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

•T W E N T Y - N I N E•

Marigold shook her head so fast she nearly collapsed onto the mattress instead of sitting atop it. "Majesty, you have nothing to apologize for. You have been in mourning, surrounded by enemies, fearing for your life, and I understand. It is my duty to serve you." She lowered her chin, and Marguerite spotted her lower lip quivering.

The girl's saddened tone stole every particle of oxygen from her lungs. It took every fiber of Marguerite's frazzled energy to not break out in sobs.

She was Mother's lady, and she must still be suffering too.

"My grief is no excuse to act the way I have been." Reimagining the scene on the stairs—the poison, the death, the horror—Marguerite couldn't fight the salty liquid sloshing down her cheeks. She'd wanted to stay strong, to bar her emotions from spilling out and engulfing poor Marigold, to hide her fear, agony, uncertainty, but her resolve was weakening.

Marigold reached over, but hesitated to touch Marguerite's hand. "Do not fret, Majesty. No one can or will blame you, and we trust that you will prevail. You must." Her sleek golden curls shook as she shivered. "That Duke... no one wants him on the throne. No one I associate with, at least."

"That is wonderful to hear." Marguerite sighed. "I worry no one takes me seriously."

For the first time since she'd inherited Marigold as her lady, Marguerite took a good gander at her. The flecks of canary yellow and chocolate in her eyes, her sturdy shoulders, her discreet but nervous fidgeting. She was a pretty girl, well-mannered, well-spoken, and who'd been through her fair share of disasters, it seemed.

"What a lovely name, Marigold," said Marguerite with a grin. "What does it mean?"

Blushing, Marigold chewed her lip. "It is a flower from the Americas. My parents were born in the Colonies and came here, and when I was born they said I radiated like a marigold flower."

"Ah, we have a common point." Marguerite's eyes creased as her smile expanded. "My former foster-mother named me Marguerite, after the daisy, in French. She called me the flower that braved the storm." She choked and fumbled to find her mug on the nightstand. "Flowers make beautiful names."

The joy that smeared across Marigold's face was enough to warm Marguerite for the days to come.

***

Marigold told Marguerite that Pauline often invited her to relax in her chambers, to read together or chat about the noblewomen in the Salon. As Marguerite wasn't ready to attend said Salon—rumors claimed it was filled with vulture-like women who screeched and cawed all day about the most mundane things—she decided to do the same.

"So in the evenings, if we are able, we will share beverages and talk, yes?" Marguerite drank her milk, and its thick and silky texture coated her throat, soothing her belly.

"Yes, Majesty." Marigold grinned and motioned at Romain's bookshelves. "There are plenty of interesting novels to read. Tales of knights and tourneys and faraway kingdoms... English history... the Dowager loved reading of all the great dynasties. Oh, and poetry, too." Her enthusiasm reminded Marguerite of Céleste, and a slight pinch in her heart caused her to flinch.

"She did not speak of you much, but it is evident she was fond of you," said Marguerite, wiping the drop of milk that began to drizzle down her cup. "What else did you do with her?

Marigold beamed at the prospect of talking about Pauline. "We walked in the gardens, when the weather permitted. Once a week, she took me out of Westten, to smaller towns nearby, to hand out coins, visit churches and ruins. She appreciated history. But after your arrival we no longer did that." Her brows scrunched. "She did not want to leave the castle, ever."

Marguerite's grin faded, and her shoulders slumped forward. She knew little about her mother; they'd met, hugged, and conversed of polite topics while nibbling on snacks, but too many events had gotten in the way and led to Pauline's downfall before Marguerite could become closer to her.

Starting to tremble, she clutched her cup with both hands. "I had so much more to learn about her."

Nostalgia brimmed in her eyes, but Marigold didn't let the tears out. She held Marguerite's gaze and this time, she placed her hand atop hers.

"I would be happy to fill you in on who she was. Even your brother, if you wish. The Dowager spoke of him often."

Short of bringing them back from the dead, it was Marguerite's best option to get to know her loved ones.

She slipped her hand from Marigold's and grabbed a piece of cheese from her tray. "That would also be a sound idea. A few anecdotes at night, a story or two, so that I might fall asleep and dream of them."

And I pray I do not have nightmares.

When Marigold departed, hours later, the sky had turned navy, stars dotted the Heavens, and a frosty breeze wafted in through the window. Marguerite snuggled into her covers, her heart lighter, though worry still weighed on her soul.

Sébastien, Henry, her Captain—they scouted the Giromian landscape to locate a culprit with precious information, but Marguerite had spent her day in bed, chit chatting with her lady-in-waiting, unaffected by the outside world.

It was unfair, but what else was she to do? She had no fighting skills, no knowledge of tactics, no intelligence on the terrain or the geography or the routes to take. Restricted to her duties as Queen—that she'd also shirked, choosing to isolate herself—she had no choice but to wait.

In such storms, Marigold had brought sunshine and comfort. Marguerite didn't know how long that would last, but for the first time in weeks, she fell asleep feeling less like a fraud, and more like a Queen regent with a wonderful staff at her disposal. She'd lost her mother and Romain, but their memory lived on through Marigold.

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