It’s my Wednesday lever, and I’m surrounded by six ladies chosen specifically to help me run my new business. Tamae’s ballpoint quill scratches out the order on a decorative scroll of parchment I keep in my room especially for this purpose. As we discuss the cosmetics going on my face, we’re also cataloging the product going out the door, all without a single tourist any the wiser.
Even though I’d run the figures in my head, I hadn’t really understood how difficult it was going to be to satisfy the number of nobles necessary to make the profits I require. The first few weeks were easy enough; orders trickled in for three days after the party, until nearly every attendee had ordered something. It took three weeks to move my first hundred units of Glitter, but then word of mouth began snowballing. I’d estimated that each customer would need one pot a week, but this turned into three, four, sometimes five, not because they were overindulging, but because they were sharing.
Despite Saber’s repeated warnings each and every Thursday, after the first month I had to stop trying to regulate how many units each person received. I simply let them have what they wanted and reminded them sternly how exceptionally gauche it would be to wear more than one type of Glitter at a time. In fact, at one of the Wednesday-night assemblies, Lady Neema Gueye approached me gleefully sporting both the lip gloss and the rouge, and I made a haughty comment about overindulgence and gave her the cut direct.
No one has done it since.
What more can I do?
Last week was an incredible milestone—I banked my first million euros. It took eight weeks to reach twenty percent of my goal, but my clientèle continues to grow exponentially, and if present trends continue, I expect to meet Reginald’s price in six to seven weeks.
And I have nine. Nine weeks until I turn eighteen and my mother forces the marriage.
Unfortunately, last week I also had to put up my white flag of surrender and ask Reginald for help.
Visiting my father once and even twice a week to prepare the cosmetics was perfectly acceptable at first. No one noticed a thing. But once I crossed two hundred units, I had to go more frequently. I’ve gotten better at concealing my movements from M.A.R.I.E., so I can make unscheduled trips without the court making note, but last week I was in Father’s rooms into the early hours every night and spent my days in a bleary stupor.
Unacceptable.
I expected Reginald to be angry at the note I sent him demanding help, but the following Thursday he showed up at Giovanni’s—the first time I’d caught sight of him in weeks—rubbing his hands with glee as I told him what sort of assistance I needed.
“Tell your lordship husband—”
“Affianced,” I corrected him instantly.
“Him, too. Tell him you’ll be needing a secretary. I’ll send you an assistant. You find a way for him to come and go, place to sleep, make sure you feed him, and he’ll take over prepping the product and fetching deliveries.”
I nearly crumpled in relief. “At what price?” I asked, raising one eyebrow. Reginald always has a price.
“Call it a company perk,” he said with a grin that almost looked friendly. “You’re moving more product; I’m making more money. One man won’t cost me hardly anything.”
“You’re too kind,” I said flatly, my teeth clenched together.
But a gift is a gift, and it’s refreshing to know that tonight is the last night I’ll have to sneak to my father’s room to prepare tiny pots of Glitter, the finest makeup in Sonoman-Versailles. Just ask anyone; the occasional off-brands that enterprising imitators have attempted to hawk just don’t go on as smoothly, don’t wear as comfortably as the name-brand product from my secret Parisian supplier. At least, that’s what my customers tell themselves—and others—when cheaper alternatives somehow fail to…satisfy.
The ladies finish up the motions of the lever, the crowd applauds, and finally we can make our exit into the dressing room behind my very public bedroom. “Thank you, ladies,” I say. “Does anyone have money for me?”
This part we can’t do in front of the crowd. Pannier pockets open and my staff begin handing me stacks of euros, which I’ll count, organize, and bind later. I collect money only on Wednesdays, due to the lessened computerized surveillance, but everyone knows they can give their fee to any of these six ladies to receive their cosmetics on any day.
“Your supplier must be happy with you,” Lady Nuala says as the stack in my hands grows. I have to dump it rather unceremoniously onto my dressing table lest I drop it on the floor. I took a risk deciding to hire Lady Nuala for my lever team less than a week after our…incident with the wine, but she’s proved to be a very loyal traitor. Flattery goes far with her. “Has he ever said why he won’t sell Glitter over the feeds? It seems to me that courier delivery could triple his business overnight.”