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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
No matter how many times Céleste had been in the Ballroom, she'd never seen anything like this. Being there when the monarchs held court was like entering a brand new world, surrounded by individuals from all society standings, all ages, and genders. Their skirts and breeches represented all colors of the rainbow, and the drawn curtains allowed sunlight to sprinkle in over their elaborate jewels and feathered hats.
A cool sweat formed above her brows as she froze in the throng of attendees; Cordelia had navigated with ease towards the dais.
Would Céleste ever adjust to these large groups? Being a Princess would require her to mingle a lot, to be comfortable in vast social settings. Yet there, lost in the sea of tall men and dashingly dressed dames, she was nauseous, far from ready to wear a crown and act like nothing bothered her.
The King and Queen presided over everyone, unconcerned, well-used to such crowds. Adelaide lounged into her seat, rubbing her still flat belly. Beside her, Antoine acted as composed as one could when begged for attention, for food, for lower taxes. But there was a misery in his expression that no one else likely saw, too busy demanding his attention. His lips were tugged into a frown, and his too flashy fashion choices accentuated his sullen and depressed mood. Everything about him was dull and drab—the opposite of what a King should look like.
Perhaps he hates crowds too.
Céleste wouldn't pity him; he played games that broke hearts, and his sadness was his own doing. Antoine was a cold, emotionless man, like his mother.
Sickened by the sight of him, she whirled around, eager to escape. As she spun, she noticed the tail-end of Marguerite's petticoat and golden curls as she bolted out, too.
"Oh... no, no!"
She'd spent the entire morning consoling Marguerite, and she wasn't about to allow her to crawl back into her shell of pain.
She clasped the edges of her gown and urged onward, to follow Marguerite. It didn't surprise her that the Duchess fled—viewing Antoine up on the podium beside his horrid spouse couldn't have been easy for her.
As Céleste slid past the doors, she bumped into something bright white and yellow and tall.
"Oh," she stumbled backwards, vision blurred but able to discern that she'd slammed into a person, not a thing. "Who—"
She felt woozy, and a hand gripped her wrist.
"Miss Richel, fancy smashing into you again," said a familiar flirtatious tone she recognized as Prince Jules'.
Regaining her senses, she curtsied. "Highness, apologies."
"Leaving so soon?" He tipped the black tricorn hat atop his head and smirked. "Does my sister-in-law bore you as much as she bores me? I cannot blame you—"
