Following their actions in The Golden Girl, Marguerite and Céleste must deal with the repercussions of their recent behaviors.
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Marguerite has landed herself in quite the shameful predicament, but she needs to make priorities; to somehow mainta...
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Marguerite wondered if she'd ever sleep normally again. Not that she had in the past three years; but if only she were allowed a dreamless slumber without visions of her mistakes, or Antoine's gaping at her nakedness as he licked his lips, or Queen Adelaide snarling as she aimed a pistol between her breasts, or Clémentine kicking her to the curb and crowds of courtiers pointing fingers, laughing, leering.
After hours of tossing and turning, she dragged herself from bed to discover it was eight o'clock.
Another image haunting her all night was that of Céleste and her attitude if she were to find out the truth. What would she do? Understand, accept her error, help her do damage control? Or would she shun her?
Marguerite had to see her, gauge her mood, interrogate her to see if she had any suspicions.
"She should be awake by now, since she was in bed so early last night." Focused on the adjoining door, she dressed, weaved her hair into an acceptable chignon, and marched over to the girl's room.
"Céleste? Are you up?" Usually she'd stroll in and drag the curtains apart, but something told her to knock, to wait.
After several knocks and minutes of waiting, she received no response, not a peep from the other side. She jiggled the doorknob and sidled into the suite to discover an empty—but made—bed, a tidy vanity, and the drapes parted to reveal a dreary, gray January sky.
Brows furrowing, Marguerite returned to her room, wondering if Céleste had hastened downstairs for breakfast before her lecture.
As she settled at her vanity to powder her nose, the bedroom door opened, and Johanna arrived. "Good morning, Your Grace," she said, hurrying to deposit a steaming mug of coffee before her.
"Have you seen Céleste today?" Marguerite dabbed thicker layers beneath her charcoal-lined eyes.
Lowering a breakfast tray onto the tea-table, Johanna sighed. "I have not. She asked me to wake her in time for her lessons, but she was already gone when I arrived. And her room," she averted her gaze to the frayed edges of her apron, "was a mess."
"I noticed last night," said Marguerite, recalling the piles of dresses near the window and the products all over the floor. She'd dismissed it, thinking the young girl had been searching for something specific in her things. "What time did you show to wake her?"
Johanna grabbed the doorknob, ready to leave. "A little after seven o'clock."
Marguerite frowned as her serving girl disappeared out into the hallway. An odd hunch prodded at her insides as she recalled the disarray of Céleste's room and her early sneaking out. She rarely got up before eight without help. Something was amiss.
What was she up to? What, or who, would draw her from her suite earlier than usual?
After putting on a pair of comfortable shoes, she zipped out of her quarters and glided to the service stairs for a quicker descent. At the bottom, she whipped over to the Dining Room side-door and peered inside, but didn't spot Céleste.
