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

•F I V E•

"Antoine! Hello, son, how are you?" His shoes clicked on the floor as he passed behind Antoine and tousled his messy mane. "You are early!"

Antoine bowed, one hand over his chest, as his tutor taught him. "Good evening, Father."

No, you are late.

King Edouard strode to his throne-like chair, and his squire pulled it out. Sighing, he sank onto the plush cushions, allowing the attendant to shake out his napkin and tuck it into his collar, over his burgundy frock coat. He motioned for Antoine to take a seat. "Where is everyone? Did I not say seven?"

Antoine's personal butler yanked out his chair, and the young Crown Prince jumped up. He had rehearsed this impeccable move often, wanting to impress Marguerite, since she struggled to climb atop the giant chairs in the Dining Room. He smirked—she had trouble with all chairs.

"I am unsure, Father," he said, permitting his butler to set his napkin under his chin. Its color matched the garnet walls, but Antoine frowned at the shade, not a fan of reds.

Within a few minutes, the remaining guests arrived. Sébastien hobbled in, his lace sleeves too big for his small arms. He held his wet nurse's hand, and she carried the infant Jules, who appeared fast asleep. They bowed and curtsied, and the young woman took Jules to his cradle at the far right of the room. Queen Clémentine liked to have him near while she ate, and tonight would be no exception.

The lady then assisted Sébastien in sitting atop his piles of pillows, and pushed his chair against the table's edge, to keep him secure. She lowered into the seat beside him and fastened his napkin as he babbled in his infantile gibberish. He was only one, and Antoine overheard many claiming how intelligent he was; yet all he saw was a blubbering raven-haired boy whose long hair made him look like a girl.

The doors opened again to let in Queen Clémentine, radiant in her aubergine-and-cerulean threads, and the bubbly Marguerite at her side, biting her lip as she focused on her proper walking stance. Clémentine's steps were so poised and perfect, Marguerite had difficulty keeping up, tiny as she was. The top of her head didn't quite reach the Queen's hips.

Antoine dropped from his spot to bow for them as they marched by him. "Good evening, Mother." He nodded at Marguerite, whose turquoise eyes shimmered with delight. "And good evening to you, Your Grace." No matter their proximity and friendship, he had to address Marguerite by her formal title when in public, including family dinners.

"Good evening, Your Highness," replied the girl, cheeks flushing the same hue as her scarlet gown.

Clémentine sidled over to the throne beside Edouard, and as she approached, he seized her palm and placed a lingering kiss on her gloved knuckles. "My lady," he said, beaming at her. He always called her that, though she was a Queen; some inside joke Antoine never understood.

Marguerite's blonde curls bounced as she hopped over to Edouard to curtsy for him. "Hello, F—ah, Your Majesty." The Queen flinched, but Edouard's expression only further lit up at the sight of his favorite Duchess. He loved her like a daughter, Antoine knew. "I am happy you returned from your travels."

Edouard beckoned her close and pulled her into a firm embrace. He didn't do that with anyone else, but Antoine once stumbled in the Meeting Room, intruding on a conversation the King had with a nobleman, explaining how Marguerite had no one, no real parents, no blood-relatives.

"She deserves every kindness I give her."

The nobleman had acquiesced, but the moment the King's back turned, he sneered. It had angered Antoine so much, but recalling his lessons, he zipped his mouth shut and feigned to not have noticed.