Once she was there, Emme frowned. Deeply.
Jayd harbored no delusions as to why. Her maid was scowling at the items already lined up on the marble counter. There were some pretty hair combs, a small paint brush, squares of foil, and a plastic bowl filled with bright blue liquid.
After a hesitant second, Emme picked up the brush. But instead of dipping it into the bowl, she caught Jayd’s stare again. “Tupulai. Are you absolutely sure about th—”
“Emme. I love you to the end of each sunset and back, but if you ask me that one more time, I shall be forced to sing nothing but ‘What’s New Pussycat’ for the next few hours.”
Emme scandalized gasp was only half a jibe. “Merciless wench!”
“But you love that about me.”
“I love many things about you,” came the affectionate retort. “But not the mind behind a threat like that. And this?” She scooped up the bowl and grimaced again. “Probably a close second place.”
“Bah.” Jayd hissed from between her teeth. “I predict you will actually like it better than me.”
“I would really like it if you went to the palais salon to do this. They are only one level below us—”
“And they are all nearly as antwacky as my mother.” She huffed. “Their version of ‘daring’ is parting my hair in the middle instead of the side.”
A small smile wisped Emme’s lips. Jayd returned a similar smile while thanking the Creator for keeping her friend safe during their time in Paris. All odds considered, they both should have come out of the adventure in worse shape. Fortunately, her maid had only left behind some mental peace and a lot of skin off her left leg.
And Jayd had left behind her virginity.
Swoop.
Right away, she was back down the rabbit hole. But also like before, there were no twitchy-nosed lapins waiting in the darkness. Only Brickham’s blues, brilliantly burning into her bloodstream. And his lips, knowing all the places to kiss and caress and possess her. And the voice that came from those lips, so lush and commanding…
“All right.” Creator be praised again for the woman who could yank her from a reverie with two snorted words. “I cannot deny you the point. But that also means you cannot deny me the leeway to botch this up.”
“Bah.” Jayd stomped harder on the repetition. “You are not a botcher.”
“Says the three glasses of wine in your system.”
“Says me, the botchery expert.”
“Oh? Is that so, now?”
The woman’s tease was as comforting as the way she separated some strands of Jayd’s hair and began painting them with the blue paste from the bowl. Jayd had snuck a roll of tin foil out of the kitchen earlier, then cut out square pieces from it as coloring foils. It was far from a professional salon treatment, but better than what she originally expected. At least she had gotten something right this week—a defeat that seeped heavily into her answering murmur.
“Oh, yes. That is very much so.”
“Hmm. Since you have had such extensive experience in botchery, now?” The query, decidedly different than the first, came with an equally jarring glance. “And perhaps, in light of certain events in Paris, a little debauchery, as well?”
At once, she wondered if she had mixed the hair color improperly. Either it was going too dark or she had paled by at least five shades. “All right. Which of my brothers put you up to that little incision?”
“Hmm?” Emme only looked up once, well-practiced about her casualness. “I do not underst—”
Jayd grabbed the woman by the wrist. “Which one, Requiemme Farre? You will tell me now.” But she dropped her grip as quickly, suddenly needing to stand. “Wait. I can hazard a good guess. It was Shiraz, yes? Ev is too diplomatic. Syn is too truculent. But ’Raz is just sneaky enough. And let me guess, he asked you to do it after showing you all the extra videos.”
Emme went still from shoulder to toe. Her gaze flared. “All the extra what?”
Emme flared her gaze.
“The camera footage,” she snapped. “That they obtained from Paris.”
“Footage?” Another wide stare, making the woman resemble a possessed doll. “Good stars. Of what?”
“You know what.” Though now she began to wonder if Emme truly did or not. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to be more patient. “The shots of Brickham and me, from the center of Place Blanche. We were truly only pretending the groping, to throw off Trystan and his soldasks. And the break-in at the cemetery was necessary. It was only because of—”
“Break-in?” Emme broke in. “Oh, blessed saints and stars.”
“How do you think we made it into the cemetery in the first place?” she returned. “It was close to midnight. Perhaps after.”
“And the police were all over the place like bugs after cake.” The woman gasped. “Oh, my. Are you saying they went in through the window as well?”
“And are you really asking that of one of the cake crumbs?”
Emme plopped the brush into the goo bowl. Ample amounts of the dye spattered up, freckling Jayd’s exposed arms and cleavage in turquoise blue. Fantastic. Now she had a case of artificial pox.
“Rahmie Creacu,” Emme mumbled. “Next you will be confessing to mounting the man in some awful crypt while the rats applauded.”
“Nonsense.”
There were certainly no cheering rats.
She looked down, blotting blithely at the dye dots with some tissue, but there were already stains in her skin—likely just as apparent as the tell she had given Emme on a shiny behavioral platter. Still, she murmured, “What makes you say that? Even as a joke? Are there rumors, Emme? Even now?” They had been back on Arcadia for less than a week!
“Calmay, bonami.” Emme’s soothe was as gentle as her knuckles across Jayd’s cheek. “My intention is not an accusation, nor an investigation. Nor have your brothers approached me about either.”
Her maid had no cause to lie, but the discord in Jayd’s nerves went on. “So why are you saying things like this? Alluding to Brickham and I…and debauchery, and crypts, and groping in Place Blanche—”
“Sweet girl, you brought up the groping.”
“Uhhh…” She bowed her head to hide her sudden flush. “Yes, of course I did. As an example of the ridiculous conclusions that my brothers are leaping t—”
“You mean the same impressions to which I sprang, right outside the cimetiere? And that I am certain Ozias and Jagger reached as well?”
“Creator’s bloody-stumped toes.” She lost every battle against her senses, which now screamed in humiliated horror. “Emme! Why did you not say something? Or at least give me a look or a glance that would have—”
“Done what, exactly?” her maid returned. “Blithely noted that most people being hunted by half of Paris’s police force do not do so with shaky knees, swollen lips, and blatant beard burn? That the soldier-spies helping them rarely follow their every move with such ardent interest or are fine with having a crown princess call them Sir.”
“Former crown princess,” Jayd interjected.
“Not part of the world’s reality yet,” Emme debated. “Regardless, the point is the point.”