Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(41)
He nods. His eyes are hooded and I know he wants to press further, but his affection for me holds him back. “Should I be concerned for your safety, chouchou?” is all he says.
My smile is calm, but sure and steady. “That need not be your concern.”
His expression darkens at my nonanswer, but he doesn’t say more.
I decide he deserves something. “I’m not going to be Queen,” I say. “Not if I can help it.” It’ll have to suffice. “Might I make use of your back door?”
He doesn’t like it, but I know already that he’ll help me. At two minutes of three I slip out the back door of his dance studio. No black sedan is in sight, but with a quick glance down the alley I find Saber waiting, a dark gray coat swathed around his shoulders despite the warmth in the air. He’s dressed to draw absolutely no undue attention to himself, and an unembellished black hat sits low on his forehead, shadowing his features. I walk over and stand before him, one eyebrow raised expectantly. “You’re taking me to Reginald?”
“Reginald doesn’t want to see you.”
“But—” I snap my mouth closed, refusing to argue with this man who, I must remind myself, though he’s handsome enough to have invaded my dreams every night these past few days, is simply a cog in the machinery of an illegal industry I’m being forced to participate in. A grumpy cog. I don’t want his friendship even if he were inclined to offer it. I don’t. “He promised me supplies, and he must know I can’t simply shuttle down to Paris at his bidding.”
“Can’t you?” Saber spares me a quick glance, and his eyes freeze me in place not only with their color, but also with their coldness. They’re green, a hue I always thought of as warm, but his gaze reminds me of nothing so much as iced crème de menthe.
I stand straighter, making full use of my above-average height, and lift my chin so the shadow from my hat covers only my eyes. “No, I cannot. I’m a lady of the court of Sonoman-Versailles, not to mention affianced of the King. I’m watched and questioned and badgered constantly.”
“Then maybe this isn’t a great idea,” Saber says, his face impassive, his lips barely moving.
I deflate, struggling to cover my dismay at the way this man—a drug dealer, for heaven’s sake—has seen right through me. I fix him with a stony glare, and he matches it.
But after only a few seconds, he backs down, looks away, and digs through a messenger bag at his hip. So it was a bluff—Reginald hasn’t actually empowered Saber to terminate our arrangement. I breathe carefully, my hands shaking at what should have been a minor confrontation. He rattles me as no one else can, not even His Illustrious Majesty.
By the time he holds out a packet wrapped in brown paper, I’m back to myself—my posture erect, my face neutral. But I won’t soon forget the way he stripped away my defenses with a handful of words.
“These are empty pots and makeup bases. Now, you listen for a sec,” Saber says when I reach for the packet. My hands are clasped on one end and his on the other, one flinch from a tug-of-war. I have to grit my teeth to prevent myself from yanking it away and clasping it safely against my chest. “Pay close attention to dosage—these aren’t cupcake sprinkles. Don’t get lavish.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I hiss.
“I’m about to spend an uncomfortably short amount of time instructing you on the tiniest slice of what you don’t know about Glitter. My lady,” he adds when I shoot him a cutting glare.
I don’t correct him. The fact that someone from the “real” world offered me a title at all is unusual.
He spends several minutes explaining how each piece works and how to prepare a batch of dosed cosmetics. I listen carefully, even though it is as he said yesterday—as simple as melt and mix. “It’s the measurements that are key,” he says, handing me a small bit of paper that simply has three sets of ratios on it. Found on the floor, it could refer to anything. Smart. “Prepare it wrong and you’ll have all the King’s horses and all the King’s men on us in a day, and if that happens they will trace it back to you. Do you understand me?”
My chin jerks up and down because my mouth is too dry to speak.
“This is everything you’ll need for one hundred containers of your cosmetic…stuff. I’ll bring the same amount next week, and then we’ll reevaluate demand.”
“That seems reasonable.”
He holds out a small black bit of plastic, perhaps ten centimeters square. “Digital scale. Measures in micrograms. Reginald figures you’ll want no more than a hundredth part of Glitter in those cosmetics.”
“So little?”
“He wasn’t kidding when he told you it’s strong. Higher doses are exponentially more effective. The difference between a good weekend, a bad weekend, and a funeral can be measured out on the tip of your pinky. Better too little than too much—especially since you can’t control how much makeup your friends are going to smear on themselves.”
My legs start to tremble at his warning, but I’m busy committing his words to memory, so I don’t reply.
He pulls more from his leather bag: a tiny inverter hot plate, a few glass dishes, some glass rods called pipettes. “And this,” he says, handing me two tubes of plain lip balm. “Reg says you’re making some colorless?”