“Oh, everything has to be an art project with Parisians these days,” I say, holding my voice steady. “Give them avant-garde or give them death. I think his angle is ‘makeup so fine, you have to buy it from a Queen.’ Although,” I say heavily, lifting a gloved hand to my forehead, “it’s becoming most fatiguing. I suspect I’ll have to bow out soon.”
“Surely once you’re wed,” chimes in Lady Cardozo, the one married woman I brought onto my team. “You’ll have other things to do.”
“Indeed,” I say, drawing my fan up to my face as though covering a pleased blush.
“Then your supplier will have to sell directly.” The hope in Lady Cardozo’s voice is cringe-worthy.
“Likely,” I demur, grasping about for a new subject. “Oh! For you all.”
Though it rather pinches to do so, I buy both the services and the secrecy of my ladies—on top of the wage M.A.R.I.E. pays them—with one free pot of Glitter each Wednesday. It’s hard to see three thousand euros’ worth of product walk away from me in pastel silks every week, but I know the ladies are generous with it, and I’m certain they attract more customers than I sacrifice in profits. Surely.
Regardless, I need them. And one must pay one’s employees.
As they leave, the adrenaline that always comes with the lever, as well as the rush of doing business, drains from me and loneliness envelops me. Not for the first time I wish Molli were on my staff. And I know Molli wishes she were as well. It’s a position with both a high wage and high prestige—two things Molli stands in need of. I didn’t ask her; I couldn’t, once I realized it was the best way to conduct my business under the King’s nose. And I want Molli to have nothing to do with this whole affair. But it’s driven a wedge into our friendship. Not a big wedge—neither of us would allow that to happen. But it’s a small wedge, and like a tiny splinter, it agitates, stinging a bit more each time it’s jostled.
I stroll down the hallways of the palace toward my family’s dwelling, not acknowledging the tourists but keeping my pace leisurely so that they can take their damned pictures and intone softly about my gown. A brief consultation with my Lens confirms that my mother isn’t inside—she almost never is—and I let myself in, ignoring the disappointed mumbles of the crowd as I close the thick door behind me.
I quickly rid myself of my Lens and head to my father’s study. I don’t bother to knock or call out to my father. He’s accustomed to my walking in, and I’m accustomed to finding him blissed out on the floor.
Today, however, he nearly bowls me over in his haste to get down the hallway.
“Gracious, Father, I am breakable,” I mutter, righting myself even as I put both hands to his shoulders to hold him steady.
“Do you have it?”
“Have it?”
He doesn’t speak, but his eyes widen meaningfully. A growl builds in my throat, but I censor it—even here, in the sanctity of a room in which M.A.R.I.E. is blind and deaf to its occupants. “Father,” I say, my tone brusque as I turn away from him to place my reticule on his desk, “it’s not Thursday.”
“What?”
“I’ll have your patches tomorrow. It’s Wednesday, and I’ve not seen your criminal man.” I continue to call Reginald—I suppose it might have been Saber, technically—that silly name and act as though I have nothing to do with him. If my father were to discover that the makeup I’m preparing in his office has his beloved Glitter in it…well, that would be most unfortunate.
I was here at four this morning finishing up an enormous batch of scarlet lip gloss, and the tiny pots are arranged in a perfect ten-by-twenty grid across a sideboard that runs the length of the wall. They’re set now and look perfect, their shiny surfaces smooth but dotted with the faint sparkle of additives both narcotic and benign.
“But I’m out,” my father protests as I begin screwing lids onto the round pots, then immediately flipping them over to hide the little stickers declaring them to be Glitter.
“Then you’ve miscounted your patches. Or perhaps,” I add in an undertone, “you’ve been miscounting the hours in the day.”
“I only need one more. That’ll spell me.”
Frustration edges out the guilt. “You speak as though I have any,” I snap. “I don’t. I acquire them on my trip to Paris every Thursday, and I give every single one to you.” I open up the pockets on each side of my dress and begin filling one side with the new pots of gloss. The other I’ll stock with rouge I made two nights ago, currently locked in a desk drawer.