While Johanna supervised the luncheon between Charlotte and Jules, Marguerite introduced Cristina to Prince Sébastien.
Her mind wouldn't settle as she watched them exchange pleasantries. She couldn't erase all her formulations, her theories. Too many puzzle pieces had connected, yet she couldn't figure out how or why. Tiny details linked—Clémentine's promises, Adelaide's requests, Antoine's insecurities—and they meant something. But Marguerite wasn't sure how to investigate without getting deeper into their mess.
Cristina was enthralled by the Prince, replying to everything in gracious tones, her manners ladylike and poised. She'd worn a dress Marguerite didn't approve of—too bright and too low-cut—but it didn't seem to bother Sébastien. In fact, nothing bothered Sébastien because he was elsewhere.
Marguerite knew him well and could tell—he wasn't enjoying the meeting. He was polite, but she spotted him frequently stifling a yawn or feigning a smile.
He is not here by choice.
Did Sébastien care for Céleste, as he'd claimed? Marguerite had observed them from afar, caught their body language, their obvious attraction; and none of that occurred between him and Cristina now. Had someone pressured him? Forbade him from courting a seventeen-year-old lady-in-waiting?
His mother?
After the cringe-worthy encounter, Sébastien excused himself. He grimaced, Cristina squirmed; it was unrequited love at its best. As Marguerite took Cristina up to her room, she bit her tongue to not warn the girl to lower her expectations.
Once in her chambers to prepare for the Ball, Johanna joined Marguerite and detailed Charlotte and Prince Jules' experience.
"They chatted, they flirted, they smiled. He liked her," said the handmaiden, fighting a groan as she fastened Marguerite's stays. "I did not believe it possible, but she might have a chance at wooing him."
Marguerite snorted, trying to find humor in the situation, but still, she worried. Why would Jules lean towards a girl like Charlotte? She was well-bred and her father high-placed, but he preferred the loose and light-hearted girls that frolicked in taverns; not the prissy ones like Miss Geitz.
I will have to keep watch over them.
Johanna enveloped her in a vermilion gown and straightened out the white petticoat. "This concerns you," she said, tugging on Marguerite's medium-length sleeves and fanning out their ruffled edges.
"It does." Marguerite tucked jewels and flowers into her hair as Johanna scooped it into a high bun. "But I am not clear on why, not yet." She powdered her face, rouged her cheeks, dabbed a light pomade onto her lips. "Tonight I will pay close attention to everyone."
Later, as she met the five contenders and Céleste in the main landing, she lined them up, her expression as stern as she could muster. "I remind you again that Torrinni court does not tolerate gossip. I will not point fingers, but I warn you all to quit your bickering and insults."
As they grumbled—some glared at Céleste, well aware she outed them—Marguerite took note of their outfits. Harriet's open-back bodice was a bit daring, but she accepted it. Cristina's plunging neckline made her hiccup, but she conceded; the girls needed to make their own impressions.
Downstairs, they glided by servants and butlers; and closer to the Ballroom doors, they swerved past nobles in radiant silks and mountains of jewels. A faint piano melody reached Marguerite's ears.
From what she could tell from the clusters of aristocrats out in the East Wing, the royals hadn't arrived.
"Go on in," she said to her girls. "The herald will announce you, and you may wait close to the dais." The five hurried inside, but when Céleste tried to follow, Marguerite snatched her wrist. "No, you stay with me."
Céleste squinted at her. "Are we not going in?"
She applied pressure on Céleste's shoulders, urging the girl to look at her. "Tonight will be hard for you." She drew a sympathetic smile across her mouth, taking in Céleste's pastel pink gown. The rosewood bows trailing down its bodice gave her an air of innocence. She appeared so put-together; but Marguerite knew better. "You have a lot on your mind, and your heart must be heavy."
A visible lump formed at the top of Céleste's exposed throat. "I will be all right."
"You will." Marguerite squeezed her shoulder tighter. "It is preferable this way. When your turn comes, you will meet a wonderful man who will not be in such a hurry to marry. He will not mislead or lie to you. Séb is a Prince with a deadline. He cannot follow his heart, but when it is right, I hope you can."
Her soul ached as she spoke—she knew Céleste's pain better than most.
"Thank you, Marguerite."
Marguerite guided her through the crowds clogging the entrance. The grand chandelier sent glittering dots onto the polished burnt-orange floors. Seas of colorful nobles stood on either side of the crimson carpet, chatting, laughing, fanning their faces while surveying the arrivals. The Royal Orchestra, filling the room with gentle hymns to pass the time while waiting for the royals.
The herald cleared his throat. "Miss M., Director of the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls." Heads turned, eyes scanned her, whispers erupted from painted mouths. "And her lady-in-waiting, Miss Céleste Richel, daughter of the Marquess of Valeville!"
Curious onlookers ogled them as they swished inside. Marguerite's chin weighed more than several tons of marble, but she held it up enough to show she had no fear. She kept her shoulders straight, sucked all her anticipation into her gut.
They settled behind the eight contenders, near the platform. Marguerite sidled closest to Charlotte, eager to survey her behavior with Jules.
