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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Céleste woke to a slither of early morning light, having left her curtains open on purpose. She wanted to rise before Prudence departed, to intercept her, make certain she'd chosen this new life.
Grabbing the first gown she found in her closet, she dressed and, uttering a silent prayer, she stopped at the adjoining door. One hand on the knob, she inhaled and exhaled with relief when she realized it wasn't locked. But she refrained from squealing in delight or from scampering in like a child bouncing up to a pile of presents.
She imagined Prudence was abed, clutching a steaming cup of coffee. She'd wave Céleste in, there would be sobbing, confessions, hugs, maybe forgiveness. Their discussion would be difficult, but worth it. Prudence would swear to stay in Totresia, to refute her Giromian origins, to find the strength within to forgive Antoine.
But those images would never play out, and Céleste's heart sank at the realization of that. Because instead of seeing the ex-Duchess, she discovered an empty space. Depressing, deserted, silent. Lifeless, as if no one had ever stayed in it.
Céleste had gotten used to the sight, after many occasions of barging in to discover her Director was absent; but this was different. She wasn't absent; she was gone. Likely already past the Totresian border and galloping onward, north, to Giroma.
The bed was unmade, and a cup rested on the left nightstand. A faint musk permeated the area—a clear masculine smell Céleste believed was Romain's.
A few steps farther inside showed the closet, open and empty. Not a single pair of shoes or gowns remained. The vanity was bare, not a product or paper littering its surface. No flames shot up from the logs in the hearth, no slippers protruded from beneath the bed-frame, no robes hung from the posters. The only source of light came from behind the drawn curtains, showering the floor near the window in a dim morning glow.
Céleste gripped the edges of the door-frame. She hadn't expected Prudence to jump for joy upon seeing her, but she hadn't expected this. She hadn't slept well, tossing and turning with the compulsion to kick down the door. Now, she wished she had, and that she'd knocked and banged and punched at it until Prudence let her in, scolded her, embraced her one last time.
I did not try hard enough.
Céleste's legs were about to give out, but a tap on the main bedroom door startled her into keeping upright. Her palm flew to her heart as she gaped towards the noise, confused.
The knock occurred again, and shaken out of her stupor, she tiptoed to the door and wrenched it open—and hopped backwards at the sight of her betrothed.
"Sébastien?"
He cocked his head, his jaw unhinging. "Céleste? What are you—" he blinked at her and perked up, "—can she have visitors? Is she decent? I wished to say my farewells."
