At the sight of a weeping, distraught Marguerite, Céleste shot up from her crouched position. She cursed under her breath; the King would see her now, no matter the semi-darkness concealing her.
Sure enough, his gaze snapped in her direction. "Who is there?" He took a few tentative steps.
It was no use hiding or praying to be invisible. She had no escape and had to pay for her eavesdropping.
"Apologies," she said, her tongue twisting. She clutched the sides of her gown and emerged from her spot, taking a few steps towards the ground. Holding her head low, she dipped into a curtsy, a flush spreading all over her face and chest. "Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness."
"Miss Richel?" His footsteps halted a few feet from her. She dared to look up; he'd crossed his arms and was squinting in confusion.
She chewed on her lip. How would he punish her? She shrank farther into her curtsy, tucking her chin in. "I am sorry, I am so sorry—"
"Sorry for what?" He came closer, seemingly unthreatened; but in a panic, she dashed back up the stairs.
Adrenaline spiked her blood with each step, but somehow, she didn't lose her footing. She didn't turn around until she'd arrived at the top, breathless.
The King hadn't followed, but for all she knew, he'd gone through a different door in search of guards to detain her for her attitude.
She scanned the area she'd landed in—a service hall, its walls a plain gray, a stale odor permeating the air.
A few serving girls showed up from a doorway ahead of her, carrying silver platters of dirty dishes.
Céleste brisked over to them, adjusting a few curls that had tumbled over her forehead. "Where am I?"
Two of them panicked and scurried off without an answer. But the third one pivoted half-way to point at the door she'd come through. "That is the Dining Room, Miss. And that," she pointed at a door to Céleste's left, "is the Queen's Corridor." She hastened off after her fellow servants before Céleste could thank her.
If she wanted to confuse the King, Céleste couldn't take the service staircase up—she'd have shuffle up the main steps or find an alternative means to escape.
She slipped into the hallway, inhaling several gulps of air as she sealed the door behind her.
She recognized one of the glass Winter Garden entrances before her. To her right, she sighted the hall with the queenly rooms she wasn't allowed to go in; the Solar and the Music Room. To her left was the East Wing.
She pivoted to the right. "Down the Queen's Corridor and a left down the Long?"
As she prepared to hurdle to her destination, a distinct voice full of disdain echoed from the junction between the three corridors, straight ahead from her.
"Marguerite? What are you doing here?"
She froze, aware at once who the words belonged to.
The Dowager? And Marguerite is there, too?
Sucking in her breath, Céleste flattened against the wall, desperate to blend in with the wallpaper. If the Dowager saw her, she'd have two royals on her tail instead of one.
"Your Grace," said Marguerite, an obvious tremble to her speech. "I am taking a stroll."
Leaning forward half an inch, Céleste caught Marguerite inclining her head. The Dowager had her back to Céleste, her curls pinned up tight and her spine stiff as a board. The layers of her dress unfurled about her like tentacles.
Every muscle in Céleste's throat constricted. This was Mandarina; the woman who'd tortured The Golden Girl all her life. Who controlled the King and manipulated anyone she could get her slimy hands on.
"Alone?" The Dowager unleashed a sound that resembled a snort and a chortle. "You call that a stroll? You were running."
"A... uh... pressing matter," said Marguerite, her tone so small Céleste strained to hear it.
Clémentine walked up to Marguerite, heels clinking on the floors like a ticking clock. Once beside her, she sent her a snarling side-glance. "Join me in the Reading Room. Now."
Marguerite's face paled as she spun to obey the Dowager's command. They then disappeared behind the curving of the wall.
Céleste exhaled, but she was far from relieved.
After their footsteps dissipated, she decided it was safe to move. She glided to the Long Corridor as the clock chimed five times. Fists clenched, she hurried to the main stairs, resisting the urge to make sure no one followed.
Racing through the first-floor landing, she slowed at animated discussions coming from inside Esther's room.
She picked up her pace. "I am in no mood to listen to conversations that do not concern me!"
Once in her quarters, she skidded to her bed. Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, she groaned.
"No more spying!"
***
An hour later, Johanna, stopped by. "Are you hungry?"
Céleste nodded.
