“It’s a pretty slick operation,” he says, and I’m about to thank him for the compliment when he continues. “I doubt that drugging people against their will has ever been so profitable.”
The warm flush of shame—which I’ve grown very good at ignoring—kindles in my chest, hotter and more painful than usual. Though I’d always hoped the business would grow fast, it’s exceeded all my expectations. Which means I have to face the fact that the drug is stronger, more addictive, than I assumed at the outset. That Saber’s warnings were as dire as he said. But it’s too late to change anything, and all I can do is try to fight the guilt and soldier on. I’m halfway into the proverbial woods, and continuing forward seems like the only reasonable choice.
“I don’t understand you,” he says after a long spell of silence. “I was there that night, you know.”
My mind goes instantly to the night the King killed Sierra. He was there? How?
“In the catacombs.”
Oh. That night.
“That very first time. You were…” He pauses, and I’m not certain I want to know what his impression of me was, that awful night. “Desperate,” he finally says. “And you seemed so small, but real. So real. Then, two months ago, you got into the car with me in Paris and you were a different person. Bold and controlling but ultimately—” He cuts himself off and is silent for several seconds. “What happened to her?”
“To who?” I ask, fear a cold block of ice in my throat as I wonder for a moment if he’s referring to Sierra.
“The girl in the catacombs,” he says as he picks up a pot of Glitter rouge and peers at the smooth circle within. “She’s gone.”
“I—”
“I liked her,” Saber finishes, tossing the pot onto the desk with a clatter.
—
AT HIS INSISTENCE that he isn’t tired, I leave Saber in my father’s study to put away our newest batch of supplies and make himself familiar with the microlab. He wanted to start blending the makeup as well, but it’s too risky during the day. My mother might walk in at any moment. At night she’s nearer, but with my light feet and her long history with sleep aids, I actually feel more confident in my ability to avoid detection. Saber rolls his eyes but promises to only organize things, and I hurry out of my parents’ apartments.
I have amends to make.
Blinking rapidly, I come around a corner and look up to see the very person I was just queuing up my Lens to locate. We both slow as we approach, the air thick between us, though Molli manages a wan smile.
“I was looking for you,” I say before she can speak.
“I found you on my Lens,” Molli says. After everything, she decided to come find me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. I don’t have a story, or an excuse. Not one I can tell her. But the sentiment is real. I am sorry. For more than I can ever confess.
“No,” Molli says, staring at the ground. “I was oversensitive.”
“You weren’t. I should have let you come.” That one is a lie, but I do wish I were in a position to have allowed her to come. I suddenly wish she’d met Giovanni when I first started going to him, and I picture lessons where we laugh when I mess up, and she claps when I master a pose. It would have been fun. “It’s this new dance,” I say, tucking her arm into mine as though it could erase the gaping falsehood I’m about to spin. “I just couldn’t get the steps. I needed help. I should have trusted you wouldn’t mock me.”
The Historical Society’s Master of Ceremonies wants to début a traditional dance number at a ball a few weeks hence. As a newly made high noblewoman, I’m expected to participate. As an untitled lady labeled of little value to the haughty court, my Molli is expected to sit out. Six months ago we’d have sat out together and neither of us would have cared. Now the imaginary distance between us chafes at us both.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t teach her the steps. Besides, I’ve been looking for opportunities to spend time with her. The last two weeks, I’ve hardly seen her at all as Glitter manufacturing has been draining such a large amount of my leisure time. Today is likely the best opportunity I’ll have for a while.
We gather in the Hall of Mirrors with Lady Mei and Molli and a few other court ladies our age. Lady Mei and her cousin Lady Kata are playing word games on their tablets, and Lady Nuala is reading an actual paper tabloid someone snuck in from Paris.
Molli and I go through the steps, side by side. I actually like this particular dance—it’s slow and graceful, making use of long lines and languid arms. Despite what I told Molli, I picked it up very quickly.
“It feels awkward,” Molli complains with a giggle. “It’s so slow.”