I SUPPOSE I should have known that Saber would be waiting outside the office door—the last person I want to see in this state. The sight of him shoves me over the edge, and I’m suddenly gasping for breath and blinking back tears that have no intention of staying put.
I cover as best I can. Chin high, I pivot sharply and stride toward my rooms, taking the back way, hoping not to run into anyone who’ll bother to look too closely. Those I do encounter simply incline their heads and return to a quiet glass of port by the fire. I finally reach the small hallway that will take me through Saber’s bedroom to the back entrance of my own. I hear his feet behind me but don’t stop to look.
I tap out a pass code on the petals of an inlaid wooden rose, then peer into a lion’s eye for a retinal scan—sneaking out of the Queen’s Rooms is far easier than sneaking in—but finally the system allows me entrance and I hold the door open for Saber to slip in with me; then I turn and stride away, assuming he’ll get the message not to follow.
“M.A.R.I.E.,” I order as I walk, “clear my private chambers, please. Close the doors and bar them. I don’t wish to be disturbed again until morning. Not even by the King.” Especially not by the King, but that isn’t something one can explain to a machine. Not that anything I say to M.A.R.I.E. will actually stop him, I suppose, should he take it into his head to come calling.
As I work my way through the maze of small chambers behind my much-larger bedchamber, I ponder what sorts of hacks I might employ to escalate my credentials above those of the King, and how long I could prevent the IT department from locking me out again. For all her excellent AI, M.A.R.I.E. doesn’t reason. But her passivity has limits, and there’s an art to knowing how far those limits can be stretched. Want to hack into the King’s private bedchamber? It might be possible, with an advanced degree in machine intelligence. Less interesting windows and doors are generally susceptible to simple key cracks and well-timed denials of service. But barring entrance to the King? I’m not that good. And since I was pulled from my programming classes the day I was betrothed to the King, now I never will be.
For now, at least, M.A.R.I.E. has obeyed my commands and the bedroom is empty, the main doors shut tight. I slump into the chair at my dressing table and say quietly, “Hair, please.” A bot whizzes up and starts pulling pins from my high coiffure. My whole skull aches, and even though I think my hairstyle softened the blow against the wood paneling, the spot on the back of my head still feels bruised and tender.
Closing my eyes, I allow myself to slump over, the boning in my corset digging hard against my belly, leftover tears leaking from my eyes. After a few minutes, I hear a soft whir as the bots finish their task and back away, waiting to be summoned again. But I’ve no energy to stir.
I knew my encounters with the King were growing steadily more violent, but now I see it’s much worse than that; he’s getting comfortable. Comfortable with me as a person, yes, but also comfortable with our situation. To hear him talk, you’d almost think he wanted to marry me.
Three weeks. Just a little less than three weeks. I try to tell myself that if my funds and clientèle continue to grow, I can possibly pull it off. But it seems hopeless.
“Are you okay?”
At the sound of Saber’s voice, I sit up ramrod straight. “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to gather up what might remain of my dignity, meeting his gaze in the mirror instead of straight-on.
“You didn’t send me away,” he says. “And you seemed…in distress.”
I shake my head at his words, wishing they meant anything. That he didn’t despise me and merely tolerate my presence because I’m an assignment from his employer. I take up a linen cloth from the table and set to work repairing my streaked face as best I can, trying not to look like I’m merely covering up the evidence of tears.
“Did he hurt you?”
“His existence hurts me,” I say dryly.
“Let me—” Saber takes a few steps forward, and I stiffen. He pauses, but when I don’t rise he takes a few more steps, then drops to one knee beside me.
I don’t look at him. But I can’t ignore the gentle touch of his hand on the very tip of my chin.
“I can see his fingers on your neck.”
The observation enrages me, and though I know it’s irrational even as I do it, I push him away and rise, my skirts swinging about in a circle at my feet as I put distance between us. “I’m not your concern.”
“Any person with finger marks around their neck concerns me.”
“You despise me.”
“I wish I did; maybe this whole thing would be easier.”
I stand there, my breath too short, hair tumbling down my back, with nothing to say. Thoughts whiz through my head, but I can’t slow them down enough to pluck a single coherent one out. He steps closer.
One step.
Two.
His fingers rest on my chin again, lifting it, and though my impulse is to turn away, step back, the tingling in my stomach tells me he’s not simply looking for bruises along my neck this time.