•T W E N T Y•

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"Welcome to the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls."

Eyes watery, awe-filled, stars pirouetting around her head so quick she became dizzy, Céleste Richel took a tiny step into the Entryway.

Wow.

She'd never express her true bewilderment here, out loud, in front of the Assistant Director, and mere seconds after her father's scoldings. The building's exterior alone impressed her—three stories of faded canary yellow and tall windows and slate-colored roofs—and she lacked the proper reaction for this.

How does a lady reveal her shock without squirming?

Her own home in Valeville often rendered men and women speechless; but this was different. Touched with pearly white accents and ornate railings and copper-coated door-frames, the Academy's main landing took her breath away.

She meandered farther inside, greeted by a wood-burning fire scent, a whiff of fresh-brewed lavender tea, and a lingering floral-and-forest cologne. To her right, a wooden banister lined a daunting curving staircase to an upper floor; to her left, a set of glass-encrusted doors opened into what appeared to be a parlor full of sofas, tables, and bookcases.

"Thank you, Mister—uh, Sir Knowles," she said, trembling as she peered at the man leading her into her new school. He wore a white wig, which was odd—it was January of seventeen-ninety-five, and to her knowledge, men had stopped sporting such items almost a decade ago.

I am but a girl lost in a sea of experienced students—how would I be aware of current trends?

"Upstairs you will find most of the classrooms," he said, one hand swerving to the steps, "but some lessons take place in our Music Room, adjoining the Ballroom. Also upstairs are the Library, containing my office, and our new Director's Study and personal quarters." His mouth scrunched side to side. "Miss M. is her name, your Director. She is also new, you see. You will not be the only one adjusting. She also arrived a bit after schedule." His gaze, a deep sienna filled with sternness, rested on her, scrutinizing her tardiness.

She gulped. "Father... we..." She winced. "We are sorry. I am sorry."

It was her father's fault—he had stops to make on the road, gifts to find for the former Queen, mourning her departed husband. Wedding presents to scrounge up for the new King and his future wife.

"No bother, Miss Richel." The man's demeanor was warm enough, though reminiscent of her father's. They might have been about the same age, too; caught in their forties, eyebrows bushy and graying, flecks of a mustache above a thin set of lips.

She shivered, not wanting to remember him, not now. Not after what he said when she alighted from the carriage moments ago. Not after how he reminded her she didn't deserve this, and he only brought her here because of Mother.

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