Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(31)
Without so much as glancing at their audience, the ladies rise and file out the back door—the very one through which the infamous Marie-Antoinette made her fabled escape, so many centuries ago. I’m not sure what exactly I’m supposed to do, but in a fit of improvisation, I follow them.
As soon as the door closes behind us, the false smiles are gone and Lady Medeiros heaves a sigh of relief, rubbing at her fingers. “We all expect double pay for that circus.”
“My thanks” is all I manage in reply, but I know she hears the acquiescence in my voice. I have no idea how difficult it will be to wrangle extra credits from the King, who has given me exactly enough control over my finances to maximize his convenience and my dependence, but I’ll probably manage.
Satisfied, my erstwhile attendants traipse away, down to the less-gawked-at lower level of the palace where they all, no doubt, reside.
“You were worth triple,” I whisper once they’ve gone.
IT WAS ONE tiny clause that France had hoped to use to revoke the sale of the Palace of Versailles and its grounds when the true identity of the Haroldson Historical Society was revealed. I once looked up the exact wording in the archives; France’s contract had included an obligation to “restore, maintain, and display the Palace of Versailles as a museum of the French Baroque.” The archives included a formal letter from France insisting that the newly installed King of Sonoman-Versailles fulfill the contractual obligation or return the property.
King Kevin Wyndham, the great-grandfather of my current fiancé, replied that of course they would be displaying the palace. “Why,” he wrote in flourish-heavy script, “would I spend billions to renovate a historical landmark if I had no intention of showing it off?”
Thus we have our Wednesdays.
One day a week, the Palace of Versailles is open to the public. Meaning that we, the palace’s regular inhabitants, are also open to the public.
Not our private apartments. Well, not the typical citizens’ private apartments. As I’ve been so rudely reminded, the suites of the King and Queen—or not-yet-the-Queen, in my case—are fair game. We’re separated from the masses by velvet ropes and are welcome to ignore or indulge their attentions at will. But we must be appropriately garbed, eschew uncamouflaged electronic devices, and speak French.
France tried to argue that one day a week wasn’t sufficient display, but the original King Wyndham had already tripled the number of viewable rooms and added to them period dress, with reenactments of such cultural events as the levers. This, he argued, far outstripped any previous restoration efforts and should absolutely count as a display. And his enthusiasm spoke for itself. After a complimentary day at the palace, an afternoon exploring every corner of the restored Grand Trianon, and a sumptuous feast and formal ball in the Hall of Mirrors, the judge ruled in Sonoma’s favor. I suppose not all bribery need be subtle.
Wednesdays always infect me with an acute case of cabin fever. Except for the more famous walks through the palace gardens, most of the extensive grounds are off-limits to tourists. So for as many Wednesdays as I’ve lived in the palace, weather permitting, I’ve retreated to the outdoors as soon as possible. I’m rather a keen shot at croquet as a result.
Today, my first Wednesday as Queen, everyone apparently wants to be seen speaking to me, so each time I try to get out of doors, I’m waylaid. I pride myself on a fairly slow-burning temper, but by the time afternoon rolls around, my fuse has grown quite short. Molli has been kind enough to stay by my side, but she can hardly keep others from me. A baroness I don’t dare offend has been yammering at me for almost a quarter of an hour with naught but the occasional nod to spur her on, when I sense more than see someone turning in my direction at the end of the hallway.
And nearly sputter in panic.
Saber, cloaked—wearing a feathered cap, even—strolling down the corridor as though he belongs. I can’t tear my eyes from him and am certain that everyone else is the same. Likely all the tourists who buzz around us as well.
“Baroness Sunderly, I’m so sorry,” I say, cutting her off and not even turning my head in a pretense of looking at her. “It appears I’m needed. By the King,” I add, invoking the almighty K word to shut her up. I pull my arm away from Molli even as her fingers grasp at me.
I pivot on my heel, my silk skirts flaring in a circle, and walk as quickly as possible toward him. His expression is amused as I approach, and I can hardly believe he’s nearly smirking over this utter catastrophe. As I draw near, my arm darts out and I grab his shoulder and turn him about to walk beside me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
But rather than answer, he twists away from my hand, stands in front of me, and executes a courtly bow, with his hand outstretched, a trifolded, sealed parchment in his fingers.
I’m so stunned by this gesture—commonplace in the palace—that for a moment I forget what to do. Tiny beads of sweat are forming on my brow, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, deafening me to the noise surrounding us. Instinct plays its part, and my fingers reach out of their own accord to take the parchment. For just a moment he resists, and when I tug harder he whispers, “Calm down,” in a tone that somehow simultaneously both demands I do so and puts me oddly at ease. Which I certainly need; I’ve already said too much while wearing my Lens.
I look down at the seal. Not only do I not recognize it, but it looks…fake. I break it anyway and open the parchment.