The Golden Duchess (#3 in the GOLDEN series)

•S E V E N T E E N•

Doubts growing in her gut, she dashed down to the garden doors. One step outside revealed how freezing it was, and she didn't think Céleste would take a stroll in such weather.

But that reminded her Céleste loved the Winter Garden, so she visited that too... to no avail.

"Where is she?" Marguerite was certain most etiquette courses were later in the morning, and Master Martel's sessions were never held so early.

She checked the Reading Room—deserted.

Then the Library—empty.

Filling her cheeks with air, she stomped by the Art Gallery. "She used to tell me of her daily plans."

She cruised close to the Queen's Solar, bumping into a lady who said she hadn't spotted Céleste at all.

As she resigned to hurry back to her room, Marguerite heard loud chatter and commotion coming from the East Wing. Sliding that way, she detected a line of lower-level nobles and lesser citizens, waiting to enter the Ballroom.

Someone was holding court again, but this time she wouldn't risk it being Clémentine. Antoine had warned her to keep away, and so she would.

Pirouetting back through the Queen's Corridor, then taking a left into the Long Corridor, she made her way to the main doors.

"Has Miss Richel come by here today?" she asked the guards, all of which shook their heads.

With a grunt, she returned to the service stairs, but her stomach grumbled, tempting her to enter the Dining Room. Johanna had delivered her breakfast upstairs, but what if Céleste had now finished her tutoring and was also hungry?

To her surprise, few people were in the Dining Room; which she should have expected, since most were likely in the Ballroom with whoever held court. Only a few girls of an age with Cordelia huddled on one end, and a noble she recognized from Mara, who was reading a battered novel near the hearth.

One more person stood out to her. A youthful ebony-haired man next to the middle of the table, his beige and brown frock coat creasing as he got up, pushed in his chair, and pivoted towards where Marguerite had frozen in her spot.

Sébastien.

She knew he'd seen her when his eyes narrowed and his body language screamed of reluctance, though proper etiquette meant he had to acknowledge her.

"Marguerite." He approached, his walk stiff and stuffy.

"Your Highness," she said, issuing a quick curtsy, not once removing her gaze from his. A shiver skidded down her spine at his coldness, at the way he crossed his arms over his torso like a shield. "It pleases me to see you."

His upper lip twitched as he inclined his head. "Likewise." So polite, so curt. It was unlike him, but she knew why he acted like so.

She masked her disappointment with a brief smile. "Have you seen Céleste?"

With a half-hearted shrug—another uncommon attitude on behalf of the middle Prince—Sébastien scratched his upper arm. "We had a quick meal together not long ago, but she hurried out without finishing her food. She was upset, though she did not say why."

"Upset?" Marguerite stroked her eyebrow, one foot tapping to the ground. "I wonder what is wrong. She has said little to me since yesterday morning."

"Yes, well," the Prince peeked behind her, "friends do not always have to chat with one another and divulge their secrets."

When he refocused on her, his eyes were hard as diamonds, almost as cruel as his mother's. He maintained an unusual distance between them, as if standing too close would infect him.