The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•F O R T Y - T W O•

Standing before the Reading Room door, Marguerite hesitated to enter. Cordelia was on the other side, and she had no idea what awaited her.

Marguerite was in a mood. After tossing and turning so much her limbs ached, she'd thrown the covers off her bed and stomped about her room, unsure how to calm down.

Her mind drowned in waves of angry thoughts towards Antoine. How he'd succumbed to his mother's pressure, how he'd kept such facts to himself for so long. How he still let her sway him into conducting her odd agendas, how he'd endangered his kingdom by allowing Giromians in. And he did nothing. Nothing.

Could he have overruled Clémentine three years ago? He was only a Crown Prince, but with his father on his deathbed, he was the future monarch. He should have fought—but he'd remained passive, unemotional, heeding his mother's command over listening to his gut.

She'd asked for a bath, but had little time to enjoy it. She'd scrubbed, lounged, imagined sinking her head underwater to scream her lungs out where no one would be able to listen—

But Cordelia was waiting, and she wouldn't wait long. She was no longer the sweet girl from years before.

Johanna had picked out a simple day dress for her—mustard, striped with olive, white accents, flowing sleeves. It was one Marguerite had worn many times at the Academy, and it was comfortable.

She'd tugged her hair up, slid on heeled slippers, and took off, choosing to check on the girls first.

Esther was in her room, Harriet with her, enjoying tea and macarons, whispering. Cristina had received a note from Axel Espinar, requesting to meet her. She assigned Johanna to chaperone, pleased that Miss Condello had moved on from Sébastien.

At the top of the stairs, she'd hesitated to visit with Charlotte and Julia—the two who'd made her nose wrinkle so much her nostrils became sore.

I will see them after Cordelia. My mood will already be dire by then.

Downstairs, everyone hustled about. Lines of courtiers and paupers crowded the King's Corridor, servants rushed in and out of rooms with heavy trays and heaps of clothes. Triple the normal amount of guards stood watch—which meant Antoine was holding court.

Like his father—so he has retained some normalcy.

She'd hastened past the curious onlookers, keeping her chin tucked. When she snuck down the Long Corridor, the old brass and copper clock showed ten-thirty. Cordelia had said late morning—she would be right on time. She'd skidded down the window-lined West Wing, where sun drizzled golden glows onto the hard-wood floors.

And here she was now, halted before the Reading Room.

Now or never.

She swallowed, perked up, and knocked.