Shivering, Céleste opened her eyes to see her candles had burned out, but a soft glow flickered in the hearth. Her curtains were closed.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand; it was damp with sweat. Another nightmare about her mother—they didn't happen often, but when they did, they were intense. Swirls of color and foreign objects and coughs of blood—she trembled at the memory.
Chest rising and falling in heavy motions, she forced away the deadly images as nausea bubbled in her belly. She stood and approached the fire, rubbing her hands together, seeking comfort. The chills scrambling down her back caused goosebumps to pop up on her arms.
Her usual tactic to get rid of the haunting flashes of her mother's death was to take a walk.
She gaped at the adjoining door, unsure of the time or if Marguerite had returned. "No one said I could not take a nightly stroll, correct?"
Yawning, she grabbed her thick night-robe off the edge of the bed and fastened around herself. She slid into a pair of flat slippers and tiptoed to her door. It opened without a creak, and she snuck into the hallway.
Tipping her head left, then right, she scanned the corridor. Only a few sconces were lit, and absolute silence met her ears.
She crept to the service stairs, her footfalls muffled by the carpets. At the top of the staircase, she peered down and saw nothing but darkness, engulfing and never-ending. It prompted her to rethink her decision.
But her body had other plans, and before she knew it, she'd placed a foot on the first step. It didn't crack beneath her weight, so she continued downward.
At the bottom, a few candles illuminated the dreary service corridor. No noise came from behind any of the doors, so she slithered to the one leading to the East Wing.
Holding her breath, she glided out and closed the door behind her, ensuring it didn't click and draw attention from any guards.
Lights were sparse here, too. And with the closest windows farther down and in the West Wing, it was difficult to tell how late it was.
She sighted two soldiers in front of the Ballroom doors, and two others patrolling at the end of the Queen's Corridor, their backs turned.
Where do I go?
She couldn't exit to the gardens; judging by the cool breeze wafting through the hall, the outdoors would be freezing.
She recalled another area that would have almost the same effect as fresh air—the Winter Garden. Its glossy door across from her seemed to whisper her name.
She swished inside, and latched the door behind her, praying no one had caught her.
A pale glimmer coated the walls, turning them to a frosty blue instead of their usual canary-yellow. She tilted her head to gape at the glass ceiling. Stars bedecked the skies, big and brilliant, peeking I; curious, like her.
From her left, the Long Corridor clock chimed. She counted—twelve times, its ringing muffled.
Midnight?
She pulled her robe tighter around her, and rotated to her right. A whiff of floral scents and woodsy aromas crept up her nostrils.
This was the perfect location to stretch her legs and forget her horrid dream.
She ambled to the joining of the four pebbled paths. Footsteps light, she marveled at all the trees, their leaves in various hues of green, their barks of rich mahoganies and oaks. She beamed at the fluffy shrubs lining the walkway, dotted with tulips, roses, daisies.
Reaching the beginning of the path that led to the King's Corridor entrance, she stilled. There was movement ahead, to the far right.
A tree with swaying branches loomed between her and someone who paced on the grass, features concealed in darkness. And someone else was there, a little farther off, their appearance also hard to decipher, as they were slumped on a bench, with another tree towering behind them.
On instinct, she wanted to hide; but she must have gasped or been too obvious, because the seated person straightened up and glanced in her direction.
"Who is there?" The words were feminine, sharp; like how the Dowager would have pronounced them, the same coarseness in each syllable.
Céleste's lungs constricted, and she had no oxygen to speak, to defend herself.
As she panicked at the idea of the Dowager finding her in the wrong place again, the pacing figure stopped and whirled around.
Her eyesight blurred, but she visualized someone with long, obscure locks of messy hair and broad shoulders covered by a wool cloak.
They strode towards her, halting in a patch of grass. "Miss Richel?"
Moonlight spilled over the person, exposing its face.
Céleste's lungs expanded, overflowing with air as she stumbled backward. "Your Highness?" Heat swarmed from her jaw to her cheeks as Prince Sébastien whisked closer to her, squinting. "Oh dear, I am sorry, I—"
She lost her balance, but he whooshed over to keep her from falling.
"Easy now, it is all right," he said, his voice a harmonious melody as he scooped her into his arms and guided her to the bench he'd been pacing in front of.
The other mystery individual became visible, her sculpted eyebrows wrenching upward—the Princess.
That explained why Céleste mistook her for the Dowager.
"What is going on?" Princess Cordelia watched as Sébastien deposited Céleste on the stone seat. He sat beside her, and the Princess got up and planted before him. "Séb? What is this?"
"Who is this," he rectified, his tone sharp as he addressed his sister. "Would you give us a moment?" His arm brushed against Céleste's, and she shuddered at the contact.
The Princess narrowed her gaze. "Yes; who is this? And why do you need a moment?" Her satin robe covered her from collar to toe, and her deep chestnut curls cascaded over her shoulders like waves of silk. She was a copy of her mother, minus the cruelty that flowed from the latter in clouds of toxicity.
