Peasants and Kings

by Emma Slate

  “I mean, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “A lot. I’m not telling you a lot,” she admitted. “But it has to be this way. You have to be a blank slate; you can’t know anything when you first talk to Gen.”

  “Why all the mystery when it comes to The Rex?”

  “You’ll understand after your interview. We can talk about it all then.”

  Without another word about it, Tiffany changed focus and waved down a department store retail attendant and told the woman what she wanted, gesturing to me.

  Before I knew it, Tiffany was ushering me back to the private dressing room and the attendant was carrying a few dresses by their hangers.

  She hung them up and told me if I needed anything in a different size to let her know.

  I quickly closed the door to the dressing room and looked at the options hanging in front of me. They were beautiful gowns and demurer than I expected.

  “Have you got a dress on yet? I want to see.”

  “Hold on,” I said, quickly grabbing a garment on a hanger.

  “Too many ruffles,” Tiffany said, when I opened the door.

  The next dress was a fail, too. The asymmetrical hemline cut me off mid leg, and she immediately rejected it.

  By the time the attendant returned with a pair of three-inch white patent leather pumps, Tiffany had given me the stamp of approval on the last dress. It was a form-fitting contraption that made me look more hourglass than I was, with a modest neckline. It hit just at the knee, so it wasn’t scandalously short, but timeless and sexy.

  Even the retail attendant—Rachel—agreed it was perfect.

  “She has to wear her hair down with that dress,” Rachel said, giving her opinion.

  “Yes,” Tiffany agreed. “I think…long waves. Old Hollywood come back to life. It needs a good trim and a salon shampooing. I want her hair to gleam.”

  Rachel nodded. “I’ve called down to Macy in the makeup department. She’s expecting you now, and I’ve made an appointment in the Salon for Ms. Miller.”

  “Thank you so much,” Tiffany said, as Rachel handed her an appointment slip for the salon. “Sterling, let’s get you out of that dress. We’ll have it—and the shoes—sent to my place. Jerry will sign for it.”

  After I got dressed, we headed to the makeup department. The price tag on some of the products made my head spin, but after the dress and pumps, I realized it was useless to protest. We spent some time finding the perfect colors for my complexion and after a short while, we said goodbye to Macy and then headed to the elevators.

  Tiffany pressed the “up” button.

  “We’re not going to the salon?” I asked.

  “Not yet. The appointment isn’t for another hour.” She shook her head. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

  The buzz of champagne had worn off and I’d burned through the eggs. “Yeah. I could eat, actually.”

  We rode the glass elevator to the fifth floor and walked to the patisserie café. The tables were covered in lace tablecloths and white china. Each of them had a tea service set and a three-tier cake stand. Tiffany sashayed up to the hostess, who looked us over.

  “We don’t have a reservation. I’m Tiffany Bristol.” Tiffany absently touched the key pendant around her neck.

  The hostess’s eyes settled on Tiffany’s neckline and her flat lips curved into a smile. “We have just the table for you, Ms. Bristol. Right this way, please.”

  We followed the young woman through the room to the back corner and arrived at a table tucked near a large window. It was private and intimate.

  “Your server will be right with you. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

  She inclined her head and then stalked away, the sound of her heels fading as she retreated back to her hostess stand.

  Two servers arrived. One carried a tea tray complete with a teapot, two cups on saucers, sugar cubes, and milk. The other brought an elegant three-tiered cake tray.

  Tiffany thanked them and then they left. She took her napkin and rested it in her lap. “Have you been to high tea before?”

  “No.”

  “Start with the tea.” She held up her strainer and set it on her teacup. “We’re drinking loose leaf.” She lifted the teapot and poured it over the strainer and then set the pot down and gestured for me to do the same. “I like milk and sugar in my tea, so I’ll add both.” She grasped the tongs and picked up a sugar lump and gently eased it into the tea, avoiding any plop or splattering. She then took the creamer and added a splash of milk, as elegantly as if she had been born and raised by a prestigious family from Chelsea in west London.

