The gentle trotting through town did nothing to soothe Marguerite's aching heart. The journey rendered her nauseous, and she abhorred riding backwards. And rambling about the Duchess of Torrinni—in front of Céleste, no less—almost gave away the memories of her youth; those that flared up her temper and caused her to raise her voice.
Staring out the window, her shaking arm holding up the flap, she groaned as she sensed a slight kick on her thigh—Céleste was yet again hanging out the other side.
She bit her tongue, imagining the scene behind her, where the castle's thick, dizzying high stone gates would be coming into view, their shiny surface glimmering under the light of the moon.
The coach stopped while the driver spoke to the gate guard. She wouldn't let him see her—she'd have enough incidents to prevent inside the castle and preferred not to deal with one now.
Her eyelashes fluttered as she abruptly realized the cloak she wore now was the same she'd worn the night she ran from Torrinni forever.
Why did I not bring other cloaks?
The serene hue of the lantern kept her calm, its flames dancing over the worn-down walls. Her breath materialized before her as her lungs squeezed out air.
She lowered her hat and lifted the window fabric once more as the vehicle resumed its trek to the castle. She leaned out, and rotating to the building in the distance behind her, she noticed candelabras brightening the end of the lengthy driveway, lining the path to the grand doors.
The pebbles beneath the wheels prompted the freight to wobble back and forth in nauseating motions. She heard Céleste grumble as she hauled herself inside.
Marguerite didn't move a muscle. She was used to the discomfort. She peered at the gates and at the black outline of the stables against the fortifications. The horses neighed, and for an instant, she pictured herself leaping from the carriage, jumping atop a wild steed, and disappearing.
I would not get far—she would locate me again.
She held in her malaise as best as she could, glancing sideways at Johanna for comfort.
Light poured into the vehicle as they navigated past the flickering candelabras, headed towards the courtyard. In her teenage days, Marguerite hadn't often seen the driveway at night, rarely allowed to wander out after supper. If she did venture out, she stuck to the gardens in the rear, accompanied by a royal or a guard.
She gazed at the castle's four stories of enchanting windows, hypnotizing arches, fairy tale balconies. The ghosts of her past slid over the weathered pale-yellow facade, moaning her name from the tiled rooftops, beckoning her to the observation tower that loomed above the main entrance.
Her world broke apart, seam by seam, as images she'd wished to keep concealed forever resurfaced. Her eyes welled with tears for the second time since they'd departed.
She willed the liquid away, reminded she wasn't alone in the carriage; Johanna knew why she struggled, but Céleste didn't.
She cannot, not yet.
Spine stiff as a board, she shifted left to right. "Remember your manners when you enter the castle, Céleste." She dropped the window tab. "Even if the halls appear empty, someone is always watching."
Céleste's smile full of life and curiosity enlivened the area. "Of course! I wish to honor the Academy, not embarrass it." Her speech laced with an excitement Marguerite couldn't share.
The coach turned to Marguerite's left, sending sharp pangs of pain up her spine, wrapping around the nerves in her neck. Their arrival was imminent, and each breath she took signaled the dread to come, brought to mind the tricks she'd have to use to confuse her identity, so that no one would recognize her. Oh, the hide-and-seek games she'd have to play to avoid questions.
Most courtiers at Torrinni Castle, if not all, thought she was dead.
She fixed her hat, tightened her cloak, pulled up her gloves, and exhaled.
Johanna's hand brushed her leg, reassuring, soothing. She'd promised she would be with Marguerite every step of the way, as much as possible for a serving girl in a royal household.
The carriage halted and a weight dropped from the front as the driver descended. She heard vehicles opening, followed by oohs and ahhs as her girls alighted.
Their door opened, and a blinding glow illuminated the agonizing path Marguerite wished she hadn't been forced to take. Shoulders tensing, she glared out to discover the chauffeur had deposited them at the foot of the primary doors, which were wide open, a hint of the yellow vestibule and Entryway peeking out.
The staff had rolled out the corn-colored carpet used for big occasions; it started at the carriage and torches lined it all the way to the top of the quick flight of steps leading to the doorway. Servants and guards stood at the ready, and some were already fetching their luggage.
The yellowing boulder-like surface of the building appeared golden. In contrast to the smooth gate walls, these were old, harsh, but simple; barren of moss or ivy, as impeccable as before her departure. White stone pillars encased the giant oak doors, and the sophisticated arch above sparkled in the moonlight.
A touch on Marguerite's arm tore her from her haze. "Miss, we should get off," whispered Johanna.
Marguerite extended her palm as the chauffeur helped her down the rickety steps. A butler rushed up to greet her, and she at once dropped her chin, ensuring her hat veiled her face.
"Miss M., Director of the Royal Totresian Academy for Noble Girls, welcome to Torrinni Castle," said the man, taking her a few strides down the carpet. Céleste and Johanna shuffled up behind her.
"Many thanks." Marguerite swished around to motion for the five contenders to hurry over. "Girls, come along!"
The butler offered his arm, and Marguerite took it, heart thumping in her chest, throat turning to sandpaper.
As they ambled forward, she glimpsed the pointed top of the Winter Garden's glass roof, visible to the right. Lights beneath it shimmered like a pool of sparkling water. How she wished she could hide in there for the entire visit, surrounded by trees and plants that would never hurt her.
"I am afraid the royals are all otherwise occupied, else they would have welcomed you themselves," said the butler.
Marguerite pried her focus from the roofs to turn and verify that her students were following. They'd fixed their skirts and propped their mouths shut, but there was no mistaking the wonder in their gazes, their anticipation as they paraded up to the castle.
"That is unfortunate, but we will manage." In truth, such news pleased her; not having Clémentine there to usher them in and begin her judging process—deciding ahead of time which contender she'd allow to marry her sons—eased a handful of her worries.
