Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(4)
Lady Mei shrieks but takes his proffered arm.
“You’ll be in soon?” Molli asks over her shoulder.
“In a few minutes.” I watch my friends cross the Hercules Drawing Room, making their way into the soirée ahead of me.
I consider returning to my quarters—not attending the party at all, instead spending the evening in my room with a book. But my mother would think nothing of finding me and dragging me back, my ear clenched hard between her fingers like a misbehaving child’s. Which is precisely how she sees me.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, I can stall no longer. So I check my satin gown and posture in the many mirrors lining the hall, then present myself at the doorway of the Drawing Room of Plenty.
Plenty indeed.
There are three couples in front of me. One at a time, they hand the crier a card bearing their name and title; he glances down, then bawls the names out.
My turn. I need no card. I simply stand there, framed by red velvet drapes, waiting for the man to draw aside the curtain and present me to the crowd.
“Her Grace, Betrothed of the King, Danica Grayson.”
The herald declares my cringe-worthy title at the top of his lungs, which always feels ridiculous; anyone who might have been dwelling so far under a rock that they don’t know who I am can simply make eye contact, access the local web feed via their network Lens, and view my public profile. One never has to worry about remembering names at court when one is hooked into the network—one of M.A.R.I.E.’s more useful tricks. More useful than her propensity for locking windows or extinguishing tiny recreational fires, anyway.
On the other hand, the herald’s verbal warning does allow for the fashionables of the court to pivot away and avoid eye contact with people they don’t care to acknowledge. Also useful.
Sadly, I’m rarely in that shunned category. An underage, unknown young lady, all too quickly betrothed to the King, and jumped up well beyond her rank in court with no explanation whatsoever: scandal, perversion, and mystery all in one satin-wrapped package. Murmurs of “Your Grace” can be heard as curtsies and bows make a well-coiffed ripple across the room, as though it were the surface of a placid pond and I an offending pebble.
I am not, however, a duchess. Upon my betrothal to the King, the citizens of Sonoman-Versailles eventually afforded me that address—Your Grace—to hide the fact that I am, by birth, nobody. At least in the eyes of the fashionables at court, where wealth and title mean everything. To have neither and yet be betrothed to the King? The false address seems to make them feel better about that. It makes me feel worse.
The soirée is in full swing, with bots—dressed in the traditional red-and-gold livery of the seventeenth century—whirring about with trays of champagne and canapés among gowns of silk and satin, and the frenzied click of hundreds of jeweled heels. Delectable scents of both food and perfume waft like clouds, filling even the spaces where bodies don’t fit. Orchestral tunes are piped softly through hidden speakers, and the sparkle of candlelight can’t help but dazzle. For the two years since my official début, this crowded, frenetic atmosphere was heaven on earth to me, and even now, the elegance tempts me to rejoin my peers and drink and dance away what has become of my life.
The salons swarm and buzz like a hive, though unlike insects, the drones here congregate around their king rather than a queen. The constant churn of people around my fiancé, the King, is actually terribly helpful; it takes only a glance to know which end of the salons to avoid. But even as I spot the hub of the milling crowd, His Majesty catches my eye and makes it very clear he wishes to speak to me.
I grab a flute of champagne from a serving-bot’s gyro-balanced tray, then hurry in the opposite direction.
Not that I make much headway. The crush of the throng is downright suffocating, and I make my way through it at a speed of approximately one meter per minute. Perhaps less.
He was waiting for me.
If he were a sensible, reasonable person, he’d simply have had M.A.R.I.E. schedule a meeting for the two of us in his private offices. But no, of course he’d rather ambush me in public. Cursed man. I’m not certain why I continue to expect some level of normal human decency from him.
I squelch panic when I sense a presence at my left side. Don’t look.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” says Molli, and twines one arm with mine.
Thank all deities in the known universe—and the unknown, for good measure. I grip Molli close to my side, already feeling better, but continue my dogged trek forward.
“His Majesty certainly has eyes only for you this evening.”
“I’d rather he had eyes for anyone else, and you know it,” I say without dropping the affected half-smile I use to deflect unwanted attention.
“I do, yes, but try explaining that to Lady Cynthea,” Molli says, inclining her head subtly toward a tall, elegant young lady in a gold brocade gown that sparkles with dots of what are no doubt very real jewels.
I stifle a smile at the mention of His Majesty’s mistress—perhaps mistress is the wrong word. Even girlfriend sounds wrong when half the twosome is engaged. I suppose technically she’s simply my fiancé’s bit of skirt.
“You’d think she was Queen, the way she holds court,” Molli says, her voice dripping with distain. The court is essentially split into two camps: those who support the Queen the King has chosen—me—and those who still think Lady Cyn, with her pristine bloodlines, is more worthy of the throne.