  “When you stir,” she explained. “You don’t do it in a circular motion, but in a six-twelve motion. This prevents the clinking sound and it also dissolves the sugar quickly.”

  She demonstrated and I nodded.

  “We’ll eat the finger sandwiches on the bottom tier first—with our actual fingers.” Tiffany grinned. “And then we move onto the scones. And I’ll show you how we do it when we get to it. Sound good?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But why are you showing me all this?”

  “It’ll come in handy when Gen appraises you.”

  “Appraises me? I’m not a piece of jewelry. This is making me uncomfortable.”

  She peered at me over the delicate china and tea. “I’ve never wanted to tell you the truth more than I do right now, but I can’t…”

  “Do you really work for The Rex, Tiff? Or have you gotten yourself into a situation—”

  “I work for The Rex, and there is no situation. Now drink the tea before it gets cold.”

  Chapter Four

  Tiffany reached out to smooth an errant curl over my ear. “There. Now you look perfect.”

  I grinned. “Are you sure the red lipstick isn’t too bold?”

  “Oh, it’s super bold, but it makes you look fearless. Besides, it’s the only color you’re wearing. The white dress makes it pop.”

  Tiffany had given me a mild sleeping pill the previous evening to ensure that I’d rest the night before the interview instead of tossing and turning, wondering about what I was walking into. I’d had a solid eight hours of sleep, and combined with the magic of high-end concealer, I looked my best.

  “How are you feeling?” Tiffany asked.

  “About how I look? Fine.” The white dress and pumps that Tiffany had picked out for me made me feel strong, powerful. Like I was wearing armor. “I think I get why you like going out with a full face of makeup, your hair done, and wearing designer clothes. I feel like a warrior. I mean—a very pretty warrior—but a warrior nonetheless.”

  “Let me hear your battle cry,” she said with a grin.

  “I’m yelling on the inside,” I replied. “You sure you can’t give me one tiny inkling about what I’m walking into?”

  “Nope. Now get going. There’s a car waiting downstairs for you.”

  I frowned. “What? I was going to drive myself.”

  “No offense, but you can’t show up to The Rex in your car.”

  “What’s wrong with my car?”

  “If you have to ask…” She grinned impishly. “It doesn’t make the right impression. Take the car downstairs. Dan will drive you to The Rex, and he’ll bring you back here when you’re finished.” She took my rudimentary flip phone and programmed Dan’s number into it. “There. Now, don’t worry about a thing. Remember to smile.”

  I saw my reflection in the mirror by the door. I looked like myself, but felt more settled into my own body, somehow. Same dark brown hair the color of maple syrup, only now it gleamed from the treatment and trim at the salon. Same golden-brown eyes thanks to the contact lenses I’d worn since I was seven. Same lush mouth that was quick to snap a snide retort.

  But I felt more like me than I had in a long time. Maybe because I was in the presence of my oldest friend, someone I trusted implicitly.

  I squeezed her hand and then walked to the door.

  �
��Sterling…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I never realized it before, but you walk just like your mother. I can see her in you. Be strong.”

  “Thanks Tiff.” I flashed a smile and then went downstairs to the black town car waiting for me. I kept my manicured nails clasped in my lap on the drive to The Rex as I stared out the window from the back seat of the car. My mind began to wander, but I forced myself to think of the looming interview. Nothing else mattered at that moment except my meeting with Genevieve. If I had any hope of disappearing and staying safe, then I needed to convince this woman that I would be an asset to The Rex.

  I arrived at The Rex fifteen minutes before my scheduled meeting at eleven. I tried to project confidence as I strode across the marble floor of the hotel. I turned a few heads in the process and that did a lot for my ego. For a year, I’d tried to be invisible, but now raw, feminine satisfaction at being noticed curled through me.

