Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(18)

In truth, it oddly anchors me. Maybe it’s the pain in my ribs that reminds me I’m alive.





I STAND BEFORE the door of what was my home only twelve hours ago and knock. How odd that feels. I’ve never knocked on this door. The realization gives me a confusing ache in my chest. After a full minute, I enter my code on the camouflaged pad and let myself in. Once alone in the foyer, I pull out a handkerchief, wipe my sweaty palms, and try to get hold of myself. This is my father, for crying out loud.

But he might have the answer.

Even when I was selling every piece of jewelry I could put my sometimes-sticky fingers on, the possibility of escape felt so remote as to be fantastical. But now? Maybe. Just maybe.

I tuck the handkerchief away and key open the interior door that leads to my father’s rooms. While my eyes adjust from the brightness of the foyer, I peer into the shadows of his study. The space on the ground where he was huddled last night is empty. After pulling the study door closed, I head down the hall to his bedroom, and there I find him fully dressed and sprawled facedown on top of the damask bedspread.

It’s a step up from the floor.

“Father.” My voice doesn’t rouse him, but it was worth a five-second try. In the bathroom I find a washcloth and wet it. Then I lift my heavy skirts to sit on the bed beside him and press the chilly cloth against his cheeks and forehead until he begins to stir—with plenty of groans of protest.

His eyes are bloodshot when he opens them. “Dani?” His breath is so foul I have to hold mine.

I briefly explain my new living arrangements, more to pass the time while he gathers his wits than because I think he’s going to remember. Or care very much.

But I’m wrong. “That bastard! He can’t have you!” he shouts, and I put out both hands to quiet his ravings.

“He won’t,” I promise, sardonically amused at the tardiness of his protests. “But I need your help.”

He looks at me with a touch of clarity, but before he can speak I hold up a finger for his attention. His eyes follow my hand as I dig into my pocket and remove a small contact case. I pop out my Lens and put it in the opaque container. Offline times are easier to explain than damning details. “Tell me about these patches,” I say once the canister of saline is closed.

He looks stricken with shock. And guilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“No,” I say, cutting him off before he can get emotional. “What’s done is done. How did you come to obtain them?”

His jaw flexes; he must think this is some kind of trap. “Tell me,” I demand, and even to my own ears I sound more like my mother than myself, and I hate it.

He sits in stunned silence until I want to shake him, but I force myself to remain motionless and continue glaring instead.

“Two weeks after…after the incident.” He stops, grits his teeth, and says in a shaky voice, “After your mother sold you.” I can’t help but be pleased that at least he understands how unforgivable it is. “I was in Versailles. The city, not the country.”

It is, unfortunately, a distinction we often have to make. The name of the historic French city surrounding the palace complex is also…Versailles. Though Sonoma lobbied France to change the name to avoid confusion, France predictably refused. But being so close to Sonoman-Versailles—the country—the culture of our court has leaked into Versailles—the city—and it’s an odd mishmash of modern and faux-Baroque culture. It’s where we lived before my father inherited his palace apartment in Sonoman-Versailles—the country.

“A tavern in Versailles,” my father amends, pulling my attention back. At least he’s being forthright. “I was very, very drunk and a man approached me and we…we talked.”

“About what?”

“You, mostly.”

Ah, the joys of life in the public eye.

“He had no love for our King. But I did not spill your secrets.”

My secrets indeed.

“We groused about His Highness and his power-hungry ways, and I confessed that I had failed to protect you. How much…how often I now found myself soused to drown my guilt. He told me there was something better. He told me about the patches, gave me a few.”

My eyes widen. “At forty euros apiece, that’s a generous gift.”

But his only response is a dismissive shrug. “I tried one that night and I—” He can’t hide a smile. “I’d never felt better.”

“And after that?”

“I returned to the tavern. It took a few nights, but he came back. We struck a deal. Then…” His voice fades and he waves his hand to indicate a story that needs no telling.

My eyes dart to his arm, where—though covered by his wrinkled linen sleeve—I know his patch is affixed. “Why don’t I know about this stuff?”

He snaps out of his daze. “It’s not for courtiers.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow, not bothering to point out the obvious fact that he is a courtier.

“I have to be careful. If the King finds out, I…”

He doesn’t want to say it, but the look on his face communicates his fears well enough. At the very least, the King would put a stop to my father’s illicit purchases, just as my mother and I put a stop to his drinking.