PART ONE THE PRICE OF FREEDOM one two months later "danica!" even with her hushed whisper, Molli''s giggles give her away before her high pompadour can claim the honor. Rather a feat--thank goodness she''s not sporting feathers in her hair tonight. After a quick glance down the hallway, I join her in a small nook behind a set of heavy damask curtains. Lord Aaron and Lady Mei are with her, leaning out a picture window, sharing a cigarette. Someone has hacked M.A.R.I.
E.--Lord Aaron, no doubt. "Be careful," I say, the finicky words escaping my mouth before I can clamp down on them. "The smell seeps," I continue in an embarrassed mutter. Though it''s been only two months, I feel as if I''ve aged ten years since my failed escape attempt, and it''s starting to show. Seventeen going on thirty, I suppose. "Oh, lord have mercy on us if we damage His Royal Highness'' precious frescoes," Lord Aaron mocks. His eyes aren''t as playful as his tone, and he meets my gaze briefly before blinking away all trace of our shared secrets.
"Lean way out," Lady Mei says, passing me the hand-rolled cigarette and shifting her skirts aside so I can bend as far through the window as my stiff bodice and wide skirts will allow. I take a long drag, and it does soothe me--but I wonder if the night air alone would have done just as well. It tastes of freedom, that rarest of delicacies. "Give it here," Molli says, nudging me over and carefully grasping the cigarette dangling from my fingertips. "There''s only a pull or two left." "Give it here, Your Grace," Lady Mei corrects. "Mustn''t forget whose presence we''re in." I force a smile at her rousing, though in truth I wish I could forget.
Not something I''d confide to Lady Mei; as much as I enjoy her company, she''s a hopeless gossip. Lord Aaron and I were lucky to be able to replace her family''s priceless jewels the day after we stole them, or the only people she wouldn''t be talking to about it would be us. I back away from the window and right into Lord Aaron''s chest. "Steady," he whispers in my ear, his hands encircling my upper arms protectively. "I don''t suppose it''ll catch anything on fire down there, will it?" Molli asks, peering at the grounds below the window. "If it does, M.A.R.
I.E. will handle it," Lady Mei says, breathing out a long stream of smoke before pulling her head back inside. M.A.R.I.E.
--the Mainframe for Autonomous Robotic Intelligence Enhancement--is the central nervous system of the Palace of Versailles. She handles the drudgework, monitors the entire complex, and controls every bot, from the ones that trim the grass to the ones that help me dress. Presumably, she would also put out little fires. "Hurry," Mei says. "The system''s going to override His Lordship''s hack any second." Sure enough, scant seconds later the window sash slides shut with a defiant click. A blue light at the lock blinks indignantly, as though scolding us, but soon the anachronism fades and our little cabal bursts into laughter. "I don''t know why you can''t simply smoke outside before you dress," I say, dabbing laugh-tears from the corners of my eyes as we emerge through the curtains, back into the hallway.
"Because dressing takes an hour at least," Lady Mei says. She flips a jet-black curl off her shoulder and puts two hands under her barely-there cleavage, pushing it up ineffectually. "Some of us take a little more work than others," she adds with a sidelong glance at the more-than-ample shadow between my breasts. She''s not wrong; the gowns of the Baroque era don''t really suit her figure. But the fashions in Sonoman-Versailles must be pulled from actual history books and are, thus, as unyielding as the boned corsets we all sport. She makes the most of it, though. In her natural state Lady Mei might accurately be described as plain, but she''s a genius with cosmetics and couturiery, and no one seeing her in full evening dress would know her with a washed face and plain nightgown. She gives her skills far too little credit; her deft cosmetics enhance her delicate Chinese features to the hilt.
Plus, she''s the daughter of a wealthy marquis--she''ll never want for favor or adoration. Or suitors, when the time comes for such arrangements. The same cannot be said for Molli Percy, who has neither title nor inheritance coming her way. But she''s delightful and incredibly fetching, with honey-blond hair and a soft, round figure, and everyone falls in love with her despite themselves. That might be enough to make her a good marriage one day. Nothing could make her a better friend now. "Will I do, Lord Aaron?" Molli asks, turning a circle in front of him when she finishes straightening her skirts. "Almost.
