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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After closing Cordelia's door behind her, Marguerite tiptoed through the darkened corridor, careful to watch every corner for lurking ladies or spying servants. The semi-obscurity played tricks on her mind, making her see shadows over the walls, and statues' eyes following her as she picked up her pace.
Her rib-cage was in agony by the time she reached the main Royal Floor hallway, and before shimmying over to the stairs she stopped, scanned left and right, and caught her breath.
A hand wrapped around her wrist. She choked on a gasp, unable to visualize her captor as they dragged her across the landing, swift like a thief in the night. In fear, she lost her voice and couldn't scream, but resisted the person's pull as best as possible.
It was no use. Whoever they were, they had immense strength and no difficulty tugging her all the way to the Royal Reading Room—and throwing her inside.
It was such an eerie and familiar feeling, since Antoine had done the same thing to her not that long ago; though he hadn't been so indelicate.
As the door clicked shut behind her, her heart skipped a beat. Was this Antoine, too? Had he seen her moseying about and was angry?
Fumbling to regain her balance after nearly tripping into the sofa, she whirled around, eyes blurry from having been fixated on the roaring flames in the hearth.
"How dare you?" She squinted at the ominous figure before her. The sconces encasing the door were extinguished, making it difficult to decipher who had shoved her in there. "Who are you?"
They took one, two, three strides... and Marguerite stilled, her hand whipping over her mouth.
"Duchess Marguerite," said King Romain, a seriousness to his tone that shattered every fiber, every bone in her body. His usually well-kempt golden locks were tangled, tumbling down his shoulders, frayed at the edges. His glowing green orbs were narrowed as he frowned, his polished shoes clacking against the wooden floor. "Your Grace."
"Majesty?" Her voice came out croaky, crinkled. "What is this?"
"I have little time. If they see us together..." His nostrils flared and his frown deepened. "Trouble will ensue."
Marguerite scrambled away from him, almost toppling over the couch. "Time for what?" There was a vagueness to his words, an odd aura about his features that turned her blood to ice. Was Céleste correct? Did he like her? "Why would it matter if they see us together? Is there something else you are not saying?"
He didn't seem bothered by her recoiling from him, and didn't stop marching up to her until his flowery scent attacked her nostrils and the tips of his boots met the hem of her gown.
"There is a lot more. I apologize for the manner in which I am approaching this, but I heard you were up here, speaking to the Princess—"
"—you eavesdropped?" Chills crawled up and down Marguerite's spine.