"Her." Sébastien leaned forward and mouthed something else at the Princess, but Céleste was too dizzy to figure out what.
"Oh." The Princess deflated. "Oh, yes. I will wait over there then." She dashed towards the door Céleste had come through.
Céleste's jaw slipped out of place as the Prince kneeled before her. His unkempt tresses clung to his forehead and the sides of his neck, and his coat was ruffled and fuzzy. "Are you all right?"
Her heart skipped a beat. Two beats. Three—then she sucked in a weighted breath. "I apologize for intruding."
She dropped her chin, but he steered it up, his bare fingers against her skin, sending chills to undulate down her spine. "Nothing to apologize for. It seems my sister and I are not the only ones enjoying a midnight stroll."
Struggling to maintain his gooey gaze, she chewed on her lip. "Midnight stroll, yes, Highness. I had an unpleasant dream, and I..." She blinked. "Not that you should care about that, and I rarely take nightly walks, I promise."
"Sébastien." His thumb circled over her chin in gentle motions. "There is nothing wrong with nightly walks. Cordelia and I try to have at least one per week."
Her shoulders and biceps shook from her tension, but the Prince's dazzling smile reassured her she wasn't in trouble.
She stiffened again when she realized he was touching her. Heat curled down her neck. "I... Sébastien, yes, my apologies."
He released her and slid onto the spot by her. "Bad dream, you said?" She twisted halfway to peek at his brows drooping, his smile lessening, his demeanor shifting. A pinch of fatigue coated his voice, making it raspy. "Do those happen often?"
Céleste nodded, unsure how much to reveal.
"I understand." He sighed, setting his clasped hands behind his head. "I have had nightmares on and off since my father's death."
She gulped as she examined him. "Grief still haunts you, too?"
"Of course it does. He was my father." Brows scrunching, he returned to a normal sitting position. "Wait. You mean to say grief causes your nightmares?"
Looking askance—seeing the Princess in the distance, gazing their way—Céleste shifted in her seat. "Yes. My mother, a few years ago."
"Forgive me for being so forward." Sébastien took her hand in his and squeezed. She flipped to him, and their eyes connected. "We have more in common than I thought."
***
They chatted for what felt like hours. Explaining their terrifying dreams, confiding their woes, describing habits their deceased loved ones had that always made them smile.
The Princess lingered at first, acting as a distant—but not quite legal—chaperone, but seemed bored with waiting for her brother.
Lounging on the bench, Céleste and Sébastien got to know each other. They shed a tear or two—at least, Céleste did—and when the sky began to brighten and the stars went to bed, Sébastien stretched and yawned.
"It may be best if we return to our quarters." He extended a hand to help her up. "My sister has snuck off and we are unchaperoned. And I am sure Marguerite will ask for you. And my mother will prowl the halls once she wakes. Which will be soon."
Tingling jolts shot up her arms as their bare palms collided. "Yes, you are right." She lowered into a curtsy, but he yanked her up and held her close enough for his warm breath to blow over her cheeks.
He immobilized, staring at her, lost in thought; then pulled away to bring her knuckles to his lips. Céleste's knees buckled and her calves shook.
"Again, I am sorry you had a nightmare. Such things should not burden lovely ladies like you when they sleep."
Embarrassment harassed her thoughts. There she was in her nightwear, vulnerable and easy to read—not a lady. But this Prince had called her one. This man, impressive and awe-inspiring, garbed in his elegant day-wear, his words eloquent and never scornful, inspired a certain peace to her being.
"I am sorry your father haunts you, High—Sébastien." She'd fought during their entire discussion to not address him so formally, but she couldn't help it. He was so radiant, so tall, so perfect; she was but a tiny girl in luxurious night-silks.
His cheek-bones turned a faint shade of red as he chuckled. "I thought of you all day, after our meeting." He led her down the path to the Long Corridor exit. "Imagining you, beaming and beautiful in your grand ball-gown, bristling about to aid the contenders."
She'd imagined it, too—but she'd never pictured him in her projections.
"I hope to steal you from those duties at the Inauguration. To save you a dance." His grip on her hand tightened as they arrived at the door, and he spun her to him.
"Are you sure? They will not let you—your mother, your brother... I am not a contender, I cannot compete—"
He lifted her fingertips to his mouth and pressed his lips to them. "I do not care."
She squirmed under his touch, and a horde of butterflies broke loose in her gut; more violent than when they'd met.
Releasing her, he brushed a few dirty blonde curls from her temples. "I am a Prince, and will bend the rules as I please. I will dance with my contenders; but only you matter."
The butterflies banged about like a drum out of rhythm, booming to its own beat. Her tongue swelled and her saliva scratched her throat as she swallowed.
Charmed by her reaction—or sickened by her obvious infatuation, she couldn't tell—he meandered in the opposite direction. "You are the contender for my heart, Céleste."
With that, he hastened through the door to the East Wing.
Céleste froze as wild winged creatures fluttered about in her abdomen. They were so restless, so awake, she feared their every motion might lift her off the ground.
•••