  I sat down on a white couch in the lobby and watched the patrons of the hotel. Men in well-tailored suits walked through the room heading to the Bar and Restaurant, the front desk, or to the elevators. People shook hands as they met to dine, and some laughed and spoke as though they had known each other for years.

  There was a palpable energy in the hotel. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it felt like I was witnessing the elite in their natural habitat. Hotel rooms went for no less than six hundred a night. You had to have some serious cash to stay at The Rex, but judging by the amount of people in the lobby, the price tag didn’t seem to be a deterrent. If anything, The Rex was selecting its own customer base, weeding out those that couldn’t afford to stay there. The hotel projected pure opulence and luxury, and it catered to those who wanted nothing less than the best.

  A young woman with dark blonde hair in a low bun at the nape of her neck strode across the floor wearing a black pencil skirt and a white, pressed button-down. Her steps were long and confident as she approached me, surveying me up and down with intelligent eyes behind a pair of black frames.

  I stood and smiled.

  She reached out a hand before she’d even come to a stop. “Ms. Miller?”

  “Yes.” I took her hand and gave it a shake.

  “Welcome to The Rex. My name is Annika. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to Genevieve’s office.”

  “Thank you.” I dropped her hand and walked beside her as we went toward the elevators.

  There was no idle chitchat as we waited for the doors to open. A soft bell chimed, signaling the arrival of a car. The doors pinged open and Annika gestured for me to proceed first.

  She pushed the button for the fifteenth floor and the light turned a golden orange and the doors closed in front of us, but the elevator didn’t move. She then reached into her blouse to pull out a golden skeleton key on a chain, similar to the one Tiffany wore. Annika took off the necklace and placed the one-inch long key into a single, tiny unmarked keyhole next to the button for the fifteenth floor. With a gentle turn, the elevator came to life and we started our ascent. She removed the key from the keyhole and placed the necklace back around her neck and tucked it into her blouse, hiding it from sight.

  We were silent, which I was grateful for. The steady beating of my heart was enough to occupy me. I held my clutch, determined to appear poised instead of nervous.

  The elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open to reveal a room with cream brocade patterned wallpaper and an antique oak desk with detailed scrollwork on the legs. The air smelled of lemongrass and instantly made me feel welcome.

  Annika stepped out of the elevator and I followed her, my gaze roving across the walls and artwork. She walked to a closed door that hadn’t been visible from the elevator and rapped on it before pushing it open. “I have Ms. Miller for you.”

  “Thank you,” came a distinctive feminine voice. “Please show her in.”

  Annika turned around as she pushed the door farther open. “Genevieve will see you now.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I strode past her into the room.

  The door closed behind me and I took a moment to marvel at the space. It wasn’t at all like the front room I’d just walked through. It looked like an English library, complete with leather couches, a gas fireplace, and shelves lined with leather bound books.

  A woman with a brown chin-length bob wearing a short-sleeved black silk dress sat on one of the small couches that faced the fireplace, papers spread out on the dark wood table in front of her.

  She looked up and gave me a cursory glance. “Have a seat,” she commanded. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  I did as she said and sat down in one of the leather chairs—the one facing away from the window so I wouldn’t be distracted by the view of the outside world.

  While the woman ignored me and focused on the papers in front of her, I let my gaze wander around the room again. It didn’t look at all like the sort of place one would conduct an interview. It wasn’t a sterile environment meant to keep someone on edge, but rather warm and hospitable.

  “What do you think?” Genevieve asked.

  I jumped and then let out a small laugh. I’d been so engaged with the thoughts in my own head that I’d forgotten she was there.

  “It’s stunning,” I admitted. “Completely at odds with the front room.” My gaze met hers.

  Genevieve set down a black fountain pen and then casually leaned against the couch. She lifted her arm so her elbow rested on the back of the leather sofa as she peered at me.

  “I spend a lot of time in here. I wanted it to be comfortable.”

  I nodded, setting my clutch aside, wishing I had something to do with my hands.

