♦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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On edge, nerves frayed, Céleste didn't sleep that night—again. Whenever she closed her eyes she envisioned Charlotte cackling, her hair wild, her gaze reflecting with fire. She saw Adelaide screaming, her nails digging into Sébastien's skin and tearing into his veins. She viewed Cornelius pummeling Marguerite to death.
As a slither of daylight broke through her window, she glared out at the sleepy grounds, a faded watercolor painting. She watched the paths that she wished she'd see Marguerite walking on, Sébastien running on, or Antoine riding a horse down.
Would she ever be with any of them again?
She'd slipped into an off-white satin gown when a gentle knock on her door roused her from her vivid nightmares.
"Yes?" She pulled her hair into a ponytail and winced as she tightened it.
The door opened to Jules, sporting a red-velvet robe that bushed up at his feet.
Though shocked by his appearance—she detected a nightgown under the robe's plush layers—she curtsied.
He snatched her up before she could greet him. "Charlotte was not in her room all night," he said, rubbing his forehead. "One of my men informed me, and it perturbs me. We must speak with Mother."
Céleste had tried to visit her the day before, but was still denied access, even with Jules' code. So she didn't decline trying again, since she also believed they needed to consult with Clémentine. After several days of confinement and exchanging intelligence with her spies, she had to have discovered something.
"Lead the way, Highness," she said, following the sleep-deprived Prince up the service stairs.
He remained quiet, but his expression brewed with questions, and his hunched posture showed his angst. His hair was messier than she'd ever witnessed—messier than Antoine's—and his steps were hesitant but calculated, as if expecting a trap at every turn.
At the top of the stairs, they looked both ways and hurried to the Queen's chambers, sneaking past the squeaky door.
Inside, the bright crimson walls held portraits of French heroes and poets. Frilly accents that reeked of Adelaide still decorated the space, peppered with roses and gold and lots of red. No one had troubled to change the décor since the red-headed divorcee had fled Totresia.
Clémentine was already awake, sipping on tea that—even from where Céleste stood—smelled like half a bottle of liquor had been poured into it.
"Yes, come in. I was expecting you both."
Off to the right and diagonally placed was a large scarlet-shaded four-poster bed, its covers and sheets tucked in as if no one had slept on it in months. A partially see-through divider separated it from the sitting area, and Céleste took note of the swanky couch—where Clémentine sat—and a coffee-table covered in paperwork, broken seals, and spilled ink.
