Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(48)
But a gift is a gift, and it’s refreshing to know that tonight is the last night I’ll have to sneak to my father’s room to prepare tiny pots of Glitter, the finest makeup in Sonoman-Versailles. Just ask anyone; the occasional off-brands that enterprising imitators have attempted to hawk just don’t go on as smoothly, don’t wear as comfortably as the name-brand product from my secret Parisian supplier. At least, that’s what my customers tell themselves—and others—when cheaper alternatives somehow fail to…satisfy.
The ladies finish up the motions of the lever, the crowd applauds, and finally we can make our exit into the dressing room behind my very public bedroom. “Thank you, ladies,” I say. “Does anyone have money for me?”
This part we can’t do in front of the crowd. Pannier pockets open and my staff begin handing me stacks of euros, which I’ll count, organize, and bind later. I collect money only on Wednesdays, due to the lessened computerized surveillance, but everyone knows they can give their fee to any of these six ladies to receive their cosmetics on any day.
“Your supplier must be happy with you,” Lady Nuala says as the stack in my hands grows. I have to dump it rather unceremoniously onto my dressing table lest I drop it on the floor. I took a risk deciding to hire Lady Nuala for my lever team less than a week after our…incident with the wine, but she’s proved to be a very loyal traitor. Flattery goes far with her. “Has he ever said why he won’t sell Glitter over the feeds? It seems to me that courier delivery could triple his business overnight.”
“Oh, everything has to be an art project with Parisians these days,” I say, holding my voice steady. “Give them avant-garde or give them death. I think his angle is ‘makeup so fine, you have to buy it from a Queen.’ Although,” I say heavily, lifting a gloved hand to my forehead, “it’s becoming most fatiguing. I suspect I’ll have to bow out soon.”
“Surely once you’re wed,” chimes in Lady Cardozo, the one married woman I brought onto my team. “You’ll have other things to do.”
“Indeed,” I say, drawing my fan up to my face as though covering a pleased blush.
“Then your supplier will have to sell directly.” The hope in Lady Cardozo’s voice is cringe-worthy.
“Likely,” I demur, grasping about for a new subject. “Oh! For you all.”
Though it rather pinches to do so, I buy both the services and the secrecy of my ladies—on top of the wage M.A.R.I.E. pays them—with one free pot of Glitter each Wednesday. It’s hard to see three thousand euros’ worth of product walk away from me in pastel silks every week, but I know the ladies are generous with it, and I’m certain they attract more customers than I sacrifice in profits. Surely.
Regardless, I need them. And one must pay one’s employees.
As they leave, the adrenaline that always comes with the lever, as well as the rush of doing business, drains from me and loneliness envelops me. Not for the first time I wish Molli were on my staff. And I know Molli wishes she were as well. It’s a position with both a high wage and high prestige—two things Molli stands in need of. I didn’t ask her; I couldn’t, once I realized it was the best way to conduct my business under the King’s nose. And I want Molli to have nothing to do with this whole affair. But it’s driven a wedge into our friendship. Not a big wedge—neither of us would allow that to happen. But it’s a small wedge, and like a tiny splinter, it agitates, stinging a bit more each time it’s jostled.
I stroll down the hallways of the palace toward my family’s dwelling, not acknowledging the tourists but keeping my pace leisurely so that they can take their damned pictures and intone softly about my gown. A brief consultation with my Lens confirms that my mother isn’t inside—she almost never is—and I let myself in, ignoring the disappointed mumbles of the crowd as I close the thick door behind me.
I quickly rid myself of my Lens and head to my father’s study. I don’t bother to knock or call out to my father. He’s accustomed to my walking in, and I’m accustomed to finding him blissed out on the floor.
Today, however, he nearly bowls me over in his haste to get down the hallway.
“Gracious, Father, I am breakable,” I mutter, righting myself even as I put both hands to his shoulders to hold him steady.
“Do you have it?”
“Have it?”
He doesn’t speak, but his eyes widen meaningfully. A growl builds in my throat, but I censor it—even here, in the sanctity of a room in which M.A.R.I.E. is blind and deaf to its occupants. “Father,” I say, my tone brusque as I turn away from him to place my reticule on his desk, “it’s not Thursday.”
“What?”
“I’ll have your patches tomorrow. It’s Wednesday, and I’ve not seen your criminal man.” I continue to call Reginald—I suppose it might have been Saber, technically—that silly name and act as though I have nothing to do with him. If my father were to discover that the makeup I’m preparing in his office has his beloved Glitter in it…well, that would be most unfortunate.
I was here at four this morning finishing up an enormous batch of scarlet lip gloss, and the tiny pots are arranged in a perfect ten-by-twenty grid across a sideboard that runs the length of the wall. They’re set now and look perfect, their shiny surfaces smooth but dotted with the faint sparkle of additives both narcotic and benign.