Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(47)
Focus.
I hold up the container, label forward, and say, “It is, of course, aptly named, and my supplier has given me exclusive rights to distribute this line.” Another smattering of applause, and I incline my head graciously.
Lady Cyn looks at her gift with skepticism, but I lean forward as though confiding in her and say, “You truly should indulge, Lady Cynthea. It’s utterly magical. His Highness is such an admirer.” Her lips tighten, but she removes her glove and dips a finger before passing it to her sister. That look assuages my guilt at least on one person’s behalf.
The deed done, I spend the rest of the party on tenterhooks, half expecting someone to faint into a puddle of bliss. But of course not all of them have even applied my little gift, and I made certain the dose was low. Are they laughing more loudly than usual? Is their behavior more relaxed, friendlier? Are any of them experiencing euphoria?
In the end, no one slumps to the floor in mindless ecstasy, or even succumbs to an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. On their way out, several do thank me for the lovely event, declaring it an unmitigated success.
Only when Lady Cyn’s sister sends me a com the next morning, asking if she can order directly through me, do I tentatively agree.
“LADY CHEN WOULD like to sample the rouge this week,” Mademoiselle Olivier says as she brushes a dab of sparkling blush on my own cheeks.
“Certainly,” I reply, tilting my head so she can reach the other side.
“She’s also requested that her friend Lady Ebele Sesay receive a pot of gloss, as a gift. Paid in advance.”
I let myself smile a little. New client. I don’t even keep track anymore. This week I shattered my previous record, moving just shy of seven hundred units of Glitter. I can’t be bothered to count individual customers. “Tamae, make a note—let’s gift-wrap that one and have it delivered,” I say to a different young lady, sitting just off to the side. Extra effort, but Lady Chen is one of my best customers—adding sometimes five new names in a week—so I’ll do it for her.
It’s my Wednesday lever, and I’m surrounded by six ladies chosen specifically to help me run my new business. Tamae’s ballpoint quill scratches out the order on a decorative scroll of parchment I keep in my room especially for this purpose. As we discuss the cosmetics going on my face, we’re also cataloging the product going out the door, all without a single tourist any the wiser.
Even though I’d run the figures in my head, I hadn’t really understood how difficult it was going to be to satisfy the number of nobles necessary to make the profits I require. The first few weeks were easy enough; orders trickled in for three days after the party, until nearly every attendee had ordered something. It took three weeks to move my first hundred units of Glitter, but then word of mouth began snowballing. I’d estimated that each customer would need one pot a week, but this turned into three, four, sometimes five, not because they were overindulging, but because they were sharing.
Despite Saber’s repeated warnings each and every Thursday, after the first month I had to stop trying to regulate how many units each person received. I simply let them have what they wanted and reminded them sternly how exceptionally gauche it would be to wear more than one type of Glitter at a time. In fact, at one of the Wednesday-night assemblies, Lady Neema Gueye approached me gleefully sporting both the lip gloss and the rouge, and I made a haughty comment about overindulgence and gave her the cut direct.
No one has done it since.
What more can I do?
Last week was an incredible milestone—I banked my first million euros. It took eight weeks to reach twenty percent of my goal, but my clientèle continues to grow exponentially, and if present trends continue, I expect to meet Reginald’s price in six to seven weeks.
And I have nine. Nine weeks until I turn eighteen and my mother forces the marriage.
Unfortunately, last week I also had to put up my white flag of surrender and ask Reginald for help.
Visiting my father once and even twice a week to prepare the cosmetics was perfectly acceptable at first. No one noticed a thing. But once I crossed two hundred units, I had to go more frequently. I’ve gotten better at concealing my movements from M.A.R.I.E., so I can make unscheduled trips without the court making note, but last week I was in Father’s rooms into the early hours every night and spent my days in a bleary stupor.
Unacceptable.
I expected Reginald to be angry at the note I sent him demanding help, but the following Thursday he showed up at Giovanni’s—the first time I’d caught sight of him in weeks—rubbing his hands with glee as I told him what sort of assistance I needed.
“Tell your lordship husband—”
“Affianced,” I corrected him instantly.
“Him, too. Tell him you’ll be needing a secretary. I’ll send you an assistant. You find a way for him to come and go, place to sleep, make sure you feed him, and he’ll take over prepping the product and fetching deliveries.”
I nearly crumpled in relief. “At what price?” I asked, raising one eyebrow. Reginald always has a price.
“Call it a company perk,” he said with a grin that almost looked friendly. “You’re moving more product; I’m making more money. One man won’t cost me hardly anything.”
“You’re too kind,” I said flatly, my teeth clenched together.