Marguerite, the former Duchess of Torrinni, receives two letters that will change the course of her life forever; and that will impact young Céleste Richel's life too, in more ways than one.
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When Marguerite is forced to return to Torrinni cour...
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Semi-comfortable amidst a mess of paperwork and dirty dishes, Marguerite sighed. It was early morning, and a slither of sunlight tried to peek through her prison-like window.
A few hours had passed since receiving the unwanted correspondence from Torrinni Court, and she'd chosen to dive into her work to avoid dealing with her decisions—for now.
Someone rapped their knuckles on her office door.
Unprepared for visitors, she shot to her feet, praying whoever appeared at her threshold would forgive her untidiness. "Yes?"
When the barrier slid open to reveal Sir Knowles, her hard-working Assistant Director, she released a relaxed breath. Her mountains of parchments never bothered him.
"Oh, thank the Heavens," she said, one hand pressing to her chest. "What is it?"
He loitered silently in the door-frame, the white curls of his wig falling over his paling cheeks. She'd asked Sir Knowles to remove the wig more than once, but the man's old traditions ran deep, no matter how outdated they were.
He was on edge, she could tell; he wasn't one to stay quiet unless he was worried or afraid. He was stiff; too stiff. "Miss M., I have come to announce a visitor, for you."
"Who?" The hem of her left glove had slumped down to her wrist. She shrugged it up, glaring at a coffee stain she noticed on her burnt-orange dress.
From the looks of him, she didn't want to know the answer—in fact, the more she reflected on it, she realized she already did, and couldn't bear to hear him say it out loud.
Before he could muster a response, a blur of black tresses in a yellow and white servant garb brushed inside. "Miss!" Marguerite's personal maid panted as if she'd run up several flights of stairs. Her gray eyes widened in fear. "She is here! I should have told you, but I did not think, I hoped that she—"
Marguerite scrunched her eyebrows. "Johanna, calm down."
The serving girl hunched over to catch her breath. A bead of sweat had formed above her brow and her face was paler than usual. "You were right, last night. It was true, the Dowager—"
"—what?" Marguerite tilted her head, trying to keep her tone relaxed though it begged to squeak through the room like a blaring trumpet.
A lady never raises her voice.
Johanna gulped. "Yes, Miss. Her. The Dowager Queen is here."
Instead of standing by for a reply, Torrinni Castle had come toher, in the form of Dowager Clémentine of Totresia. Sending a message hadn't sufficed; the woman opted to show up in personin case it took Marguerite too long to reply.
Gasping at the sight of her worn-down candles, the haphazard scrolls on the hardwood floor and spread over her desk, the books littering her table, and the empty coffee cups sprawled in random placements, Marguerite's legs wobbled.
