After screeching about Marguerite's revelation, Céleste paced. And paced. And paced more. The clock ticked away, each hour bringing on new waves of panic, new questions, new concerns.
When the clock's hands reached eleven, the Director—the Duchess!—insisted she had best get ready.
"Sébastien prefers simplicity," said Marguerite, choosing a pastel orange gown from the wardrobe. "He will not like you over-powdered," she added, while covering Céleste's skin in thin layers of face-paint. "You need to sweep your hair up, nestle it by your neck," she claimed, brushing through Céleste's matted curls.
As she smoothed her dress, she admired the small hoop that lifted the petticoat. As a basic girl in a pretty outfit, she had no clue what she was doing. Her cheeks flushed as she pulled up her collar, her breasts not quite filling the bodice.
She'd had no chance to fret over the fact that the timing of the invitation puzzled her, coinciding with her eerie dream about him. She'd protested, asking Marguerite to plead with the Prince for more time—but the former Duchess refused.
"There is no time," she'd said, inspecting every crease in Céleste's gown, ensuring the lip-balm she'd made her wear was in place. "Whatever the Prince's intentions... well, you heard the King. He must hurry and decide."
Céleste had clammed up at that, shocked that a Prince so handsome and mature would consider her as a potential bride.
Jaw clenched, muscles stiff, she swirled to Marguerite, who perched in her sitting area, sipping on her third cup of coffee. "I think I am ready."
With a weak smile, Marguerite deposited her mug onto the tea-table. "Yes, you are. As I advised you thirty minutes ago." She sighed and got up.
Céleste's hand swung out, as if to stop Marguerite from coming any closer. "First, I must ask: why did you lie to me? Why did you say the story in my book was a myth, a fantasy?"
Flinching, Marguerite set her hands on her hips and tipped forward to look at the tips of her shoes. "When I found out you had the book, I wanted to confiscate it." She shook her head. "But my handmaiden told me you were innocent and I prayed you would never guess it all. Guess who I was. So yes, I fibbed, hoping to persuade you away from the mystery that is my life."
"But how has no one at court recognized you?"
Marguerite fingered at a golden pendant around her neck. "The Dowager erased me from history. From what I understand, she also bribed the aristocrats at court to forget I ever existed."
Céleste deflated, overcome with a mix of sorrow and irritation that such a high-placed woman would stoop so low. "How awful. How cruel."
"Yes, well," Marguerite huffed, releasing her necklace as she swooshed closer, "it is in the past. So far no one has figured out who I am. And it must stay that way. Especially with the girls and how they enjoy gossip." She straightened up. "This is not the moment to dwell on such details. We must leave."
"Why—" Céleste's lungs filled with air too fast, and she coughed, hunching over. "Why me?"
Marguerite yanked her into an upright position, then wrapped her hands around her shoulders. "No breakdowns. Not now. If we want to find out why Sébastien wants to meet you, you must keep your wits about you. You must be a lady today—not a Junior, not a student. A lady."
Céleste hiccuped. "Yes." She dug her teeth into her lip and nodded, no matter how unconvinced she was on the inside. "Right. We can go."
Her heart thrummed and thumped, about to burst. Questions raced through her mind, mocking laughter echoed in her ears, her father's scalding glare burned in her temples. But Marguerite was correct; she had to remain calm.
The Director took Céleste's hands in hers and squeezed. "I have no clue why I am here, but you? A girl of your standing belongs at court, young as you may be. This might serve as a learning experience. When you return to school, you can share with others how you met a Prince. You can go over what you did right, what you did wrong. So," she lifted Céleste's chin, "keep your nose up, and never slouch, understood?"
"Understood." She faked a grin, if only to reassure Marguerite she would succeed in this introduction.
Yet more queries hounded her. Who beckoned Marguerite to the castle? Who locked her in the Academy? Whoever that culprit was, did they have something to do with Sébastien wanting to meet her?
She let out an accidental whimper before they exited the room, and Marguerite halted at once to inspect her. "What is it?"
Céleste gulped, fighting her shoulders as they slanted downward. "Is something afoot in this castle? Am I, are we part of some foul plot we are unaware of?"
Marguerite set a finger over her lips. "Hush. Watch your tongue when doors are open."
