owing to a friendship between their mothers, Lady Cyn and the King were considered by the court to be—informally and unofficially, of course—intended.
I can still feel the sting of her satin glove smacking my face when she cornered me over a year ago, flanked by a half-circle of well-born bullies in silken gowns. It should have been merely an insult—an ancient and almost meaningless gesture. Except that Lady Cyn had taken it upon herself to put several heavy rings inside the glove.
“You’re a devious climber, and you’ll stop if you know what’s best for you,” she hissed close to my ear as I cradled my throbbing cheek.
I wished I could tell her I wasn’t after her precious boyfriend. Of course, every starry-eyed débutante within a decade of the King’s age probably entertained some shallow hope of a royal wedding. And I can’t say I was any different—but I hardly nurtured a tendresse for the always-arrogant young monarch.
What drew Lady Cyn’s anger wasn’t my determination but my mother’s. Through her scheming and bribes, I more often than not found myself seated beside the King at dinner, sharing his box in the palace’s theater, his name programmed into my dance card.
Consequently, I also found myself avoiding empty corridors whenever humanly possible.
When my betrothal was very publicly announced two months ago, the hatred Lady Cyn already felt toward me, combined with the grievous insult, practically took on a life of its own.