The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•S E V E N T Y - T W O•

Beyond the city, the cobbled pavement turned to dirt and grass. Tall trees gathered up ahead, and the lone pathway she'd once taken surfaced. The road she'd traveled with Antoine and Edouard when she was eight; and again when she ran at eighteen.

Though tempted to rush towards it again, flashes of her second voyage through the woods swarmed her with dizziness. Ambushed halfway through, captured, carried away, locked up for days without knowledge of what would happen to her—the thought stilled her heart.

The first eyes she'd seen, the first person who opened her cell door—

No.

She kicked her heels to the creature's sides and veered to the right, down a lesser-used passage leading to the north-eastern side of the Torrinni region.

No one would find her this time. Clémentine's spies loitered no more, according to Antoine and Sébastien. The Dowager's power was fading, at last; but Marguerite had interrupted the regression, accorded her a few more days, weeks, months at the castle to continue her bidding.

Marguerite wouldn't stick around to watch the consequences of her mistake play out.

The rain plummeted her, sinking into her cloak, drenching her riding clothes. She whipped the reins, desperate to arrive before the sky unloaded more than dreadful drops.

***

The Torrinni Palace wasn't easy to reach, but she remembered the way, having seen the outside once with Edouard. The winding paths over, under, and around hills that surrounded Torrinni City were the most direct path. Gritting her teeth, she followed it, shivering, her only respite imagining a warm bath and a glass of wine.

Edouard had told her there were shortcuts, but she hadn't had time to ask anyone about them, in her hurry to escape. And she didn't stop until she reached the massive iron gates surrounding the property. It took hours, but no one intercepted her, none of the passing carriages questioned her.

The guards protecting the ground entrance did question her, but she had her reply rehearsed. "The King sent me," she lied, showing them a note she wrote herself, and where she'd forged Antoine's signature. "To inspect the premises."

She was certain one of them recognized her.

Halfway down the driveway, her legs were sore, her bottom in pain from the saddle, her bones chilled from the rain.

The ebony rooftops glistened as she slowed her mare to a trot and breathed in the freshness of her surroundings. A hint of pine and wintry air swirled around her, and she smiled.

A small stable loomed to the left, so she steered her horse to it and dropped it off with a surprised stable-boy.

Then she waddled up to the main doors, leaving a trail of water in her wake.

Her arrival puzzled the serving staff; they'd been expecting someone else, though none would reveal who.

I know—Clémentine.

Upon producing paperwork proving she was the rightful owner of the property—Clémentine's letter signed by Antoine—they allowed her passage. They ripped off her soaked coat, helped her out of her shoes, shed her gown and undergarments, and prepared a hot bath for her in the master-suite.

The scalding water caused her to hiss, at first; but after riding in the glacial torrent, the steam was a welcome reprieve.

Had Céleste woken up and seen Johanna? Had they formulated a plan? Should she expect a search party to ride up to the Palace gates and extract her, to throw her into another prison at Clémentine's behest?

Johanna will advise her to say nothing, as I warned.

But Céleste would be mad that the Duchess had done what she did best—run away from her problems instead of facing them.

It was dishonest and disgraceful, but Marguerite had had no choice.

As she lounged in the scorching water, her nose hovering above the surface, she sighed. She'd sworn the Palace staff to secrecy; but would they obey her? She was their overseer, but would they be loyal to someone they'd thought dead?

Once out of the tub, a young serving-girl enveloped her with a soft robe and offered to help dress her. She claimed there were a few dresses in the oak armoire, but Marguerite refused her aid. The girl clambered off, and Marguerite tiptoed to the arched, floor-to-ceiling window. It had a view on the entryway courtyard, and it revealed that the rain had gotten worse.

Pulling the robe tighter to her skin, Marguerite wondered if someone had dispatched royal scouts to recover her. It was mid-afternoon; surely all at court had found out she'd ran. Clémentine might have had a few friends in the castle, still; some who'd gotten word of a disappearing Duchess and had informed the Dowager at once.

What if Céleste and Johanna hadn't gotten their stories straight? What if their explanations didn't align, and someone coerced them to talk, to reveal that Marguerite had left?

She prayed that no one would think to hunt for her here—a choice she hoped was too obvious. A place she thought was too easy to hide in. If anything, she wished they'd first explore the route to the Academy, the way she'd went the first time.

In truth, nowhere in Totresia was safe for her. If she showed herself in public, rumors would sprout. Eventually, a cavalry of Clémentine's groupies and the Duke of Terter's soldiers would locate her, bind her wrists, and take her kicking and screaming to Giroma. Eventually, she'd have to own up to the errors she'd made and accept the fate forced on her.

But not yet. Not before she had a chance to think, to clear her head, to review all the books at her disposal in search of a solution. Like Antoine, she needed to be alone. Court was too dangerous. Cornelius would lurk about, taunting her at every occasion, licking his unpleasant lips whenever he sighted her. Romain would sneer and snarl and impose his dominance in every area he walked into. And Clémentine...

She almost tugged the curtains from their hinges as she growled, the image of her sneaky, venomous foe haunting her mind. For years and years she'd despised the Dowager for all she'd done, but deep within her soul, she'd hoped to one day understand why. To seek some way to forgive her, move past her cruelty, adopt a mature attitude about it all.

After this—giving her hand to one of the worst Giromian nobles in existence, part of a family that deceived and destroyed—she wasn't sure she'd be able to rise above it.

To sit around and wait for that night—the Masquerade—sounded like torture.

"I cannot go. I cannot."

She released her grip on the silky drapes and swerved to the closet. Inside, she found a few old wool dresses that were far outdated, but that would do for now. Not that it mattered what she wore—she wanted peace and quiet, away from those who judged outfit choices.

She winced, realizing she'd lied a lot in recent days. To Sébastien, since she'd promised to do nothing rash; to Céleste, keeping her tormenting troubles from her. And to Antoine—

"No. I cannot let him cramp inside my head!"

She'd done what she could for him, and prayed she hadn't doomed him further. For now, she had to save herself.

How to break a contract between a Dowager Queen and a Giromian Duke without prompting a long averted war?

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