Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(49)
“But I’m out,” my father protests as I begin screwing lids onto the round pots, then immediately flipping them over to hide the little stickers declaring them to be Glitter.
“Then you’ve miscounted your patches. Or perhaps,” I add in an undertone, “you’ve been miscounting the hours in the day.”
“I only need one more. That’ll spell me.”
Frustration edges out the guilt. “You speak as though I have any,” I snap. “I don’t. I acquire them on my trip to Paris every Thursday, and I give every single one to you.” I open up the pockets on each side of my dress and begin filling one side with the new pots of gloss. The other I’ll stock with rouge I made two nights ago, currently locked in a desk drawer.
I’m rather proud of my little innovation. The hip satchels Saber provided me with are supremely useful for bringing supplies in from Paris each week. But for distribution around the palace, I needed something that wouldn’t require me to flash my legs to the court in order to access it.
Small pannier pockets are common in court—a simple ribbon-tied closure or cleverly concealed zipper at the top of one’s skirts gives access to a drop pocket that descends into the empty cage of each pannier. A handy place to carry cosmetics, or a Lens case, or even to stash a small tablet on Wednesdays. But I’ve taken it a step further. With the assistance of a seamstress I happened to know would soon be leaving Sonoma’s employ, I rigged up a satin lining on all of my panniers that allows the entire circular cavern to be utilized. A few snips to the bottom of my existing pannier pockets and I can fill the entire cage, on both hips, with product. Or with money.
Though I do have to be careful with my glide. If I allow my hips to swing, I…clatter. And the panniers are heavy when filled; after I had bruising the first week, I added padding on both of my hips. It’s awkward and took a fair bit of getting used to, but I think I carry it off admirably.
Perhaps my new assistant will be able to bear some of the literal weight.
“Dani, please.” A childlike tug on my sleeve pulls my attention back to the addict at hand.
“Father,” I say, feeling grumpy and sleep-deprived. “I don’t have any. I don’t know what you expect of me.”
He gulps air like he’s on the verge of suffocating, but at least he doesn’t cry. There’s been more than one bout of tears the last few weeks, and it’s embarrassing for both of us. He’s more like a child than a parent, and shame eats at my insides when I think too hard about the fact that I’m enabling his addiction.
Not that I’ve been left with any other choice. The fact is, he’s one of the people responsible for my circumstances. Natural consequences?
“It’s Wednesday?” I know he’s asking me, but he looks down at his hands, wringing them savagely, and it appears more that he’s speaking to himself.
“Indeed,” I reply, trying not to sound either interested or concerned as I move lip gloss into my panniers. Wednesdays are the best day for distribution. I’ll likely pass out more than half of the entire week’s orders by the end of the assembly tonight. How I used to loathe Wednesdays. Now they’re my salvation.
“One more. I could make it on one more. Maybe I have one…” His voice trails off as he begins patting his pockets and opening the front of his waistcoat as though a spare forty-euro patch might just, oh, fall out. I hold my anger at bay until he turns to the drawers of his massive desk and begins yanking on the handles of the drawers.
“Father, stop!” My own voice surprises me. I’m so thoroughly trained never to raise my voice. Even the night I watched the King strangle Sierra, I never yelled. Not once.
But this desk is mine now. It’s full of product and supplies. It’s locked, of course; I confiscated the key ages ago. But my father’s been using this desk years longer than I have; who knows if there are tricks for getting around the locks, or to what lengths he’ll go in his crazed state?
Damnation. I’ll have to do something.
“Father,” I say, gently now. “Come with me. I’ll help you.” I lead him down the hallway toward his bedroom.
“But…but—”
“I can help you. Just don’t ask,” I add, knowing that sometimes no answer is the best answer. I lead him to his bathroom and carefully remove his waistcoat and shirt and run warm water into the sink. He needs a full shower, but that is certainly not my job. Still, I apply foamy soap to a washcloth and help him wash his face and chest.
I wish I had completely altruistic motives, but what I really need is for him to don a new shirt, and I simply can’t bear to place one on such a filthy frame. His thin arms are covered with adhesive black marks. The lack of such a thing is a prime benefit of my method of Glitter distribution. Still, I’ll have to ask Saber how to get them off. Surely he’ll know. Assuming he doesn’t fall into a snit and refuse to tell me. He’s touchy, that one.
Doesn’t stop my heart from racing every time I see him. But touchy.
When my father smells half-human again, I retrieve a fresh linen shirt and loose waistcoat from his armoire and sit him on the edge of his bed. Once he’s seated, I look him in the eye. “I’ll make you feel better. Do you understand?”
He looks confused but nods.
“You should rest after this. Lie down. I’ll return tomorrow, but in the meanwhile you’ll fare better if you remain calm.”