The carriages rolled to the parking shed and service entrance—an area she remembered as a quicker means to reach the Cigar Room. Her lips tugged up for a moment, recalling her secret times in there, watching the Princes as they played card games, inhaling the smoke from their stolen cigars, hiding under tables. She'd then sneak down the King's Corridor, past the Meeting Room Edouard perused paperwork in, and dash up the main stairs, out of sight.
After one last whiff of fresh air, she prepared to pass under the threshold; and as if to stop her from entering, a familiar pine scent wafted into her nostrils. Her head tilted to the left as she pictured the nearby forest. The woods she'd spent her childhood exploring, playing in; trees she'd climbed, roots she'd jumped over, small caverns she'd hidden in for some alone time with—
No.
She urged herself into the foyer and stopped before she took the two steps down into the Entryway, needing to catch her breath.
Céleste jammed into her. "Wow."
A few muffled gasps came from the contenders as they scooched in on either side of Marguerite, Johanna, and Céleste. They ogled the yellow rug that expanded from the door, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, revealing a grand room with a bejeweled ceiling. A marvelous copper-and-gold chandelier hung from it, with hundreds of tiny candles swaying in the breeze, sending flecks of light onto the polished wooden floors.
Marguerite's limbs went numb as every cavity in her body overflowed with angst. She couldn't move, her vision blurred, her stomach lurched—
Johanna nudged her out of her reverie, prompting her farther into the hall.
Scanning the yellow and white walls surrounding her, Marguerite's temples throbbed. She struggled to see the royal family paintings; the oak doors, some closed, some open. The sturdy, curving white marble stairs to the left, and the hallways, all the hallways, leading to places she'd wished to forget.
Straight ahead was the Long Corridor, to the right was the King's Corridor; but all she could think of were the doors behind her and how she might slip past them to run away.
She gulped, clutched the edge of her dress, and froze as a majestic figure emerged from the King's Corridor.
Clad in a voluminous gray dress, the figure—a young woman—addressed two other young ladies traipsing beside her, but halted mid-sentence at the sight of the visitors. She pulled on a small train that grazed the ground behind her.
She slowed her walk. A flowing mane of dark chestnut hair fell down her back, and a fluffy, peach-colored flower rested near her ear, almost matching her skin tone. Her chocolate gaze widened, moving from lady to lady—but narrowed as it found Marguerite.
Hat or no hat, this person knew her without a doubt.
At once, and despite the distance separating them, Marguerite dropped into a curtsy. "Your Highness."
Her girls had no clue who this person was; but as if on cue, the butler coughed into his hand after a brief bow. "Ladies of the Totresian Royal Academy, may I present to you her Highness, Princess Cordelia of Totresia."
Céleste, Johanna, and the others sank into graceful curtsies, muttering pleasant salutations.
Marguerite kept her chin down.
"My brother's debutantes?" Princess Cordelia moved forward, refined and well-mannered as her mother had raised her. "Welcome, ladies."
She waved everyone up, but Marguerite didn't dare move. She sensed Cordelia's glare glazing over the top of her hat and suppressed a shiver, uttering a prayer, begging the girl not to divulge her true identity.
The Princess kept mum. The hem of her skirts swooshed as she halted a foot away from Marguerite. "You are the Director?" Her tone was identical to Dowager Clémentine's; raw and crackling like a bonfire.
Unable to ignore a direct question, Marguerite glanced up. "Indeed, Highness. Pleasure to meet you."
Cordelia stared at her, one eyebrow cocked, recognition passing through her icy expression. Something else shined in her eyes; emotion tinged with rage. These were sentiments Marguerite had never seen her express, a demeanor she'd never encountered in the girl while living at the castle with her.
Perhaps she fought the urge to blurt out the truth, or she hid excitement. Marguerite wasn't sure she'd ever find out.
"Pleasure." Cordelia drew towards the stairs. "If you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend." She bustled upward without another word, her ladies at her heels.
The butler hastened to Marguerite, motioning for her and the girls to follow the Princess. "Your rooms are on the first floor, Miss. Names are on the doors. Others arrived weeks ago, but we reserved the best for our Seniors of the Royal Academy." He tipped closer to her and softened his voice. "Her Grace the Dowager has asked that no one sneak out to explore the grounds tonight. Preparations are underway for tomorrow's Presentation, and she wishes for all contenders to confine to their rooms. If you wish for refreshments, send a servant or a page to fetch them."
Legs shaking beneath her gown, reeling from the unexpected reunion with Cordelia, Marguerite acquiesced. "We appreciate the hospitality and will comply with Her Grace's requests."
The man scampered down the King's Corridor, and Marguerite ushered everyone up the carpeted staircase. Their gazes wandered in fascination as they studied the paintings, portraits, potted plants, and sculptures.
Halfway up, Marguerite paused. The sound of a piano lured her attention to the Long Corridor. She closed her eyes and imagined candlelight sprinkling over the walls, attendees waltzing across the dance-floor. The music seemed to whisper at her to ignore the butler's warnings and flutter down the halls like she used to.
So enticed by the melody, she almost forgot where it came from—it was a royal tune she'd never forget.
The Dowager's song.
Was she purposely playing with her Music Room door open? There'd be no other way to hear such a soft tune otherwise.
Marguerite wouldn't let the evil rhythm draw her off course; not with so much at risk. She tugged away from her dreams and hastened up the stairs.
Céleste was waiting for her on the last step. "Where have you been? Everyone already found their rooms," she cringed, "and I cannot find mine. This place is massive."
Marguerite linked their arms, dread settling into her stomach as she strained to hide her distress. "Then we must go on a hunt to locate them."
•••