The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•T W E L V E•

Her heart fluttered as the lantern lit the way. She heard the nearby Royal Pond nearby, its fountain spouting in rhythmic turns. It sat in the middle of the garden, between the two main paths, and its stony surface smooth and slippery. She once loved it, yet the gentle movement of water didn't soothe her as expected. Instead, she received images of her and the Princes sitting on the edge and dipping their feet into the crisp liquid. And Clémentine's screams from the castle doors, urging them to act as royals.

Her stomach twisted into knots as ghosts of laughter filled her ears. She envisioned herself and the boys rushing inside to wipe their toes and ignoring Clémentine's scowl of disapproval.

Her shoes grazed the pebbles as she slid onward, cautious, uncertain, filling with dread.

'Meet at our spot,' he says. As if all were fine and forgiven!

The horse-racing fields and shooting ranges were at a distance, cloaked in darkness, their grassy meadows going on for miles.

Her trek tonight would end at the Gardener's Cottage, sitting at the left edge of the main garden. It came into view all too fast, its darkened, worn-out facade charming as ever, its roof covered in leaves and twigs, trees swaying in the breeze above and around it. Farther left, the woods and their distinctive pine and earth scent called her.

Her chest squeezed as she stopped another wave of recollections from controlling her. She gritted her teeth and followed the smaller dirt-lined passage in front of the cottage.

She lowered her head and stared at the bottom of her dress. How she craved a few moments to get herself together, to appear poised and unconcerned and uncaring—

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up and almost bumped into another figure holding a lantern like hers. Why hadn't she noticed him until then? She blamed her incessant memories for distracting her.

A sinking feeling in her abdomen forced her to take a stride backwards.

"Maggie?" Antoine's voice—deep, anxious, quaking—dispatched splashes of uncomfortable heat to her cheeks.

He dares to use my nickname?

They hoisted their lanterns up to reveal themselves. He was inches taller than her, and leaned down to show his hazel eyes flickering beneath his black tricorn hat. His ruddy mahogany travel cloak flapped in the gentle wind and his lips were thin, chapped, unmoving. A slight flush spread from his jawline to his temples.

She'd seen him earlier, and yet the fluttering in her rib-cage returned as if she hadn't gazed at him in years.

"Yes, Maggie, it is you." He lessened the distance between them.

She dropped into a curtsy, drawing away. "Your Majesty." Her tone came out icier than intended, and she hoped he wouldn't see offense in it; though a part of her wished to witness his affront, his embarrassment. To witness his reaction, since she hadn't seen it three years ago.

His light produced dots of light over his face, revealing his mouth as it curved upwards while he studied her. "No need to be so formal."

Struggling to conceal her hitching breaths, she readjusted her position. "It does not change the truth, Antoine." Her voice shook as she pronounced his name for the first time in ages.

He stepped forward. "Please, explain this to me." He tugged a hand down from his forehead to his chin. "Where have you been? We thought you were... wait, let me rephrase that." He angled towards her, concern replacing his smile. "How have you been? Why are you here? What is going on?"

Dizziness clouded her vision. Overwhelmed by his questions, and by the raspiness of his timbre, goosebumps popped up under her sleeves. "The court summoned me, remember? I told you this. I am the Director of the Academy." She wobbled as she fought the nauseous effects of her increased pulse.