  There was another knock on the door and Annika came in with a tea tray. She set it down and then discreetly left again.

  I looked at the tea tray and held in a snort of laughter.

  Tiffany, you wily bitch.

  We spent the next few minutes fixing our tea. I held my teacup like a shield, waiting for Genevieve to direct the interview. So far, all she’d managed to do was peruse me from head to toe. Her eyes gleamed with shrewd intelligence and I wondered what thoughts were circulating through her mind.

  “Tiffany told me you need a new identity. Why?”

  I sucked in a breath, unprepared for such directness, but then I told her. It was an abbreviated version, and I essentially explained that the Foscari were after me without telling her about my family, The White Company. When I divulged the Foscari name, I watched to see if there was a flash of recognition in Genevieve’s eyes. There wasn’t.

  She took a sip of tea, acting like I hadn’t just revealed an outlandish story.

  Hating her lack of reply, I continued to speak. “I didn’t bring a resume, but I’m not picky. I’ll take whatever job is available, as long as I can get a new identity.”

  “Whatever job is available,” Gen repeated. She set her teacup down in its saucer, which rested on the coffee table. “Do you know why you’re interviewing with me on The Fifteenth Floor and not downstairs with the rest of the staff?”

  I shook my head.

  “What is it you think Tiffany does for a living, Sterling? You’ve seen her condo and her clothes, her car, the way they waited on her at Folson’s. There’s no way you actually believe she works the concierge desk, do you?”

  She didn’t give me a chance to reply.

  “The Fifteenth Floor is a brothel, Sterling,” Genevieve said plainly.

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “A brothel.”

  My head spun.

  Gen went on, “Tiffany is a Rex girl, a courtesan.”

  “She never told me,” I murmured in a daze. “Even when I asked her—I knew she wasn’t telling me the full truth but—”

  “Of course she didn’t tell you the truth. She’s not allowed to. None of the girls are.”

  Tiffany had sex for money.

  My best friend, the only person in the entire world I fully trusted, had lied to
me about what she did for a living and sent me into an ambush.

  It all made sense; why she’d insisted on dressing me, doing my hair and makeup. She had groomed me so that when I met with Genevieve, I looked the part.

  Looked the part of a high-end call girl.

  The cage door of my emotions flung open and boiling hot rage poured through my blood. I stood slowly.

  “You both must think I’m a world-class idiot,” I said, seething. “She let me come in here and all but beg for a job—any job—but apparently the only job I’m suited for is spreading my—”

  “Sit down,” Genevieve commanded firmly, not bothering to rise from her seat.

  I held her stare. The woman was cool and composed.

  “Sit down,” she said again, this time more softly. “Or, walk out of here and take your chances trying to find someone who can do for you what I can do for you.”

  Desperation bloomed in place of my animosity and I collected my emotions and bottled them. With a deep breath, I sat.

  “Don’t blame Tiffany. She wasn’t allowed to prepare you. When I interview new girls, I need to see their true emotions when I explain what it is we do here. It tells me a lot about who they are, yourself included. If you’ll allow me, I’ll give you some more information, and then you can take your time and make a decision. You can leave anytime you want, Sterling. I won’t stop you or beg you to stay. I haven’t even technically offered you anything. But bear this in mind, if you do walk out of here, that’s it. You won’t be given another chance. Ever.”

  “So, I have to decide if I want to do this before I leave your office?”

  “You don’t even know what this is or what it entails.” She peered at me. “Besides, if anyone has the right to be upset right now it’s me.”

  “You?”

  “You can’t be that naive, can you? That story you told me, about your mother and the Foscari.” She shook her head. “I’m crazy to even entertain this meeting.”

  I frowned. “Why are you, then?”

  “Tiffany has never vouched for another girl. She’s never even asked me to meet with someone new.”

  “That can’t be enough of a reason, can it? I mean, no matter how amazing of an…employee she is.”