Marguerite struggled to get Céleste into the castle. Getting upstairs was the worst—every few steps, Céleste would stop, fan her face, and mutter, "Why me? Why me?
It took so long to haul her into her bedroom, Marguerite worried she'd be late to oversee the meeting between Esther and Emeric.
"What did he tell you to get you so flustered?"
Céleste meandered to her bed and plopped atop the mattress with a sigh. "He said I fascinate him." Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she shoved her head into a pillow. "Fascinate? Me? Why me?"
Rolling her eyes, Marguerite exited the room and took a heavy breath. Teenage hormones—she didn't miss those. But as a Director and chaperone, she'd have many more meetings like this one to supervise.
Bracing herself for more flushing and gasping, she hastened to Esther's door, and knocked. "Round two."
***
Clad in a bright pink dress with a voluminous magenta flower weighing on her auburn curls, Esther appeared jittery as they entered the gardens. When Marguerite introduced her to Emeric, she smiled widely as he drank her in, already enraptured by her exuberant personality.
Marguerite gave them space and settled on a bench as they paraded near the pond. Distracted, she lost sight of them while thinking back on Céleste's encounter with Sébastien.
Why her? Marguerite also wondered. Yes, Céleste was a beauty, but she was young and clueless.
She'd sensed the spark between the Prince and her ward the moment their eyes met. An invisible link establishing between them, an attraction wrapping them in an isolated bubble. Their encounter had woken butterflies in her stomach, too, reminding her of the night she and Antoine had first admitted their feelings.
But the butterflies exploded, and pangs of pain replaced the gentle flapping of their wings. Hatred took her nostalgia's place, and she cringed as her heart was tearing apart all over again. Ripping, puncturing, shredding.
Would Sébastien betray Céleste as Antoine had betrayed her? Would he dare?
She gritted her teeth. She wished she hadn't allowed them to meet. Sébastien was nothing like his elder brother, but who knew what had happened to him while he was abroad? Who knew if he hadn't become a heart-breaking scoundrel, or a flirtatious alcoholic like Jules?
What if Clémentine did pull his strings, using him as a puppet for her sick games?
Marguerite would have to pay for Céleste's agony if the Prince had led her on. She'd have to pick up the pieces of the girl's shattered spirit if he deserted her.
A giggle from nearby yanked her back to the garden, to its fresh breezes, its pine-scented air. Away from her not-quite-healed heartbreak and back to the task at hand—chaperoning.
Emeric and Esther had returned from their discussion, grinning.
"I will call on you again soon, Miss Bristol," said the Emeric, releasing Esther to place a quick kiss atop her knuckles. "I will save you a dance or two at the Ball!"
Beaming, her cheek-bones matching the bubbly hues of her dress, Esther inclined her head. "I will be glad to accept, Sir."
After Emeric saluted them and returned inside, Marguerite flipped to her. "So that went well?"
Esther's chin sank as she shrugged, her entire demeanor shifting from blushing future bride to depressed widow. "It did."
Marguerite tilted Esther's chin up. Her eyes, once so full of life and vibrant with excitement, had dulled. "Why the long face, then? Is something wrong?"
Esther released a heavy, exaggerated sigh and bit her lip. "No."
"Was he not to your liking? Not handsome enough?" Marguerite grimaced. "I would find that rather hard to believe."
"He was much to my taste, Miss M. Smart. Funny. Dashing. We discussed many things." Her voice was shaky. "But he is not a Prince."
Scowling, Marguerite snagged the girl by the shoulders. "No, but he is the son of a Marquess, which is a higher station than yours. A splendid thing, no?"
"I know, but—"
"—no." Marguerite tugged the girl inside. "You will not argue and sulk about not catching a Prince's eye. Emeric Richel is a fine gentleman, and if he has set his sights on you, you should rejoice."
In truth, she knew little about Sir Richel Junior, though she'd met his father and garnered his glares on more than one occasion.
"Will that not disappoint? Will foul rumors not spout from such a courtship? I am not here for him, lovely as he is." Esther dragged her feet as they arrived at the Long Corridor. "He is not royal, and I came for the Princes."
"That is absurd." They swished through the Entryway, and Marguerite shoved her up the stairs. Another teenager to calm, another mess to clean. "He is a high-placed match that will thrill your parents. If he continues to court you, consider yourself lucky."
Recalling the palatial Valeville manor, its lofty arches, its luxurious decorations, and the cherry trees in the orchard, Marguerite smiled. Esther would love it there.
But as she pictured the massive Ballroom and the birthday festivities held within, Marguerite frowned. The memory triggered an image of her and Antoine exploring the hallways and frightening servants as they ran from their chaperones.
Esther's girlish exclamations roused her from her dread. A coy grin etched across her face. "He was charming."
