Following their actions in The Golden Girl, Marguerite and Céleste must deal with the repercussions of their recent behaviors.
*****
Marguerite has landed herself in quite the shameful predicament, but she needs to make priorities; to somehow mainta...
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Céleste pried her eyelids apart, yawned, lifted to her elbows—and froze.
Marguerite sat at the foot of her bed.
"Marguerite?"
Céleste's heart raced as the golden-haired Duchess turned to meet her shocked gaze. Sunlight crept in though the partially parted curtains, shimmering over the woman's canary and charcoal dress. For an instant, she resembled what Céleste always imagined angels to look like—but the image faded as she sat up.
Marguerite straightened herself. "Good morning."
Removing the pillow crashing against her chest, Céleste stretched. "How long have you been sitting there?"
"Not that long," said Marguerite, her voice fragile, tainted with fatigue. "I wanted to catch you before you ran off." She glanced into her lap. "Do you have time for a quick stroll in the gardens? It will be cold, but what better way to wake up?"
Céleste fumbled about to retrieve the cushion she'd discarded, now wishing to use it as a barrier against the pain Marguerite woke in her rib-cage. "I do not—"
"—please?" The Duchess clasped her hands in prayer. "I know you are upset with me, but would you give me an opportunity to explain myself?"
Swallowing an annoyed huff, Céleste lurched into a sitting position. She wasn't ready to give Marguerite any opportunities for justification, but Sébastien's voice vibrated in her mind, urging her to listen. And if only to please him, and to obtain some clearer answers on the current chaos at court, she needed to hear the Duchess out.
With one of her best dramatic sighs, she shrugged off her covers. "Fine. Allow me a moment to get dressed."
Marguerite departed, leaving Céleste alone to overthink her decision.
***
The Long Corridor clock displayed eight-thirty when they walked past it, silent and solemn, the only noise their heels clicking on the floor.
Outside, their breaths escaped their mouths in clouds of fog, and Céleste rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth.
For a country so close to the Mediterranean sea, it was particularly freezing that day. Frosty dew sprinkled over the bushes, and the pebbles crunched beneath their feet as they marched onward, down the right-sided path. No one else had braved the temperatures, and Céleste regretted doing so herself.
Marguerite slowed her pace. "It does not excuse my behavior, but I wanted to answer a question you have asked me several times. I think it might explain a lot."
Céleste cocked her head. "I have asked you many questions, so you will need to be more precise."
"The one about Antoine." Marguerite gaped at the hem of her skirts, its edges sparkling in the sunlight. "You wondered if I still loved him. And... yes, I do. Until recently I could not figure it out, but now I have." Her voice crackled, and Céleste craned her neck to catch a tear slipping down the woman's cheek. "So all this drama, this situation... they are my fault. If I had not come back, ignored the Dowager's summons and her taunts, things would have been different. But deep down, I think I wanted to see him again. Despite how he hurt me, I had to assure myself I no longer loved him, but—"
