IT DOESN’T TAKE warmth to sell Glitter. Which is fortunate, as I seem to have lost my ability to feel anything at all. I smile, I curtsy, and I peddle my illicit cosmetics as though my life depended on it—which was, of course, always the point. I approve wedding plans and have a final fitting for my amazing dress, which can no longer ignite within me even the smallest spark of pleasure. And when the day’s whirl is over, I tuck myself into my rooms with Saber and imagine it all away.
It’s the last Thursday before my wedding, and Saber and I climb into our carefully watched sedan for my final trip into Paris—my final “dancing lesson.” His Highness tried to get me to fob it off, what with the wedding in two days, but I’ve scarcely spoken to him since that awful night in his private office, and have used clipped, careful tones whenever conversation has become unavoidable. The language I used to reply to this particular suggestion was probably more vulgar than I should have allowed myself. Still, it’s the clearest way to decline a suggestion in two words.
Saber’s messenger bag is round with just over half a million in euros, and each of my pannier pockets is similarly lined. Almost a million and a half between us—the biggest take I’ve ever delivered to Giovanni, and my nerves are clanging at the prospect of being caught. Of having it all taken away, when I’m so close.
Once we add this to the pile, I’ll have four and a half million euros. With two more days until my wedding, though, sales have gotten…complicated. Cash is increasingly scarce in Sonoman-Versailles, and unwanted jewels are going out the doors with personal servants in a river of trade that has devolved quickly from gray market to black. Orders didn’t drop off this week, but neither did they grow. It’s a carefully balanced pile of stones waiting to collapse at the slightest provocation.
Two more days. I’ll encourage larger orders with the false insinuation that I’ll be leaving for a honeymoon a few days after the wedding. That should take me well over my goal, and I’ll be gone before anyone knows it’s a lie.
That my life is a lie.
The night before my wedding, I’ll hack my way out—with Lord Aaron’s help, if necessary. I’ll escape via horseback if that’s what it takes. One can never trust technology not to fail at the most crucial moment. That leaves me almost exactly forty-eight hours to collect five hundred thousand euros. Once I might have thought such a task impossible.
Saber and I sit silently, fingers entwined, as the car moves smoothly down the road. Saber squeezes gently, and I look up to see that soft affection brimming in his eyes. I don’t call it love; it’s too difficult to think of it that way. Considering the past six months, the last thing I need or desire is a fiery, adventurous romance. Saber’s quiet steadiness has become more than a comfort—the way he reaches out to touch my hand at just the right moment is all the stability I have left. His simple presence, two steps behind my left shoulder as I go about my palace business, makes me stronger.
The car stops and Saber slides from the seat, reaching out a hand to assist me. The door of the dance studio opens, and for an instant we all don our masks—the haughty noblewoman, her scandalously handsome secretary, the subservient dance teacher. Closing the door behind us feels like closing out another world.
“Just pull it out. I’ll take care of stacking it,” Saber says as we kneel in front of Giovanni’s closet, one floor up, a few minutes later. “You’re obviously anxious—you head out, I’ll finish here and then join you.”
“Thank you,” I say, rising to my feet. I was hoping for an opportunity like this. I hurry down the stairs and pause for just a moment to thank Giovanni again, then pull my black cloak over my rose-colored silk gown before slipping out the back door.
I’m not there first, but it doesn’t appear Reginald’s been waiting long. “I’ll need ten vials this week,” I say softly.
“This week?” he asks, clearly finding humor in my words. I find none. “I thought you were leaving in two days.”
“Large orders in anticipation of my absence. For my supposed honeymoon.”
“Desperate, eh?”
“Certainly not,” I reply with a scoff. “But it can’t hurt to have some additional capital on hand in whatever new life you’ve prepared for me. The goal of five million is essentially met.”
“Essentially?”
I decline to dignify his taunt with a reaction. “I need you to be ready. My plan is to leave the palace on Friday night—well, technically early Saturday morning, say three a.m.-ish? I’ll need a dependable way to contact you.”
“Easy.” He hands me a small cell phone. It’s an archaic and clumsy device compared to the Lenses, and I wasn’t entirely sure they still existed. But I suppose they have their uses. Especially if you’re a criminal.
“My contact information’s already programmed in there. I’ll be ready.”
“Good, good.” I swallow hard, but I know this is the only chance I’m going to get. “Reginald, I want Saber.”
“A blind man could see that,” Reginald says, then guffaws at his own joke.
“I want to you to free him; send him with me.”