**THE PRINCESS SERIES is part of the GOLDEN UNIVERSE, and considered a sequel to THE GOLDEN QUEEN/A BRAZEN LOVE**
♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE GOLDEN UNIVERSE NOVELS AND THE BRAZEN NOVELS TO READ THIS SERIES! AS WELL AS BOOK ONE, PRINCESS OF CANDOR!♦
In...
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♪ A pretty little fool to think exceptions to the rule Just walk around like you and me this way ♪ {Lana Del Rey—Dark but just a game}
It was late, very late by the time Cordelia heard the rasp of Helen's knuckles against her door. She'd sent the Princess notice that they'd be meeting Berenice once everyone had gone to bed, but Lady Read had been entertaining several friends after supper, and it appeared their conversations dragged on forever. Twice, a servant had come up to beckon Cordelia to join them, and twice she pre-texted a migraine that wouldn't relent.
And that migraine actually developed before Helen finally arrived.
She opened her door and found Helen in the threshold, in her same yellow gown from during the day, her hair brushing down over her shoulders, her feet bare. She pressed a hand to her mouth and took Cordelia's hand—hers was soft, smooth, but cold—and guided her down the stairs in absolute silence. Cordelia didn't dare say a word—if anyone caught them wandering about, they would end up reprimanded by Lord Read.
They rounded corners and scurried down hallways Cordelia had never seen before, and landed in the kitchens. A whoosh of warm air hit Cordelia's face, coming from a still ignited hearth. A scent of brewing coffee and a whiff of spices swirled up her nose, but she had little time to enjoy them, as a darkened figure slid up to them, from the rear of the room.
Berenice, garbed in a lengthy cotton nightgown, arched an eyebrow at the sight of them. She had Lady Read's sculpted body, her generous curves, but it was Lord Read's expression that drew across her face—stern, disdainful, purposeful. A trickle of light from a tiny window shone over her, highlighting the grays in her eyes as she motioned for Helen and Cordelia to approach her.
There was no one else in the room, Cordelia was sure; and yet something gave her the impression they were surrounded. Perhaps the pots and pans staring at her from their hanging spots on the walls. Or the knives and other cooking utensils dangling, their sharp tips slick with hunger for her. Why was she getting such an ominous energy from this place?
"Glad you got my note," said the girl, her voice low in her throat, nearly a whisper. She sounded as if she'd doubted Helen was serious, that she'd questioned her intentions. Cordelia caught Helen's slight snicker at the intonation.
"I meant what I said." Helen's timbre matched Berenice's, but was raspier, almost sharper. As if they were trying to decide who of the two was fiercer, more intimidating. A verbal whispering match between two English ladies who were cordial on the outside, but vicious when tampered with.
"This," Berenice jutted her chin towards an old, rickety clock to Cordelia's left, "is usually the best time to get out. Once Grandmother is beyond exhausted from her guests, mentally drained. She will fall asleep the instant her head hits the pillow, which is right about now. As for Grandfather," her nostrils flared, "he may be nocturnal, but one can tell when he will take to bed, and he has had a long day."
