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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No matter that Céleste was allowed onto the Royal Floor, and that she'd been there before only days prior, she hesitated as she arrived at the top of the stairs.
In their burgundy suits and their sashes littered with badges, the guards of the second-floor landing always seemed more intimidating than any others.
It wasn't a place for a girl like her to be wandering about—too many masked enemies lurked nearby with sharp eyes, poison on their tongues, and false sympathies in their voices.
She didn't want to be on a mission for someone who had upset her. But Marguerite had begged, and deep down in the depths of her soul, Céleste couldn't lie—she sort of enjoyed the thrill. When she'd heard Sébastien was up in his room—a place she surely wasn't supposed to visit until after their marriage—her heart palpitated with adrenaline.
That adrenaline fizzled off as she immobilized on the final step.
"Miss?" One guard gazed at her, one eyebrow twitching up.
She shook herself. "Ah, uh, yes. Prince Sébastien's suite, please?" She winced, realizing she was seeking him out unescorted.
The guard didn't seem as preoccupied as he pointed. "Straight across the way, Miss."
On the opposite end of the landing, she saw the giant oak door she'd been intrigued about a few days ago. She'd explored little, since a horde of staff-members had scampered up the stairs and she'd seen Marguerite sneaking about with Antoine—
Focus, Céleste!
Her heeled slippers grazed the carpet as she progressed to Sébastien's room. To the right was the hall that would lead to the monarch apartments; and to the left was a smaller, but no less decorated corridor. If she were visiting court with her family, she'd possess quarters here; her father's rooms were somewhere around.
Encasing the door were two soldiers who eyed her with caution, bracing to bar her from entering. She stopped a few feet before them and gripped the edges of her skirts.
"I am Céleste Richel, His Highness Prince Sébastien's betrothed." Her voice croaked. "Is he inside?"
Both nodded, sliding aside to allow her to pass. But she was rooted to the floor, heartbeat thrumming in her ears, fearful Sébastien would scold her improper behavior. They'd never met without a chaperone hovering in the distance, and to pry into his private chambers seemed intrusive, even for her.
When she finally unglued her feet from the ground, she barely made it a few steps when muffled voices slithered through the cracks and under the dents in the bottom of the door.
The first voice was familiar, though she hadn't been around it much of late. "—yes, it is fabricated, but to be certain, is there any way? Have you—" It was spicy and sweet all at once, a hint of high notes to it, a touch of masculine pride.
