The Golden Queen (#5 in the GOLDEN series) ✔

•T W E N T Y - N I N E•

Romain's leather-bound journal started at age seven. His handwriting was wiry and boyish and clumsy, but his words so eloquent Marguerite imagined an adult had written them. He mentioned Pauline and how she chided him for running through the gardens and plucking crops. He remarked how he wished he'd known his father and his "long-lost sister, Prudence." He wondered what it would have been like to have a role model to look up to, instead of the large and empty throne he'd soon have to occupy alone. He expressed himself with such maturity, it was no wonder they crowned him earlier than most monarchs.

In his tenth year, he detailed how he imagined Prudence would have looked if she'd been alive. He speculated that she'd have his golden locks, his jade green eyes, a witty smile, a sharp tongue. He wagered she'd be a proper Giromian Princess that everyone would revere and admire, and a wondrous daughter all would respect.

At age twelve, his letters were slanted and scribbled in haste between royal tutoring sessions. He complained of the length of his classes, their intensity, and how he'd have preferred to learn from his father, not some sorry old sod of a noble, or his exhausted mother. Said mother was always distraught, he'd mentioned. Distant, sad, even; she peered out the windows, a fleeting sorrow in her expression that she brushed off whenever Romain entered the room. She claimed to be absorbed in her thoughts, but Marguerite wondered if perhaps she was thinking of her.

"Was she corresponding with Clémentine during that time?" Marguerite sipped from her warm milk and flipped the page.

The entries became more sparse, limited to a few times a year. Details of his lectures with Pauline, adventures with his friends, foes he encountered—Duke of Terter was iterated—and women he played with.

Marguerite gagged at the idea that her brother, so prude and traditional, had fooled around with ladies-in-waiting, noble daughters, and women, and before his coronation, too. The man she'd known—prim, proper, composed—didn't come to be until much later, but she doubted he'd changed his ways.

"Sarah." The name turned sour on Marguerite's tongue like rotten ale or vinegary wine. "Did he note when he started fondling her?"

So absorbed in the diary, she jolted upright when someone knocked on her door.

"Yes?" She slid a feather bookmark against the page she'd stopped at. "Come in."

The door creaked open to reveal Marigold, carrying a tray with another mug of milk and honey, and a platter of bread, cheese, and charcuterie. "Majesty, I hate to intrude, but you missed dinner."

Marguerite sat up and waved her in. "Thank you." She gestured at her nightstand.

Marigold hastened to deposit the snack and curtsied, bracing to leave—but Marguerite caught her wrist.

"Majesty?" Her shy slate eyes widened as she gaped at Marguerite's fingers wrapped around her.

"Oh, my," Marguerite gasped as she let go, "I did not mean to be so violent. I only meant... please, do not go yet." She patted the space next to her. "Forgive me for being so temperamental."