The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•S I X T Y - S I X•

"And you are sure?" There was a pinch of uncertainty in Céleste's voice, and a subtle slur that made Marguerite wonder if this discussion would be better to have in the morning.

She had too much to drink and I am much too distraught.

"Antoine's spies insist. And Sébastien agrees with it. We all assume Jules is locked in some deal with his mother. She has something to persuade him, force him, but he will not tell us. He acts, covers up his tracks because he has no choice."

Céleste hiccuped and grimaced as she held a hand to her stomach. The way her beautiful gown sprawled out in a white halo around her gave her airs of an angel. Her curls tumbling down the sides of her face, her down-turned lips, her rosy cheek-bones; she was so young, so precious. Bathed in such a virtuous glow, it pained Marguerite to open her eyes to such harsh realities. To the real schemes at court.

"So Prince Jules works with the Dowager?"

Marguerite lurched over her fort of pillows and took the girl's hand in hers. "I am sorry for putting you through all this. For confusing you. Our theories, our assumptions—" she choked as her sobs returned.

Céleste rocked her, massaging her fingers in circular motions on Marguerite's half-bared shoulders. "It is... it will be all right. At least you have answers. None of it involves you, that is good, no?"

Marguerite's tears turned to ice. She stilled in Céleste's arms, her lungs squeezing, her airways blocked. "No... no."

"No what?" Céleste tilted her chin to look at her, all manners of terror trickling from her gaze. "It does involve you? How?"

Marguerite's throat was scratchy, and she yearned for water; but it would have to wait. Pressing her eyelids shut, she exhaled.

"The Duke is here for someone... he is here for me."

"What?" Céleste became so rigid her arms fell from Marguerite's shoulders and she recoiled. "What?"

"We are to marry." The words were acid in Marguerite's mouth, melting through her gums and numbing her senses. "Once I receive that title Clémentine lured me here with, I am his prize. A plan several years in the making, courtesy of Clémentine, of course." Her body shuddered beyond control and her head slid into Céleste's lap as she heaved, liquid leaving her lash-line so fast she was too dazed to stop.

Céleste hushed her, wiped her forehead, tucked aside strands of hairs that stuck to her temples and nose. She allowed Marguerite's tears to pool all over her Presentation gown, not once complaining or voicing concern.

She then hoisted Marguerite into a tight embrace and whispered encouraging words, but Marguerite's agony was too immense to listen. She smelled the girl's wine breath and a gentle flower aroma from below her jaw, where she'd spritzed perfume. The combination of both scents lulled her into silence, soothed her sobs, comforted her more than anything ever had.

What felt like forever later, she escaped Céleste's arms, nauseated but numb. Her cheeks were warm and her eyes itchy; but she wouldn't cry anymore that night. She'd let it all out already.

"It is all so senseless," she said, rearranging the pillows behind her. "I cannot put it past Clémentine to overthrow her own son for power, but plotting with Giroma? Giving up the French girl she set on the throne? And then," she gulped, cursing herself for thinking she had no more tears left, "me? Tricking me into coming here and sending me off and out of her way, united to a Giromian? She has been evil all my life, but this is beyond evil. Edouard never would have done that."

Céleste scooched over to rest beside her. The bed wasn't large, but big enough for the two to lay next to one another in comfort. "You knew King Edouard well?" She settled on her side, to keep her gaze on Marguerite. "I mean, the book claimed he loved you dearly, but you never confirmed that." A slither of moonlight peeped in through her not-quite-closed curtains, sending a slice of light from her forehead to her chin. Her eyes sparkled.

"Of course. He treated me like a daughter. He was nothing like his wicked wife. He would never approve of such plots, such alliances. It would not surprise me if he would have had her hanged for messing with his eldest son's claim like that. His birthright. Edouard was all about tradition and maintaining his ancestor's laws... this would outrage him."

Falling onto her back, Céleste sighed. "You are right. It is senseless." Her shoulders sank into the mattress and her breaths were labored. "I should have believed you immediately when you detected schemes. I should have... how can I help you? Shall I write to my father? Is there anything he can do?"

For the first time in hours, Marguerite wanted to laugh. "Your father?" She snorted. "Heavens no. Your father would not lift a finger in this situation. He never cared much for me."

"But..." Céleste shot halfway up to her elbows. "He would not like the Dowager disturbing the original order of things. He is a firm Edouard supporter, yes? So if he heard she plotted to overthrow his eldest son, it would render him furious." Her dirty blond hair had come unpinned, tangling near her neck, dangling over the soft sheets.

Bunching her lips, Marguerite glared at the ceiling; at the slithers of moonlight zigzagging over the curved designs as if trying to form messages, to give her answers.

"You may be correct." She patted the girl's hand. "But I will ponder further on that after some rest. And then find some means to communicate it to Antoine and Sébastien, so they can add it to their investigation."

"Investigation?" Céleste stifled a yawn.

"They are looking into things, they told me. Holding meetings, sending out letters. They seek to dispatch envoys around Totresia to gather answers. And to," she flipped her view to the window, "ensure nobles are not bought by Clémentine or any of the Giromians."

"Bought, yes," Céleste combed her fingers through her hair as she slid onto the bed again. "Convincing them to vote against the King."

"Yes." Marguerite lifted her legs and tugged on the covers below her, bringing them over she and Céleste. "We should lie low. There are no scheduled Balls in the next few days, and there are other chaperones the girls can use to meet with their suitors. Sébastien may call on you, and your brother, too, but decline anyone else. Even the Graduates. Stick to our quarters."

Céleste yawned. "Of course... in the morning..."

"Sleep well." It wasn't uncommon for a lady-in-waiting to share her mistress' bed in times of need; but it was odd for the opposite to occur. More so when still clad in their evening gowns, and their faces unwashed.

For a moment there was silence; heavy, yet somewhat fulfilling. Marguerite's spine plunged into the mattress, melting into the seams, like floating on a gentle river. She couldn't doze off yet, no matter how tired; she feared falling asleep would bring on horrid nightmares she wasn't ready to endure.

Céleste suddenly flipped onto her side and tapped Marguerite's upper arm, testing to see if she was awake. "Marguerite?"

"Yes?"

"I have one question." She whispered, forcing Marguerite to tip closer to hear her.

"And what would that be?"

Céleste exhaled, and a whiff of alcohol hit Marguerite's nostrils. "May I call you Maggie?"

Marguerite whipped her neck to the girl, eyes wrenching open. "What?"

"May I call you Maggie? Your nickname? The King calls you that, Sébastien does too," she fought a massive yawn, "and I want to, as well. I am your lady-in-waiting, and, I hope, your friend."

"You are my friend, silly girl." Marguerite smiled. Amid all the chaos, hiding in the fog of frightening despair, she had something positive to cling to. She had Céleste.

"So can I?" Céleste's tone muffled as she pulled the blanket over her mouth.

Though dreadful pictures danced in Marguerite's mind—Antoine bowing before Jules, Adelaide seated on a cerulean throne with a sapphire crown on her head, Cornelius smirking from inside a black velvet carriage—her grin widened.

"Yes, Céleste. You may."

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