As she paused by the door, Marguerite listened to the three men's footsteps fade into the side-exit corridor. Once certain they'd gotten far enough, she gave a quick nod to the guards, who let her slide out into the East Wing.
She released a heavy breath. A clock chimed, and she counted eight rings. Eight o'clock—time for the Dowager's after-dinner stroll.
We need to get back upstairs.
Before she could panic, a whirl of cream frills and dark blonde hair plowed into her.
Céleste, cheeks flushed, squeezed Marguerite's shoulders. "I have done something wrong, very wrong!" She shivered, eyes darting and unfocused. Her voice was low, but Marguerite heard the worry laced in it.
She tried not to sneer at the girl. What could be worse than bumping into an ex-fiancé who thought you were dead?
"What happened?"
Céleste struggled to breathe and splayed a palm over her chest. "I met the Queen. The Queens, in fact, since the Dowager was with her—"
Marguerite's insides froze. "You what?" She tugged Céleste away from the Ballroom and the guards flanking its doors. "I told you to wait in the Winter Garden!"
"I did!" Céleste winced. "I traveled straight there, as you said! But they visited by surprise! I was discreet, and I curtsied, but I fear I may have displeased them, since I was unaccompanied. They were not happy."
Marguerite put a finger over Céleste's mouth—she didn't need to know anything else. Her heart raced as her brain flooded with flashes of Clémentine's snake-like slits and Adelaide's diabolical crimson hair. Their bitter but refined voices rang in her ears.
She pulled the girl to the King's Corridor to the right, which led to the main entrance, and to the stairs.
She'd thought seeing Antoine would be the worst part of her stay, but she'd forgotten about the Queens and their supposed alliance.
Letting out a low groan, she clasped Céleste's wrist and trudged forward, angry with herself for not thinking ahead. Of course they'd scour the castle, seeking wandering, disobedient ladies, instead of lounging in the Dining Room for a digestif.
Céleste fidgeted. "I also startled Prince Jules!"
Marguerite stopped their trek and peered left and right, biting her tongue.
Jules is harmless—he is not who I worry about.
The younger Prince hadn't said much when he burst in, but she knew he was elated to see her. Unaffected by his arrival, Sébastien had rambled on, and Antoine remained in uncomfortable silence, poised and perfect in his tailored breeches and matching shirt, his deep forest-green frock coat velvety smooth against his skin.
And his eyes, his eyes, bright, burning, squinting at her with a mix of emotions she had no chance to decipher.
She shook herself, willing the ice slithering down her spine to cease tormenting her. She didn't have time for this; they had to get upstairs.
Only a few servants lingered, with guards standing watch at the door. The coast was clear, but they had to hurry.
She thrust Céleste towards the stairs. "Quickly!"
Surprised, the girl stumbled before catching her balance, arms outstretched.
Marguerite snapped her fingers. "Hurry!" She joined Céleste at the foot of the staircase. "Before someone else sees us!"
Céleste's eyebrows shot up, and as she opened her mouth to speak, Marguerite nudged her onward.
"No, not here. If the Queens saw you and were not happy, then you must return to your room." Again Céleste's lips pried apart, but Marguerite shoved her farther up. "No questions, do as I say!"
Céleste grumbled as she climbed. Marguerite ascended after her, keeping a watchful eye in front but glancing backwards to be sure no one followed.
Her impromptu meeting with the boys replayed in her mind, over and over.
Sébastien spoke most, eloquent and calm as ever. "How did you find a lady-in-waiting? You have no title, correct? Does Mother know?"
Antoine folded his arms and shuffled his feet, fumbling with words and grunting after each of Sébastien's sentences. Their shock showed that neither had had any idea she was Director of the Academy.
The secrecy surrounding her arrival made her skin crawl.
Why did they not know? Why did she not warn them?
Arriving at the top of the stairs, Marguerite prayed the girls hadn't snuck out as she had, that they'd heeded her commands, for once, and stayed in their rooms.
They rounded the corridor by Esther's door, and almost slammed into a lady in swirling heaps of light blue skirts.
"Oh, pardon us, Miss—" Marguerite squinted at her, and after a few seconds of zoning in on her dark brassy mane, her pointed nose, and her airs of disdain, she recognized her. "Miss Allard?"
