“Very well,” Lord Aaron says, with a light grin.
“Here,” I say, retrieving two special pots from my reticule. One is the lipstick I’ll wear for the next few months—the one I wore for the ball last Wednesday. Both are made with costume glitter, not Reginald’s narcotic. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. In fact, Lord Aaron is ever the indulgent sort; given the truth, he might well opt to try the real thing. But I can’t give it to them, not after seeing my father. Not after Saber’s warning. Hopefully, when I pass the spiked cosmetics around, my friends won’t feel the need to reapply. I still don’t think the small doses I’m giving everyone else could possibly be that harmful, but with these two, I don’t want to chance anything.
“Glitter,” Lord Aaron says, reading the sticker on the pot I’ve just handed him. I was pleasantly surprised that Reginald provided a subtle, elegant font for the label. I feared a gauche, glitter-enameled name in Comic Sans.
“Fitting, I think,” I say with a smile.
A few nights ago, under the pretense of visiting my father, I set everything up in his office. It wasn’t very difficult; the inverter hot plate melted the cosmetic bases in less than a minute, and the scale worked beautifully to measure out the tiny doses of Glitter. So small were the doses that most batches of makeup required additional costume glitter to achieve the right look.
It was odd to look at the little pile of Glitter sitting on the scale. “Better too little than too much,” I muttered to myself. Easier said than done. Less than in a spoonful of sugar, such as one might add to a single cup of tea, and it was literally hundreds of doses. The mathematician in me is impressed by the sheer profitability of such a substance.
The most time-consuming part was using the pipettes to carefully transfer a mere two grams of the liquid mixture into fifty empty makeup pots. It seems like such a meager amount, but Saber suggested that the ideal dose to sell is a single week’s worth. If anyone would know, he would.
The guilt has set in, sharp and cutting as an actual blade. I truly did consider my endeavor as a matter of simply giving a harmless high to the lords and ladies of the court and fleecing them for the cost. And it will be for only a few months at worst. But Saber’s warning, and his disdain, have been holding me back like invisible hands, and though my path is clear, I struggle to move forward.
With a forced smile, I paint Molli’s lips the sparkly red that matches mine and let Lord Aaron apply just a touch of glittering rouge to his cheeks at the small mirror by the closed doors. When he tries to hand his back, I suggest, lightly, that they both keep the little pots I’ve given them.
“You’ll be toasted as trendsetters by the end of the week,” I say with a wink. “Now shoo, the both of you, and get food.” With lips and cheeks ashine, they acquiesce, Molli with an adorable giggle so perfectly happy and innocent it makes my heart twinge.
About a minute after I’ve commanded M.A.R.I.E. to open the doors, a hovering footman announces Lady Cynthea Lefurgey. It’s a delicate balance, being on time without being early, and I’m sadly unsurprised that she strikes it well.
I am surprised, however, that she chose to wear red. Not the best color against her auburn hair, but a gorgeous ensemble clearly designed to outshine my own outdated red dress from the assembly last Wednesday. As lovely as it is, she now clashes rather terribly with the pink décor.
“Lady Cyn,” I say with my most demure smile. “So very pleased you could attend. And your sister.” I drop a perfect curtsy and trust that Lady Cyn will be paying close enough attention to realize I aim my bow only at her sister. Her younger sister.
The flush at the top of Lady Cyn’s cheeks tells me she noticed.
“Please,” I say, gesturing, “give your wrap to one of the bots and help yourself to refreshments.”
Lady Cyn says nothing, just turns toward the chaises and settees forming a large semicircle around the actual coronation throne I’ve had dragged forward and draped with white satin and pink bows as my own seat of honor. An eyelash’s width from truly over-the-top, but I think it works. Lady Cyn’s little sister, who currently outranks me, drops an unnecessary curtsy before scurrying after her horrible sibling. By the time I turn from her retreating back, there’s a line of six guests waiting to be greeted.
The younger brides of various board members follow behind Lady Cyn, then a handful of nobles’ daughters nearer my age. There are three other gentlemen—including, of course, Sir Spencer, for Lord Aaron’s sake. I’m unsurprised when the two of them bunch together, and I suspect they’ll be inseparable for the duration of the soirée.