The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•F O R T Y - S E V E N•

All the way down there, away from her best friend?

Céleste couldn't refrain from smirking. But she didn't have time to ponder the other contenders or question their seat placements. Ladies-in-waiting delivered flutes of champagne, serving girls hustled from service corridors with trays of food, butlers pulled out chairs.

The Queen cleared her throat. "Ladies of Totresia, it is a feat to have made it this far, and I applaud you." Her smile caused shivers to crash down Céleste's spine. "A privilege for you, but also for me. It pleases me to meet you before some of you join my family. So, to start, a toast!" She raised her glass, and everyone in attendance mimicked her. "To Totresia! Peace Above All! And to you, contenders; may you all find your husbands at court!"

The sparkling taste lingered on Céleste's tongue.

And it remained, even after bowls of creamy potage and leafy greens coated in dressing and chunks of buttery potatoes and tender meats drenched in a delectable wine sauce.

She spent most of the evening focused on the table linen and its intricate floral patterns. She strained to ignore the whispers of "who is she? Why is she here?" floating around her. And fought to cease worrying about why the Queen hadn't said a word to her since she'd assigned her seat.

As she reached for a biscuit and broke it open, the Queen accorded her a glance, at last. "Céleste Richel. Our little underdog," she said, her tone bathed in honey but laced with a sourness Céleste wanted to cringe at. "I apologize for not conversing with you sooner."

Céleste's chin quivered. "It is quite all right, Your Majesty. I am honored to be here."

"As you should be." The Queen lifted the rim of her cup to her candy-apple lips—her second refill of the night—and sipped. "Prince Sébastien's front-runner. It is a shock, but a good one. I hear your father is a well-trusted and valued member of my husband's council. Though he remains in Valeville, far from the action."

Most conversations in the surroundings died down as everyone tuned in to the Queen and Céleste. She heard someone mutter "she is here for Sébastien?" and another—a whisper much like Charlotte's usual hisses—calling her "a presumptuous social-ladder climber."

Her cheeks swarmed with heat. "He fears court is too active for him, Majesty. He prefers to advise from afar, while maintaining the security of our borders."

It was a rehearsed reply her father had begged her to give, if anyone asked why he never traveled to Torrinni. In truth, he hated the castle and its drama, but he'd beseeched her to never reveal that.

Frances, brows lifting so high they almost flew off her forehead, took a swig of her refreshment. She studied every inch of Céleste's face, but said nothing, showed nothing.

Charlotte had turned redder than the vivid walls surrounding them and pouted after each bite she charged into her mouth. But who she was most angry at—Frances, for earning Jules' spot of honor, or Céleste for being there—Céleste couldn't tell.

"Of course," said the Queen, her voice slick with over-the-top friendliness. "We are most thankful for his service." Her chest puffed out, her breasts about to spill from her décolleté, forcing Céleste to switch her view to her half-eaten meal. "That reminds me—ladies!" She clinked her utensil to her glass. "An announcement! Now that we have been here for a while, getting to know one another, I must warn you that the Dowager will select a few of you for tea tomorrow!"

Crickets chirped outside, jaws dropped, and Céleste could have sworn her breaths were the loudest sounds in the area.

"Oh, do not look so frightened! The Princes will inform her of their favorites this evening, and it will be a simple affair, I promise." She guzzled down the rest of her drink and rose her goblet for another refill. A butler scurried over and poured, but she yanked the cup away before he could finish and drank from it again. "If you are not a Prince's front-runner, fret not; you may join me in the Solar for delicacies and knitting. But if you are a favorite, you will receive your invitation first thing in the morning. Our dear Dowager is an early bird." She sneered, but tried to conceal it by swirling her drink in front of her face.

Where was the Dowager? Céleste had been under the impression she'd be there, too.

The boiling in her belly covered her forehead in sweat; but at the same time, glacial chills spiraled down her spine, causing her to shiver. The hot and cold sensations colliding made her unsure if she wanted to cry, or yelp out in pain.

Would she receive a letter from the Dowager in the morning?

Goosebumps crawled over her skin, and she was grateful her sleeves were long enough to hide them as they popped up.

"It is intimidating; I would know," said the Queen, leaning towards Céleste, but keeping her tone in a normal volume. She smiled; not a fake smile, but one that conveyed true understanding. "I started as you did. The unknown contender. The one everyone underestimated. But I won, n'est-ce pas?* I am the Queen of Totresia, and will stay as such. Do not be fearful; I was not, and look at where it got me."

Her words replayed in Céleste's mind so much she struggled to focus on anything else.

'I will stay as such'—what does that mean?

She reviewed Marguerite's theories, King Antoine's doubts, Dowager Clémentine's supposed schemes involving her son's reign.

Hadn't the Queen recently mentioned her woes to Marguerite? Was she no longer afraid of losing her spot?

She held her breath, battling her tense muscles, sucking in her urge to ask follow-up questions.

"I appreciate your advice, Your Majesty," she said through gritted teeth.

The Queen took a lazy bite of her biscuit and sighed. "The Dowager is scary. Oh dear, do I know that well! But I learned she only bites if you show weakness."

Céleste stiffened. "Bites?"

"Oh," the Queen's giggle sent a few crumbs flying to the tablecloth. "It is an expression. What I mean is our Dowager seeks strong, confident ladies for her boys." She dabbed her napkin to the corners of her mouth. "She wants women who can carry a royal title and handle an immense amount of stress without batting a lash. Never appearing flustered or frustrated or worried."

Céleste plucked her water cup from the table and chugged. With each swallow, a drizzle of sweat poured from her temples.

Does Sébastien not realize I am none of that?

She nearly spilled when the Queen's gloved hand wrapped over hers. "Everything is a test here. Meeting the Dowager will be your biggest one yet. Especially... well, considering your status... she will judge you with more harshness than others."

"My status?" Céleste's nostrils wrinkled. Her father was a Marquess, her brother an esteemed member of court; what about that would displease the Dowager?

The Queen lowered her voice and angled closer. "Underage and non-presented. It matters not how well-placed your father is. Until we confirm your contender position, she will reserve the toughest of verdicts for you."

A handful of girls—Charlotte included—watched them, eager, envious, curious.

"This title—Princess—is heavier than you think. Be ready, Miss Richel." With that, Adelaide swerved to Frances, mumbling something that prompted the brunette to chuckle. Charlotte squeezed closer, yearning to fit in, her high-pitched, nasal giggle ringing in Céleste's ears.

Was that a warning? Or a threat?

Céleste picked at her bread, re-hashing the Queen's comments, praying to unearth the hidden meanings in what she said. But every sentence confused her; every intonation was too hard to decipher.

She captured the situation to memory, to better retell it to Marguerite later. The Queen of Totresia was too difficult to read, and she had no clue how to interpret her attitude.

* right?

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