His rudeness is jarring at best, but I soldier on. “The point is, you’re going to need this,” I say, handing him a Lens case. “The Lens is your best friend and your worst enemy. It can tell you where most anyone is, but it also keeps track of where you are—”
“I know how Lenses work,” Saber snaps, with sudden heat. “I’m from Paris, not the Stone Age.” Although Sonoma prides itself on keeping the occupants of the palace on the very cutting edge of technology, I do need to remember that the rest of the world is only a very small step behind. “Just tell me what I need to do and make sure I don’t get caught doing it. That’s all I need from you.”
I snap my spine straight at his sudden anger and push back an urge to tear up. Everything Saber says feels so personal, and for some reason the emotional shield that works quite well against people like my mother and the King has no power to protect me from his words. I nod as we pass students, pensioners, and kept spouses lounging in the rooms leading up to my bedchamber. One woman approaches to ask if she can procure a pot of rouge. I don’t remember her name but pretend we’re the most intimate of acquaintances. “At the assembly tonight,” I say softly. “I’ll have everything.”
She titters and runs off, and I swear I can feel Saber’s glare searing into my pompadour. I catch sight of Molli sitting in a chair across the vestibule, reading on her tablet. She doesn’t raise her head, but something in her posture tells me she knows I’m there and is trying to avoid eye contact. I’d ignore me too, after this morning. Still, in all our years of friendship, it’s so rarely been Molli who’s been the avoider, and it’s a sharper sting than I would have predicted. I owe her an apology. But what kind of apology can I give that isn’t packed with more lies?
Saber and I are both silent until we’re safely ensconced in my bedchamber.
“Alone at last,” Saber says, and anyone would think it was an attempt at humor if they couldn’t see the flash of bitterness in his eyes.
“Oh, we’re never alone,” I say, and before he can utter any potentially damning response, I add, “M.A.R.I.E., fire,” to illustrate my point.
His eyes dart over to the fireplace as flames burst to life within. “Then why are we here? There are…quieter places.”
“Indeed,” I say, grateful the message was received. “And we shall visit them soon. But I thought you’d like to see your lodgings first. Put away your clothing.”
His eyebrows rise a fraction as his gaze sweeps to the enormous bed.
My cheeks flush when I realize the question he’s silently asking.
“Not with me!” I say quickly. Too quickly, and now we’re both blushing. It’s not as though I didn’t try to think up something different. But I can hardly risk assigning a ghost employee to the dormitories, I’m not foolish enough to ask him to share an apartment with my mother, and I’m far too embarrassed to even suggest he share quarters with my pathetic father.
The public rooms of the Queen’s wing are quite large and, as one would imagine…public. However, behind the Queen’s Bedchamber is a spiral of small rooms that are not only not open to the public, but have mostly been repurposed. One of the largest rooms, formerly the library, was turned into the bathroom. The Cabinet de la Méridienne is my dressing room, the library annex became the room in which my very large gowns are stored, and so forth. There’s a small room that was once called the Duchesse de Bourgogne’s Cabinet—the history of which, I confess, I don’t know—that’s now a small guest chamber.
It seemed like a better idea before my new assistant turned out to be Saber.
I lead Saber through the concealed door beside my bed and down a short hallway to a small, fanciful—and very feminine—chamber. White detailing covers the walls and molding, and soft lace curtains cover the single window, which overlooks a private courtyard reserved for the use of the Queen and her intimates. I push back a hysterical giggle as Saber stares at the light blue daybed with silken drapes scalloped along the top and hanging down on either end. It barely looks large enough to fit him at all, and though it’s likely more expensive and elegant than any bed he’s ever slept in, it seems most unsuitable.
But it keeps him near me and gives him access to all of the concealed passages associated with the Queen’s Rooms. As long as I avoid drawing attention to our unorthodox arrangement, I doubt anyone will question it. Everyone will assume he goes somewhere at night, like the rest of the servants.
Saber doesn’t seem to be nearly as pleased. He’s dropped his parcels to the floor and is regarding the bed with resigned disbelief.
“M.A.R.I.E., tidy up,” I say, so automatically I don’t even consider Saber’s reaction. A bot rolls in from the hallway leading from my bedchamber and immediately begins picking up the parcels and unwrapping them.