"And the Director?" Johanna fiddled with a patchy spot of her apron. "She is not in her room, and I have seen her little today. Is she all right?"
Céleste scrunched her nose. "I do not know. She took me to my, uh, meeting, then chaperoned another, then met with the King, and then the Dowager intercepted her—"
Johanna's gasp broke out so fast Céleste angled away from her in shock. "She met with the King? And the Dowager?"
"Yes," said Céleste, placing a palm over her racing heart. "It has been a while since they went to... the Reading Room, I believe? I am a bit concerned."
"If she meets with the Dowager, it concerns me, too, Miss." Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Johanna bolted to the bedroom exit. "Do not leave your quarters—I will return with your supper soon."
Once Johanna closed the door, Céleste threw her pillow at it. She couldn't sit still. Why could she not leave? Not that she wanted to; the King might be prowling about seeking to discipline her.
But her legs were restless, and her feet were falling asleep—so she paced. Her hands squeezed and released at her sides, and tension enveloped every inch of her body.
A crippling nausea soon overtook her, and instead of stopping her, it prompted her to think of the last time she'd felt so sick.
Before and after meeting Prince Sébastien.
His image made her shudder. He'd been so confident, so relaxed; how he'd held himself, expressed himself, showed himself as nothing less than a gallant man offering to court her.
"Court me? I have only seen such situations in books."
She reviewed every romance novel she'd ever read; their plot-twists, their tragic moments, their endings. What would happen to her if she let things play out like in those tales? If she opened to the idea of a Prince wanting to spend time with her?
His eyes, so gooey and gleaming, entered her thoughts and interrupted her focus. The way he smiled, so carefree and poised. His lengthy locks flapping on either side of his strong jawline, his air of mystery causing her to swoon.
He hadn't discouraged the type of novels she liked, unlike most men—her father and brother.
There they were again—the butterflies, coming to life in her abdomen, fluttering to and fro and worsening her nausea. Hearing his dreamy voice singing a dazzling melody, the butterflies animated, faster and faster, violent as they thrashed and thrashed.
Breaths caught in her lungs, she peered at her door, imagining the Prince standing there, grinning; but then his grin morphed into a frown.
"I cannot. We cannot. I must choose another."
She clapped a hand over her mouth, prompting the image to fizzle. Her door was still closed, and no one stood before it.
"Would he walk in his brother's footsteps? Would he harm me, like the King harmed Marguerite? Was that what she meant—maybe he has changed?"
With a shiver, she remembered Marguerite's anger as she spoke with the monarch in the basement. The unspoken unease between them, the atmosphere heavy with the words they never said, the apologies he never gave her.
She grabbed the other pillow on her bed and hugged it tight as she fell onto her mattress.
Would Sébastien courting her put her in a vulnerable situation? Ogled by jealous men, rumors sparking from envious ladies? Would she end up like The Golden Girl, running away during the Masquerade Ball to be captured and imprisoned in an Academy as its Director?
She hiccuped. "Me? An underage, not-yet-graduated and eavesdropping mess?" Tears rushed to her eyes as she visualized the five contenders mocking her, screaming at her, kicking her out of the castle in anger at the Prince's affection for her.
She squeezed the pillow tighter, dreading the days to come.
***
What seemed like hours later, Johanna deposited a tray of food on her bedside table.
The delicious smells drew her from her hunched position.
"Thank you." Her stomach grumbled as she reached for a piece of cheese and nibbled on it.
"Is she back?" Johanna veered towards the adjoining door, extracting from her apron a bulging kerchief of elements Céleste couldn't identify. "I wanted to bring her something to snack on. She will need it."
"How thoughtful." Céleste stuffed another morsel into her mouth. "I have not heard her return."
The handmaiden twirled her raven tresses around her index finger and gave the packaged goods to Céleste. "Would you give her this when she does? Tell her to ring for me, no matter what time, I—" She gazed at her feet, biting her lower lip.
"You really worry for her."
Johanna stiffened and backed away. "I know her, and the Dowager. So yes, I do." She forced a smile. "But you need not. Our mistress knows what she is doing."
With those cryptic comments, she decked out, leaving Céleste to peep at the adjoining door in anticipation, praying Marguerite would show up soon and provide answers and reassurance.
•••