"But was it the King? Did he bring you here? Or the Prince? Or someone worse, like the Vidame? You mentioned him, said he was dangerous—"
"—Céleste!" Marguerite's chest heaved up and down with heavy breaths as she sealed the door shut. "I have been too candid with you, filling you with doubts." She dabbed at a drop of sweat forming on her forehead. "Everyone at court thought I was dead. The King had no idea of my arrival, and neither did the Princes. The Dowager knew, of course. She summoned the students, and the Queen summoned me. I brought you because I needed another set of eyes." She brushed off her skirts and glanced askance. "And I have no inkling what the Vidame plays at, but he is evil."
Sentences from The Golden Girl ignited in Céleste's mind. The scheming Mandarina, the whispers in the shadows; but also the long paragraphs of love declarations. The chapters describing the Crown Prince and the Duchess skidding down corridors to hide in closets and kiss until their tongues were numb.
"Did you love him? The King?" Her fingers twitched, and she regretted her boldness.
Instead of scowling and reprimanding her nosiness, Marguerite pursed her lips. "I... yes, of course I did."
She should have stopped there, and yet Céleste couldn't help her curiosity. "And do you still love him?"
Marguerite prepared to answer, but a knock on her door, followed by excited whispering on the other side, interrupted her. "We will resume this at another time. Wait in your room—no one can know where I am about to take you."
***
The excited whispers had been Esther's—she'd received an invitation from Emeric.
Céleste had scoffed when Marguerite told her, as she fetched her from her quarters to head downstairs. But the more she thought of it, the more she realized Esther was his type. Bubbly, full of life, always with a topic to discuss.
As they descended the grand stairs, Marguerite sulked. She'd mentioned to Céleste how the other girls were jealous—except Harriet—and said cruel things to Esther. And how it disappointed her to see such catty, childish ladies at court.
It does not surprise me.
A hustle of butlers and servants busied about the Entryway as they arrived, and Marguerite tensed. She whipped Céleste around to face her, and pulled at the girl's hood over her curls, tugging down until it semi-concealed her eyes. "To be safe. Some of the staff like to start rumors, too."
"Does this," Céleste pointed at the hood, "not draw more attention?"
Marguerite shrugged. "Not if we hurry. The King is holding court, the Queen is in the Solar, and the Dowager is either in the Music Room or in her chambers. We might bump into Jules, but he will say nothing." She caught Céleste by the forearm. "Come."
As they cruised down the Long Corridor, the clock chimed once. Céleste recalled Marguerite mentioning Sébastien's punctuality, and how to him, afternoon meant right after twelve o'clock.
At the glass garden doors, they paused, letting the sun blare through and blind them. "Ready?" Marguerite rubbed Céleste's back.
Céleste snorted. "Does it change anything if I say no?"
They glided out, and a cooling wind hit Céleste's cheeks as she took her first steps into the gardens. She sighted a pebbled path lined with faded bushes. A few stray winter flowers peppered the ground, and the sound of rushing water came from somewhere ahead, at the end of a smaller pathway. The trimmed grass scent wavered into her nostrils and she breathed it in, rejuvenated, refreshed.
Marguerite tugged Céleste along, weaving down the aisle across from them. A dense forest towered to Céleste's left, its pine aroma impossible to not sniff at.
Marguerite walked faster, forcing Céleste to trip on her dress as she tried to keep up.
A larger and more impressive path opened before them. Sitting to Céleste's left, loitering by the forest, was a one-story, worn-down cottage with decaying ivy cascading down its sides. Shrubs and trees surrounded it, crashing against its stone walls. The wooden door and windows hung from their hinges, but the rustic aura gave it a certain charm.
The Anonymous author described this!
"Is this the—"
"—the Gardener's Cottage, yes," said Marguerite, breathless as she sped up. "The Prince will be waiting in the rear gardens. Far from prying eyes and scandalous court-dwellers." Cupping a palm over her forehead, she peeked at the area she'd mentioned. "Ah, yes. There he is."
Céleste followed the Director's gaze, and caught a figure standing in front of a row of bushes several dozen feet away. More rocky paths continued behind him, leading to undiscovered parts of the garden.
The figure strode forward, though not coming too close. His pitch black hair flew about in the breeze, like sheets of raven satin shining in the sunlight. His brown cloak flapped open, revealing a beige frock coat and matching breeches. He waved—discreet, cautious—and puffed his torso.
They approached, and Marguerite released Céleste. "Wait here. I must speak with him first."
Céleste slid her hands into her cloak's pockets and shuffled her feet. She watched as Marguerite slithered over to the dashing Prince Sébastien.
What have I gotten myself into?
•••