Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(8)

“You’ve spoken to my mother about this?” I shouldn’t continue to feel a pang of heartbreak every time I hear of yet another layer of my mother’s betrayal, but I suppose a child’s hope never completely dies.

“I have to speak to your mother about everything these days, don’t I?”

I feel a bit light-headed and struggle to keep my face impassive. At least she set some limits. A small favor, I suppose. “Why such a drastic change?”

“Where is your father?”

And it’s not a question; it’s the answer. My father has passed much of the last few weeks languishing in a stupor. A drunken stupor, I’m certain, except no one can figure out where he’s getting his liquor. Still, he spends nearly all of his days in his chambers, staring absently into space and occasionally giggling to himself. Which is most disconcerting from a man in his midfifties. My mother stopped sharing his rooms a month ago. Now she shares with me, which is, of course, delightful….

“Fine. Why now?” I press.

His Majesty rolls his eyes, then lowers himself onto the chaise beside mine. Even so, he’s a good meter away, and he looks silly leaning forward trying to whisper to me. “We have a bit of a PR problem. Rumors are cropping up. More from the outside than the inside.”

The outside. In other words, the rest of the world. “Rumors? Truths, you mean?” I say, batting my eyelashes.

“Besides which,” he says, ignoring my words, “you don’t actually have a choice.”

I chafe at his arrogance, but he’s right. He’s the King. As long as I remain a citizen of Sonoman-Versailles, his word is law. And as long as all I have is a company passport, there’s nowhere in the world I can run where he and my mother can’t find me and drag me back. Especially as a minor. Thus the catacombs two months ago.

“When I make the announcement, you must appear to be utterly delighted,” he whispers, sensing my defeat. “There’s a great deal riding on this.”

“For you.”

He takes his time, pulling his gloves off, then running a fingertip up my arm to the stripe of skin between my own glove and sleeve. The touch of his skin against mine makes me feel ill. “You’re as tangled up in this as anyone,” he whispers. “Conspiracy, aiding and abetting, tampering with evidence.”

That sets me shaking with fury, and though I grasp for control, it slides through my fingertips like oiled ribbons. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You’re right,” His Majesty says, and he tips his face to look me squarely in the eye. “You didn’t do anything.”

Instantly, the anger is gone, frozen out by despair. Grief. Guilt. I hate that he’s right. That I let my shock overwhelm my conscience, my sense of decency. That I let the death of a girl barely older than me go utterly unpunished.

I wanted justice. Of course I wanted justice! But my mother brooked no argument. “The truth won’t bring her back,” she said. “It only makes sense to gain what we can from this misfortune.” Misfortune. It’s a funny way to say murder.

My initial refusal to marry Wyndham fell on deaf ears. By the time I realized I needed to do something else, there was nothing else to be done. We were already mere flies in my mother’s web. I hate that I let myself be cajoled and pulled along by the current that night. If an opportunity ever comes to right that wrong, I swear I will.

The King takes advantage of my inattention to run his finger down my neck and across my shoulder, half bare in my formal gown.

“Don’t—”

But he cuts me off, bending to place a kiss at the nape of my neck. “I was told to make this betrothal look realistic. One of us has to do our part.”

I imagine his fingers wrapped tight around my neck, covering the spot his lips just brushed, squeezing the life from me. I shudder and start to pull away.

“Careful,” His Majesty whispers. “She’s watching us.”

I turn, like a compass needle spinning to point north; I can’t help myself. My eyes meet my mother’s where she’s stationed herself just inside the open doorway to the ballroom, preventing anyone from invading our privacy. Her gaze flits away. Pretending she wasn’t actually spying.

“You’ll excuse me,” I say, rising and stepping away from His Majesty. From his touch. “With this turn of events, it appears I have much to do tonight.” I offer a deep, mocking bow, my skirts a perfect circle around my feet.

“I’ve already instructed M.A.R.I.E. to fetch your belongings,” he says, pushing his brocade jacket back to slip his hands into his pockets, a portrait of nonchalance. “Wouldn’t want you to have to do anything, would we?” And he stares down at me, his blue eyes so predatory that my knees weaken. When I turn and leave the balcony, we both know I’m fleeing.

I don’t so much as glance at my mother as I pass.





IT FEELS LIKE hours before I manage to extricate myself from the event. I deflect conversation from dozens of lords and ladies hoping to worm out a bit of gossip—the second-most-common currency at court. When I reach the empty staircase to the north wing, it’s all I can do not to run.

I almost do—no one’s looking. But I’ve preserved my sanity, not to mention my dignity, on the assumption that when you’re in the Palace of Versailles, someone could always be watching. Something I forgot when I climbed out my window two months ago.