His idealism is infuriating. “This is all quite rich coming from you. My mother started this nightmare. I’ve spent the last few months in perpetual fear for my life! I’ve had to allow that man to paw me and manipulate me and expose me to the ridicule of the press and—” I shut my mouth when my voice begins to quaver. “Five months ago I stood by and did nothing, Saber. There’s no worse feeling in the world. I have a chance, one chance, to do something to make him pay for everything.”
He tosses his hands in the air and turns his back on me, but I’m not finished.
“You think this is just about some sort of petty revenge, but you’re wrong. I would rather accept the consequences of doing something wrong than continue to live with the soul-destroying agony of doing nothing.” I take a few seconds to gather my composure. I need him to understand. “I have no choice.”
But there’s no softening of his expression. “You don’t know the meaning of no choice, Dani. You had your choice. And you made it. Now you have to live with it. And so does everyone else.”
—
WHEN OUR SILENT, awkward run to Paris is completed, I set my status to Unavailable and toss off my robe to ready myself for the ball tonight. Saber goes right to my father’s office.
“M.A.R.I.E., my corset.” I lean over slightly and brace my arms on the gilded settee at the foot of the bed, allowing the nimble dressing-bots to undo my stays. As my corset loosens, I have to regulate my breathing. My lungs ache to expand, to fill, but if I let them, my head spins. I’ve wound up crumpled on the floor more than once. Only when the urge to gasp in air has passed can I stand. Slowly. I keep one arm on the bedpost as I straighten. My spine feels weak and soft without the support of the polyethylene boning, and my innards feel like they want to slip into the wrong places.
One dressing-bot unfastens the six hooks that latch the busk into place, and the entire corset falls, leaving the thin, wrinkled linen of my shift clinging to my skin. I peel it carefully away, then pull it over my head. Naked, I step through the doorway and into the bathroom, where a steaming bath, heaping with bubbles, is already waiting for me.
In my hidden washroom I have a modern, water-saving shower, but standing upright while I wash, with a jet of water pounding at my back, is more than I can generally bear without my stays. I’ve switched to baths almost exclusively. I still get that sickening feeling of my stomach sloshing out of its proper place as I lean forward to wash my feet, but at least I don’t have to stand upright and keep my balance at the same time the way I would in a shower. In the end, despite the steamy water and sweet-smelling soaps, it’s a relief to be back on my dressing stool, my torso heavily powdered with fine talc and draped in a fresh shift, ready to be relaced.
As the bots begin to tighten my corset, I impulsively call out to M.A.R.I.E. and stop them. I’ve gone too far, I think. I can barely stand on my own until my stays bear me up. I swallow hard and say, “Four centimeters looser, please.” That measurement will only return me to how tight I was lacing when I moved into this room. It’s a start. Once the measurement is reached, I don’t feel comfort—but it’s bearable.
I wish I could turn back time. Two days ago, everything was perfect. Being with Saber made me feel smart, strong, and infinitely worthy. Having lost that, I feel low and selfish. By the time I’m fully decked out, I can’t decide if I’m hoping Saber will accompany me to the ball, or if I’d rather preserve what’s left of my deflated pride and avoid him for a while.
As it happens, the choice is out of my hands—as are so many things lately. The moment I enter the ballroom and the damned crier announces me at the top of his lungs, Saber falls into place at my right shoulder. Every eye turns to me, whether outright or subtly. It makes me uneasy, but I can hardly have expected anything else. My mother was alive yesterday, and now she’s dead.
I’m wearing a more somber dress, befitting my state of mourning, and a wide black silk ribbon is tied around my upper arm. Thankfully, I don’t have to be a veritable chirping bird tonight; I can let a touch of my melancholy show. Is any of the melancholy for her? I’d like to think so. One would hope a girl would mourn her own mother. And I’d like to believe that in her own way, my mother did care for me.
But I couldn’t actually tell.