Marguerite, the former Duchess of Torrinni, receives two letters that will change the course of her life forever; and that will impact young Céleste Richel's life too, in more ways than one.
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When Marguerite is forced to return to Torrinni cour...
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The five original contenders—plus Céleste—lined up before Marguerite near the main stairs. Flickering sconces sent sparkles over their expressions, highlighting their fear, apprehension, excitement.
Though outed as the famed runaway Duchess, she still had duties to perform as Director of the Academy. She conducted her last inspection; her last overview of the girls she'd seen grow into royal contenders. All wore the traditional wigs in various colors and sported masks that glittered and twinkled like stars. They'd come up with outfits worthy of long-standing noblewomen, and Marguerite couldn't be prouder.
Harriet was in burgundy; every bit the independent noblewoman. Esther shined in an unusual pale blue. Cristina glowed in dandelion.
The final two loitered side-by-side, doing all they could to not stand too close. The former friends, now foes, squinted at Marguerite and Céleste.
Charlotte's ebony and gold dress clung to her figure and expanded over a large hoop. She had all the elegance of a potential Princess, but the snark and scorn of a spoiled brat.
Julia's maroon and silver skirts gave her the aura of a maiden of mystery.
Marguerite held her back as the others descended. "IfKing Romain proposes to you tonight, come find me. If he does not, do not take offense. The Masquerade engagements are Totresiantraditions, so he may only state his interest for you without yet offering you marriage."
Dislike her as Marguerite might, Julia had never asked for involvement in the Totresian-Giromian drama. She had no need to discover Romain's false intentions tonight, in presence of a large part of the Totresian population. Including her father.
"I understand," said the girl, flashing a nervous smile.
Marguerite and Céleste followed after her in silence, traversing the overflowing halls with their chins fixed in place and their noses up. As the biggest night of the year, the Masquerade drew the entire country to court. All decked in gowns heavy with gems and wigs weighed down with flowers. The men wore shiny suits decorated with pins and sashes, and masks of copper and coral and crimson.
With so many attendees, it took a while for everyone to settle inside the Ballroom. Many of them gasped when the herald announced Marguerite, Duchess of Torrinni.
Chills crawled up Marguerite's spine and stiffened her neck as she stepped onto the royal red carpet and sought somewhere to stand.
Yes, here I am—risen from the dead.
She gawked at the painted wintry decals on the walls and windows as she meandered to the front of the room, where her contenders waited. Sprinkles of silvery powder smeared across the floors, and the buffet and dais' linens were like a fresh blanket of snow.
The instant she parked behind Charlotte—whose vanilla-tinted cologne attacked her nostrils—the herald thrummed his staff.