" Lord Aaron adjusts a fold of her shoulder cape, straightens a strand of faux pearls in her coiffure, and takes a step back. "There, you look superb." "Thank you," Molli says, flicking her fan open and fluttering it just under her nose. "And me?" Lord Aaron asks, spinning a similar circle before them and making the velvet tails fly on his silver-and-crème jacket that sets off his gorgeous carob skin and long black curls. "As if you need my help," Molli quips. Lord Aaron is always impeccably turned out. "Shall we?" "Must we?" Lord Aaron and I say in tandem, and then turn to each other in surprise. Molli and Lady Mei burst into another round of giggles as Lord Aaron and I paint smiles across our faces.
We were jesting--of course we were jesting. "Go ahead," I urge them. "You know His Highness prefers that I enter alone. Besides," I say, patting Lord Aaron on the shoulder, "you''ve only two arms. I would be sadly neglected." "Alas," Lord Aaron says with a twinkle in his eyes, "though I''ve petitioned both the Good Lord and the medical research division for more, it''s true that I''m still possessed of but these two arms. And two hands," he adds, swatting Lady Mei across the backside. Lady Mei shrieks but takes his proffered arm.
"You''ll be in soon?" Molli asks over her shoulder. "In a few minutes." I watch my friends cross the Hercules Drawing Room, making their way into the soirée ahead of me. I consider returning to my quarters--not attending the party at all, instead spending the evening in my room with a book. But my mother would think nothing of finding me and dragging me back, my ear clenched hard between her fingers like a misbehaving child''s. Which is precisely how she sees me. After nearly a quarter of an hour, I can stall no longer. So I check my satin gown and posture in the many mirrors lining the hall, then present myself at the doorway of the Drawing Room of Plenty.
Plenty indeed. There are three couples in front of me. One at a time, they hand the crier a card bearing their name and title; he glances down, then bawls the names out. My turn. I need no card. I simply stand there, framed by red velvet drapes, waiting for the man to draw aside the curtain and present me to the crowd. "Her Grace, Betrothed of the King, Danica Grayson." The herald declares my cringe-worthy title at the top of his lungs, which always feels ridiculous; anyone who might have been dwelling so far under a rock that they don''t know who I am can simply make eye contact, access the local web feed via their network Lens, and view my public profile.
One never has to worry about remembering names at court when one is hooked into the network--one of M.A.R.I.E.''s more useful tricks. More useful than her propensity for locking windows or extinguishing tiny recreational fires, anyway. On the other hand, the herald''s verbal warning does allow for the fashionables of the court to pivot away and avoid eye contact with people they don''t care to acknowledge.
Also useful. Sadly, I''m rarely in that shunned category. An underage, unknown young lady, all too quickly betrothed to the King, and jumped up well beyond her rank in court with no explanation whatsoever: scandal, perversion, and mystery all in one satin-wrapped package. Murmurs of "Your Grace" can be heard as curtsies and bows make a well-coiffed ripple across the room, as though it were the surface of a placid pond and I an offending pebble. I am not, however, a duchess. Upon my betrothal to the King, the citizens of Sonoman-Versailles eventually afforded me that address--Your Grace--to hide the fact that I am, by birth, nobody. At least in the eyes of the fashionables at court, where wealth and title mean everything. To have neither and yet be betrothed to the King? The false address seems to make them feel better about that.
It makes me feel worse. The soirée is in full swing, with bots--dressed in the traditional red-and-gold livery of the seventeenth century--whirring about with trays of champagne and canapés among gowns of silk and satin, and the frenzied click of hundreds of jeweled heels. Delectable scents of both food and perfume waft like clouds, filling even the spaces where bodies don''t fit. Orchestral tunes are piped softly through hidden speakers, and the sparkle of candlelight can''t help but dazzle. For the two years since my official début, this crowded, frenetic atmosphere was heaven on earth to me, and even now, the elegance tempts me to rejoin my peers and drink and dance away what has become of my life. The salons swarm and buzz like a hive, though unlike insects, the drones here congregate around their king rather than a queen. The constant churn of pe.