The Golden Flower (#1 in the GOLDEN series) ✔

•T W E N T Y•

Mother...

They stopped at a giant red carpet that splattered in the middle of the Entryway, leaking towards the bottom of the steps, its edges fraying a few inches short of the parlor-like room. Sir Knowles wrinkled his nose when they trudged over it and pointed at a door by the staircase.

"That takes you to the kitchens. Do not sneak in there at all hours of the night for snacks; we already have a Sophomore student doing that." He groaned and seemed to fight an eye-roll. "The Dining Room is down the way, but one can access it from the kitchens, too."

What did the cooks serve? She recalled many a feast in her father's giant Dining Hall. Pork and beef and fowl, potatoes and beans and decadent soups. And desserts, oh, the desserts! Fruit tarts and cream pies and fluffy flavored breads—her mouth watered at the thought.

Mouths watering, daydreaming girls, ladies losing themselves in ideas—these were the things Sir Richel warned her about. The attitudes he advised her to stop if she was to become a pupil of the famous Academy for Noble Girls.

"Your mother wanted this but I hesitate, Céleste. Your mind is not fit for such learning. You are not ready. Too improper and too young, and you refuse to cease reading! Ladies do not read such novels, they do not! They cannot. Your mother—"

"Miss Richel, are you coming?"

Céleste shook herself from her memories—the heated exchange with her father, a few months prior—and scampered after Sir Knowles, who had progressed further down the hall. He stooped beneath an intricate carved archway and arrived at a door lined with silver, resting his hands on the polished knobs.

"The Ballroom," he jutted his chin at the threshold, "is an important part of the Freshman tour, so please pay attention."

She tucked her father's comments in a pocket of her mind, trying her damnedest not to think of her deceased mother and what she would have said. Forcing a smile onto her face, she twisted to Sir Knowles. "Of course, my apologies!"

When he pushed the doors open, a trace of pine-scented air whooshed up to her cheeks. She inhaled the breeze in a most unladylike fashion, but if Sir Knowles had noticed, he said nothing, zoning in on two ladies across the way, their backs turned as they peeped out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Miss Bristol!" Sir Knowles' once warm voice fizzled out like a horde of blazing arrows aiming at enemies. He stomped into the chandelier-illuminated room, his footsteps sending giant gusts of wind into the flames from the twin fireplaces on either side of the area. "How many times have I told you? This Ballroom is not for your leisure!"

He stopped a few feet from an auburn-haired girl wrapped in a bright bonbon-colored chiffon dress that engulfed her; and another lady, fair with faded strawberry curls, froze and squealed upon seeing him.

"Sir—"

"—and you, Miss Thatcher; did you not learn last year how coveted your position is?"

Both lowered their chins and muttered excuses that Céleste couldn't hear.

Thatcher? That name is familiar.

She rose onto her tip-toes to visualize what the girls had been gaping at, confused why the Assistant Director would make such a fuss—but Sir Knowles blocked her view.

"As Sophomores, I expect you to compose yourselves. This, ladies, is not composure!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he teetered before them, red-faced and stiffening.

The students inclined their heads, fumbled with more apologies, and shuffled out, their skirts whipping into Céleste's demure cerulean gown as they giggled.