Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(52)

I turn and simply expect Saber to follow. He begins to, but Reginald stops him and mutters several sentences into his ear in such low and fast French that I can barely hear, much less comprehend, what he’s saying. But Saber only gives a vague grunt of agreement before hefting his messenger bag higher onto his shoulder and following me into Giovanni’s studio.

“You’ve picked up a friend,” Giovanni says, eyeing Saber appreciatively.

So much for the not-so-effective ruse that I was visiting Giovanni for romantic reasons.

“Employee,” I correct, oddly not wanting him to get the wrong idea. “I doubt you’ll see him again, though.”

“Shame.” Giovanni kisses me on both cheeks and walks me to the front door.

We enter the car silently, and I murmur instructions to the Nav computer. As we pull away, I stare at Saber’s scuffed but definitely heeled shoes and try to think what else to say, lest we travel the entire journey in silence. It’s a short distance, but not that short. “So, Saber,” I say brightly, cringing at my own tone. “Is there a surname?”

“Not anymore.”

Odd. “Were you raised in France?”

“No.”

“Family? Parents? Any—”

“Must we?” Saber says, cutting me off, sounding weary.

“I simply thought that if we’re to spend the next months working so closely together, we ought to know—”

“I already know everything about you that I have any desire to know.”

“You’ve no right to judge me,” I snap.

“I have every right to judge you!” He leans forward with his words, our noses only centimeters apart, and I tremble, frozen, staring into the fountains of raw anger in his eyes.

But it lasts only a moment before the shutters descend and his eyes are unreadable once more. He moves slowly away, as though I might claw him if he were to startle me. Once he’s leaning back against the seat again, staring out the tinted windows at the streets of Versailles, he says softly, “What do I call you?”

“Your Grace,” I say weakly.

He only nods.

“En fran?ais on Wednesdays, of course,” I add lamely. “Excellence.”

Another nod.

“I truly am pleased to have you,” I offer after a long moment of tense silence.

“You mean you’re pleased to have someone,” he corrects.

I say nothing more the entire drive and focus instead on trying to slow the beating of my heart.

The car pulls through the golden gates, around to the back of the palace, and into the underground garage. Since we’re trying to keep my visits to the dance studio in Paris a secret—His Highness for false reasons, me for real ones—it would hardly do to parade through the front. As the car descends into the darkness, I’m pleased to see a flicker of surprise on Saber’s face. He wasn’t aware of the garage’s existence at all. Considering the lack of motorized vehicles in the seventeenth century, I can hardly blame him. Most people from outside Sonoman-Versailles are unaware of the new complex beneath the palace’s formidable expanse. A far more modern facility, this area houses not only the motor pool, but also M.A.R.I.E.’s server farm, the vaults, some more modern office spaces, and even a dormitory for nonpalace staff.

At least, that’s what I know of from sneaking visits down here when we first moved in and everything about the palace was new and exciting. The court rarely bothers to descend belowstairs at all.

“This way, please,” I say to Saber, trying my best to be polite as a member of the motorcade staff holds open my door and we head toward the lift.

The lift doors open as we approach, and I curse inwardly as they reveal Saber’s first hurdle. My constant hurdle. His Majesty. Why couldn’t it have been Lord Aaron or Molli, or Lady Nuala? Even Lady Cyn would be more welcome.

“Good, I caught you,” His Highness says. I don’t even pause as I enter the lift, as though I’d been fully expecting to find the Loathsome Lord within.

“Take the next one,” the King grumbles, turning his back to block Saber’s entrance.

“He’s with me, Justin,” I say with no inflection while putting out a jeweled slipper to stop the door from closing.

The King gives him a slow once-over, apparently finding him lacking. “You’re certain?”

“My new secretary.”

He pauses, looking between the two of us several times. “Your what?”

“Secretary. It was approved by the finance committee last week.” A lie. “You must have been absent.” A truth.

“What the bloody hell do you need a secretary for?”

“You have Mateus; what precisely do you use him for?”

“I have a company to run!”

“And I have preparations to make if I’m to fulfill my own rather key role in that company.”

He gives me an appraising look, then drops his arm and allows Saber into the lift. “He’s a bit shabby,” the King says.

“I’m taking him to be liveried now,” I say, a bristle of defensiveness in my voice against the very insult I bestowed upon Saber not an hour ago. “Allowances must be made for one’s first day.”

“Yes, you do know something about that, don’t you, sweet cheeks?”