♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE PREQUEL, THE GOLDEN PRINCESS, TO READ THIS BOOK!♦
BEWARE--spoilers in this blurb, for those who have not read previous books! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Kings. Queens. Princes & Princesses. Duchesses and Dukes. And... regents?
Eve...
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"Ahhhhhh!"
Her scream conjured ghosts of her past as it danced across her chamber and rattled the goblet of water on her nightstand.
Squinting at the daylight seeping through her window, Marguerite struggled to recognize her surroundings. It took minutes for her to ease into her location, to reacquaint herself with Romain's vast, gold-encrusted quarters.
In her nightmare, she'd been locked in the Ballroom, smoke trapped in her nose and lungs, suffocating her. Antoine reached through the haze and yelled her name, nobles fell in heaps of crimson and maroon, and death loomed ahead of her.
She was now awake, but it all felt so real, too real.
She clutched at her chest and realized she'd fallen asleep in her daywear. Breathing in, then out, she begged her heart to restore itself, for her soul to unload its fears.
Why the Ballroom, why Antoine, why fire, she'd never know, but she had to move past it. God would never grant answers on how her dreams had turned so disturbing, plaguing her during a daily nap.
The ornate copper clock near the fireplace showed three o'clock. An hour and a half since she'd finished her meal with Sébastien and retired for a quick rest.
A rest that had entrapped her, engulfed her, and enticed her to never wake again. Or never fall asleep.
Muscles stiff, she rose and slipped on her shoes, readjusted the folds of her dress, and the collar of her long-sleeved bodice. As she opened her bedroom door, Marigold appeared, breathless as if she'd ran miles and jumped through fiery hoops to get there.
"Majesty." She curtsied low. "I heard your yelp, and I apologize, I came as soon as I could."
"Good thing the fire was only in my dream, then." She had no way to block her tone from turning sour. What if the castle had been aflame again, and the girl hadn't gathered her wits fast enough? "You had better rehearse for such emergencies. I cannot have my staff dying anymore." She pinched the bridge of her nose and waved the girl up from her curtsy. "Where is Prince Sébastien?"
"He has not left the Study, Majesty." Marigold moved aside, permitting Marguerite to immerse herself in the hallway. "The Duke of Spestein is with him."
Her fists bunched, recalling how she'd scolded Sébastien about his private meetings with Henry.
Marguerite took off down the flights of stairs, wincing with each step. Her belly ached, and nausea fluttered up to her throat, but she had to hurry before her advisors chose her future husband for her, as she assumed they would.
She whirled around corners, flew by nobles who sank into curtsies and bows, and whipped up to her office, freezing in the threshold of the opened door.
There they were, seated at the council table, several stacks of parchments under their noses, two silver goblets in their hands. They hadn't heard her arrive—despite her heels screeching to a halt in the doorway—and studied something on the papers.
