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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The more she stared at her reflection, the more she wanted to scream—her pasty complexion, her lackluster eyes, her lips lacquered but itchy and chapped.
Marguerite had become a masked monster, a ghost haunted by her own actions.
Her throat was dry and scratchy as she gulped down another swig of the lukewarm coffee on her vanity table. She stuck out her tongue and gagged, but so desperate for the beverage to enliven her, she ignored its irregular bitterness.
Johanna finished twisting her hair up with a burgundy thread that matched her petticoat and placed a golden leaf in one pin to go with the rest of the dress. "You are ready, Your Grace."
"Thank you." Marguerite turned her head left and right. "This is exactly what I had in mind."
Johanna wiped her hands on her apron and sneered at the mug. "Shall I remove this? I doubt it will do anything for you, old as it is."
Marguerite grinned. "You are correct, it tastes awful."
Johanna snatched the cup and disappeared out of the room.
Marguerite's smile faded as she planted before her floor-length mirror and smoothed the creases in her gown. She would have asked Céleste to assist her, but the girl had made herself inaccessible all day, and had supposedly joined Charlotte and Julia to get ready.
Charlotte instead of me? She must be enraged.
Sucking in her abdomen beneath her tight stays, she slipped on her heeled slippers, shoving away the horrid thoughts traveling across her mind. She was nauseous, anxiety weighing like thousands of rocks in her core, and her legs like lead as she dragged herself to the door. Leaving now would make her early, but perhaps she'd corner Céleste before the festivities began.
Little to no obstacles stood in her way, and she arrived at the Dining Room quicker than expected. She winced as the guards opened the doors and granted her passage.
She paused at the sight of a silver cloth decorating the mahogany table. Tall ivory and ebony candles paved the middle from one end to the other. Winter roses and pristine lilies lay between golden goblets, and butlers were depositing ruby-red napkins atop gleaming porcelain plates.
I may dislike Adelaide, but her sense of decoration is impeccable.
A handful of other guests had arrived; noblemen in their depressing drab, their wives and fiancées in their frivolous fineries.
But only one person garnered Marguerite's attention.
Seated on the left side of the table, four or five chairs down from where the King and Queen would sit, was Clémentine, with a sly, shiver-inducing smirk spread over her violet lips.
"Ah," she said, the usual vice peppering her tone, "you are here." She sneered as she pointed across from her, her navy and black lace sleeves billowing down her arms. "You will find your spot somewhere over there, beside King Romain, if I am not mistaken."