They meandered through the first-floor landing in silence, and as Marguerite prepared to wish her a good day, she started at a loud noise—Esther's room door blowing open.
"There you are." Charlotte towered in the threshold, nostrils flaring, her pastel silks so bright they blinded Marguerite. "How did it go?" She folded her arms, and mischief lingered in her blueberry eyes.
Releasing a shocked squeak, Esther pushed past her, into her quarters. "What are you doing in my room?"
Though about to spit out one of her usual retorts, Charlotte sighted Marguerite and fixed her lips into a curt smile. "Oh, Miss M., good afternoon."
Marguerite peeked past her to see she wasn't alone; Cristina sat on the bed and Julia at the vanity. Harriet was there too, though hurrying up to Esther and wincing at her in an I-am-not-a-part-of-this way.
Suspicious, Marguerite narrowed her gaze at Charlotte. "I must also ask; what are you doing here?"
The blonde blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it as she scratched the bridge of her nose.
Julia swooped in, her equally extravagant satins swaying as she flew to the doorway. "We had to get know about Esther's meeting with Sir Richel! She is the first of us to receive an invitation."
Charlotte sneered. "Ha! I still cannot believe it."
Cristina cruised up to Esther. "How was he? How were you? Will he propose?"
"It is too soon for that," said Harriet with a dismissive wave.
Julia scooted over, nose in the air. "Only Princes propose! They are all that matters."
With a groan, Charlotte pushed through them all and stood so close to Esther, their noses touched. "Sir Richel Junior will do fine for someone like you; leave the Princes to more deserving ladies."
Appalled—though not too surprised—Marguerite clambered into the area and slammed the door behind her, garnering everyone's attention.
The four intruders eyed her, their delicate eyebrows swerving up, their hands tensing, their jaws dropping.
"Stirring up drama like so is unacceptable, Charlotte." She suppressed the need to scream at the spoiled girl and curse at her foul manners. "Erupting into someone's private space? Unprecedented! You should all be ashamed of yourselves!"
Flashing a bold glower at Marguerite, Charlotte ambled forward. "I am not stirring up drama. I speak the truth—some families have higher standards, and mine is one such family. My father expects me to marry a Prince. Esther's," she bunched her lips, "does not."
Pouting, Esther crammed her arms against her chest. "How can you assume—"
"—leave her," said Harriet, yanking her friend away from the viperous contender. "She is not worth wasting your breath."
Though Marguerite agreed with the strawberry-haired girl, she couldn't admit to it.
I must be neutral and firm.
"You will cease gossiping, assuming, and bullying. Under this roof—the royal roof—you are to act like ladies, not whining children! What would the Princes do if they heard you sputtering such nonsense, lurking in bedrooms that do not belong to you?" Marguerite took one stride towards them; all five took a stride back. "And the Queens?" She huffed. "They would ban you at once!"
They hunched, wringing their hands wringing. Charlotte didn't cower, but even she sported a certain degree of discomfort.
Marguerite's forehead dampened and a nerve pulsed in her neck.
If you lose your temper, they will figure you out.
She loosened her tight fists. "Whoever becomes interested in you, Prince or common noble, you will reply with tact and not judge one another. Encourage each other; though you covet the same men, you should not comport yourselves as savages."
Harriet lifted a shaking arm. "Miss... might I add to that?" Marguerite acquiesced, and Harriet shuffled her feet. "My... my father, the Vidame; he is the only one you should not accept an invitation from."
"Agreed." Marguerite reached behind her for the door-knob. "I have heard enough for today. If I catch any of you misbehaving again, things will not bode well, am I clear?"
Five grumbles acknowledged her threat, and with that, she retired to her room.
Slithering past statues and paintings, she massaged her temples, praying for the thrumming in her skull to stop.
When she entered her chambers, a delightful aroma drifted from her sitting area—coffee.
"Oh, bless you, Johanna." A fresh cup rested on the tea-table, along with a plate of cured meats and cheeses, and a flaky croissant. The curtains hid the mid-afternoon sun, preventing her migraine from worsening. "She knows me too well."
The instant the mug nestled in her hands, its warmth radiating to her extremities, she almost forgot her misery. Almost rid herself of the flashes of the girls and their scandalous demeanors, their crude japes. She let them fade into a concealed part of her brain as she sank into the sofa cushions and closed her eyes.
"I scolded them for their own protection, I hope they realize that."
Their cattiness could cost them their spot at court, and Clémentine would blame her. She'd say Marguerite sabotaged her plans, damaged the girls on purpose.
She shivered at the thought of what her punishment would be. Not seclusion in a cozy Academy in a prosperous town; no, she'd be in a dank cell in the basements of Torrinni Prison.
•••