The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•S E V E N T Y - T H R E E•

With the King gone, Queen Adelaide had signed the message herself.

Clenching the note in her clammy hands, Céleste bit her lip. Did no one wonder why the King wouldn't host the event himself? Did no one care he'd left?

It was December twenty-third—eight days until the Masquerade. Eight days seemed so little for the task of saving Marguerite's hand in marriage.

Céleste's body ached as if she'd ran for miles. Her heart pinched at the idea of Marguerite in danger, caught by Clémentine, caged in some abandoned tower awaiting punishment.

Later that afternoon, Emeric asked to meet with her in the Library. She accepted the invitation, but struggled to navigate the corridors without bumping into those who still sought to speak with the Duchess. She had a close encounter with Duke Cornelius, too, and nearly had a heart attack. He wandered the halls, his harsh voice like a toxic cloud that poisoned any in the vicinity. He barked orders at two men following him around and shoved his dirty-blond curls aside to reveal his sullen cheeks and cruel eyes.

Céleste concealed herself from him. Beads of sweat clustered on her forehead as she waited for the coast to be clear.

He cannot intercept me—he will ask questions, and I doubt I can convince him of my lies.

Her brother sat in a navy chair near the fireplace, a teacup in one hand, a thick book on his lap. When she scrambled in, breathless, and dropped into the seat beside him, he clapped his book shut.

"Are you well?"

She hesitated to tell him the truth. She trusted him, but Marguerite's life was at stake. If anyone overheard them, they might be accused of keeping secrets from the throne.

"I am tired."

"Of course you are." Emeric glared into the fireplace. "Your Duchess is ill, yes? As her lady, it falls on you to attend to her needs."

Céleste's voice got stuck in her windpipes, so she nodded.

"I do hope she is all right," said Emeric, between sips of tea. He had faint beginnings of a wispy blond mustache over his lips, and scruff on his jawline, tricking Céleste into thinking he was their father. "Such a sudden bout of illness does not bode well."

Maintaining a straight face for the rest of their meeting tormented Céleste's stomach. She nibbled on macarons and gulped a bit of tea, but the second she left, she found a chamber-pot and emptied her insides in it. Tears poured down her cheeks, and she kept to the shadows of the washroom until hours had passed, and she felt safe enough to venture to her room.

Where are you? How long must I continue these lies?

***

For most of Christmas Eve day, she stayed in her quarters. She barely ate or drank a lick of water or cared to get out of bed. She rebuffed proposals from Esther to wander the gardens, and from Harriet to travel into Torrinni to view holiday decorations. She even declined a visit from her brother, loath to put on a cheerful face for him—or anyone else.

Making up stories to protect Marguerite was exhausting. Never did she expect to have to help the Duchess from her favorite book with another escape from the castle.

In the evening, she browsed through her closet for an outfit, and found one she'd shoved aside, thinking she'd never wear it. It was a gift from her father—he'd sent it after hearing of her courtship with Sébastien.

"A grown-up dress for a grown-up girl," he'd said in the note accompanying the present.

It was a dark emerald, off-the-shoulder gown with a smaller hoop, like the current Parisian fashions. Though she wrinkled her nose at it, Céleste knew it was more than appropriate for a Christmas Ball.