The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

• T E N • part two: Bonus Chapter

Thank goodness. No one needs to see me like this.

Jules never hid how he felt. He was exuberant as ever, and court-dwellers were used to his gesturing, his loud voice, his far-fetched opinions. Sébastien remained reserved and quiet, and hadn't changed that attitude in light of what happened in the Ballroom moments before. But Antoine was easy to read, especially when perturbed. He knew his face contorted into sinister frowns and his eyes twitched—like his mother's—and his arms tensed whenever he was distraught.

Right now he was, very much, distraught.

Jules went straight for the ripped-at-the-seams, shabby thing of a chaise in a rear corner of the room, near the window overlooking the side of the castle. He fell into the cushions with a huff and crossed one leg over the other.

This was his domain—a favored area of his, when he wasn't frolicking in town or snoring away his inebriation in his quarters. He came here to boast of his adventures, to out-smoke and out-drink other courtiers, to show off his prouesse at the most difficult of card-games.

Antoine would have preferred if he'd been more discreet, calm and witty like Sébastien. But then again, wouldn't he have been bored to have two brothers of identical temperaments? He had to admit he'd been, back in the day, amused by Jules' attitude. Now, as his King, it didn't entertain him as much.

Sébastien settled on the settee closest to the hearth and rubbed his hands together, gathering warmth. "Why her? Why is she here?" He squinted at Antoine, who joined him, sitting stiffly on the other side of the sofa. "How is she here?"

"Would that I could tell you, brother," said Antoine, using all his might to keep his voice level. They were his brothers, and yet he wasn't ready to break down in front of them, to show them how affected he was by the ghostly reappearance of the woman he'd once loved.

Still love. I never stopped.

"So you mean to tell me you had absolutely no inkling she was coming?" Sébastien quirked an eyebrow. "No indication whatsoever that she was still alive?"

Antoine shuddered, recalling with a ferocious vivacity the night Marguerite ran from the castle. They were eighteen, in love, on the verge of being engaged; and Edouard had fallen ill and everything went down-hill. She ran because she couldn't bear to watch him marry someone else, and for the longest time, he'd believed she'd been killed in the process. That it was his fault. She'd been stabbed by some vagrant miscreant. Clawed to death by a bear—though he knew there were no bears in the woods surrounding Torrinni. Or had slipped from her horse and fatally smashed her head upon some rocks.

No, he'd had no clue she was alive. All this time he'd thought all his whispers to her about still loving her were addressed to a specter; but no, her soul remained in the living world. She was real, and she was there, in the castle.

He suppressed another round of shivers and tucked his hands under his armpits.

"I am pleased she is home," said Jules, pressing his clasped hands to the back of his head. His messy waves of chestnut stuck up and swayed as he shifted, getting more comfortable in the cushions. "But I must say I am peeved that no one told us. To find out from that Richel girl—"

"—the Richel girl?" Sébastien sat up straight and blinked at Jules, all his earlier composure melting. Antoine had caught Sébastien gazing at the young lady with wonder, when she'd been found alongside Marguerite. He'd been stunned into silence, awed at her flawless skin and big, grayish eyes; Antoine could tell. She was Sébastien's type, and it was no use for Sébastien to pretend otherwise. "You met her?"

Jules scoffed. "She was lurking in the hallway, poor lass," he chuckled, "and we bumped into each other. Sweet thing, she was so flustered. Adorable—like a more feminine, younger version of her brother, and we must admit he is a handsome man—"