Marguerite had met her once. Frances Allard was the daughter of the Marquess of Mara, a high-placed noble and royal advisor that most disliked due to his often loose-lipped complaints.
The young woman wrinkled her nose. "Miss M., is it? A pleasure."
So she is a contender for the Princes? Interesting.
If Frances was pleased, one never could have told from her pinched voice. She flipped a strand of hair from her face and glanced at Céleste. "Who is this?"
Marguerite straightened up. "This is Céleste Richel, daughter of the Marquess of Valeville. My ward." Marguerite forced a smile. "We must return to our activities. I wish you the best, Miss Allard."
The young woman grimaced, recovering with a fake smile. "The same to you, ladies." With a muffled huff, she pushed past them, her dress slapping against Marguerite's skirts as she headed to the main landing.
When the young woman was out of earshot, Céleste tapped Marguerite's arm as they continued to their chambers. "Should we have warned her the Queens are out and about?"
Marguerite stifled a chuckle—the idea of Frances caught doing whatever she planned to do at such an hour filled her rib-cage with warmth. "No, not her. She is a competing contender from a competing Academy. Her father disrespected our Institute in the past. So no, I did not need to warn her."
She recalled how the Marquess, unimpressed by the building and the grounds, had removed Frances from the Academy and taken her elsewhere for the rest of her upper-level education. It had offended the Dowager, who sent a letter to Marguerite informing her of his slight. After that, more servants and gardeners and butlers were hired, and never did a noble bad-mouth the school again.
As they reached the end of the corridor, Marguerite urged Céleste towards her own bedroom. "I will not need your help any longer this evening. Request supper to your room if you wish, but stay in it. No more wandering."
Céleste slumped as she acquiesced. "All right. Good evening, Marguerite."
Marguerite watched as she walked to her door, sighed, and wrapped her fingers around the handle.
Sudden creaks emerged from nearby, prompting Céleste to swerve to Marguerite and round her eyes.
Marguerite knew those sounds—the old and worn service stairs were being used.
She tilted sideways for a glimpse of who'd produced the noise, and found a teenage boy, not much older than Céleste, appearing at the top of the steps. He scuffled past Céleste and stopped in front of Marguerite.
His frock coat with the royal crest on it revealed he was a page, a squire, or a butler-in-training. He reddened as he peeked at the note he held, then handed it to her. "For you, my lady." Before Marguerite could thank him, he shuffled back the way he'd come from.
Céleste dropped her hand from the doorknob and strode over. "What is that?"
Unfolding the message, Marguerite gulped. "Personal, I assume."
When she read the words, she gasped. They were personal, indeed.
Meet at our spot.
She spotted no signature, but she knew that handwriting, recognized that message, as its sender had used that coding before.
Her lungs constricted and the muscles in her upper body tightened.
Ignoring Céleste's prying eyes, she crumpled the note in her hand and turned on her heel, heading to the grand stairs.
A second set of footsteps caused her to jolt around and find Céleste running to catch up.
Upon seeing Marguerite's glower, she froze, stiff as a board. "What is it?"
Marguerite scoffed. "Where do you think you are going?"
Céleste's gaze flickered to Marguerite's hand, still holding the crunched parchment. "Am I not to go with you?"
"Oh, you are witty." Marguerite smirked, though she was far from amused. "I ordered you to retire for the evening. I know my way around."
"But the Dowager said—"
"—I do not care what the Dowager said; this is important. I cannot have you running at my heels and giving us away." Céleste stomped a foot, but Marguerite squinted, stern, unrelenting. "Do not argue and remember your manners! Do not leave your room again this evening."
Céleste huffed as she lumbered to her door.
Without another look, Marguerite continued on to the main stairs.
Sorry, sweet girl—it is not yet time for you to know the truth.
The man who awaited her—the one whose handwriting invoked better times but coated her tongue with an acidic flavor—would not wait long.
What did he want? What would he say?
She inhaled once she reached the carpeted steps. With one hand on the banister, she steadied herself.
She feared the discussion to come. One that was years in the waiting; one she wasn't ready for.
Can I face him?
•••