Céleste nudged Marguerite, about to say something; but the herald's thrumming staff stopped her. Last-minute courtiers poured into the area, anxious to get to their spots. The Orchestra halted its melodies, and everyone swiveled to the doors.
"Their Royal Majesties, King Antoine and Queen Adelaide of Totresia!"
Marguerite spun to witness their arrival. They marched in fast, as if on a mission; Antoine in a vibrant red coat, the rest of him in white, and on his arm, his stunning Queen in a white dress trimmed with gold, sprinkled with roses. He appeared on edge, stressed; she smiled wide, happy as ever.
As if she had not confessed her woes to me.
Attendees lowered into bows and curtsies as two more figures paraded up to the doors.
"Their Royal Highnesses, Prince Sébastien and Prince Jules of Totresia!" They swirled in, side by side, so similar yet so different. Sébastien wore aubergine velvet, his hair tied back, his expression somber. Jules covered himself in light brown, and his amused gaze wandered over the attendees. As he climbed atop the platform, he winked at the contenders below, who fought not to tremble.
One person remained to enter; one Marguerite didn't want to curtsy for.
"Her Grace, Dowager Queen Clémentine of Totresia," said the herald, his voice trembling. "And Her Royal Highness, Princess Cordelia of Totresia!"
Gasps and low mumbles broke out from the guests.
Cordelia? At the Inauguration Ball?
Marguerite gulped, uneasy, concerned. Cordelia was sixteen; the Masquerade aside, one rarely attended Balls until eighteen. Céleste was the exception, as Marguerite's lady-in-waiting.
But it was no mistake; the Princess traipsed by on her mother's arm, swathed in gray and peach, walking with purpose and pride. The Dowager had her usual dreary airs, draped in ruby with black lace dangling from the hem of her gown and sleeves.
Once all were atop the podium, Antoine gave a short—and forgettable—commencement speech. He was impatient and annoyed, and would clearly rather be elsewhere.
"To start the events, my brothers will choose their first dance partners," he finished, his tone devoid of emotion.
This moment would determine the front-runners for the Princes' hearts. One of the most important instances of the night; of the entire Season.
The two men descended, marched up to the contenders, and Marguerite held her breath.
Jules extended his arm to Frances—unsurprising—and she accepted, her cheeks turning purple as he took her from the envious ladies.
Charlotte scoffed, but Marguerite kicked her in the shin. "Stop it!"
In response, the blonde stiffened and lifted her nose in the air.
Guests parted to allow Jules and Frances to take their places on the dance-floor.
Sébastien, after scouring the ladies prostrated at his feet, offered his palm to Cristina. She flushed and tried not to squirm as he accompanied her to where Jules and Frances stood.
Céleste shifted her weight.
Marguerite laced their fingers. "It will be all right," she said, her mutters drowning in the tune as it commenced.
After a few beats, other eligible men sought dance partners. Emeric requested Esther's company, and without hesitation she bounced across the carpet with him. Husbands invited wives, timid boys approached lavish ladies they fancied; the room came alive.
By the time the tune reached its middle, only Harriet and Julia remained. Even Harriet's father had snagged one of the contenders; one who seemed to have no clue who he was. He'd combed his unruly beard and almost appeared charming. But he wouldn't fool Marguerite.
Cordelia's sweeping dress caught her eye instead as she pivoted by, sailing across the floor, sending whiffs of stuffy Ballroom air onto Marguerite's cheeks.
She saw Clémentine on the dais, in conversation with one of her ladies; but she cared little for her daughter waltzing about in someone's arms.
Someone Marguerite realized she didn't know.
She hadn't paid him any attention until then, nor had she sighted him in the crowd when entering the Ballroom. He stood out; tall, a muscular build, a confident posture. Dirty blond locks of hair framed his pallid face and stopped at his shoulders. Even from afar, Marguerite saw his onyx eyes, cold, stony, and so obscure they froze her to her spot.
He spun Cordelia with ease, a pleasant yet eerily disturbing smile on his thin lips. His inky-colored attire smeared through the ocean of bright colors worn by other guests.
Something about him caused ripples of shivers to crash down Marguerite's spine. She stared for so long the music changed—partners thanked each other, and men scurried about to locate someone new to dance with.
Cordelia and her mystery friend meandered towards the platform.
"Céleste, do you—" Marguerite's speech cut off as someone slipped in front of her, blocking her view. "Excuse me, do you mind?" Her breath caught in her throat when she realized who'd perched before her. "Oh my, Highness," she curtsied, "forgive me."
Sébastien chuckled at her indecency. "You are forgiven, but I do mind." Sébastien extended his palm to her. "Join me for a dance? Please?"
Still fighting to breathe, she pressed a hand to her breastbone. "Should you not invite a contender?"
Beside her, Céleste shriveled, then mumbled an excuse about being hungry before dashing to the buffet.
Examining her with a wince, Sébastien leaned in close. "For old time's sake? I beg you."
A few loitering nearby sent questioning glances at them.
"You break tradition, Highness," said Marguerite through clenched teeth. "And draw unwanted attention."
"You draw attention by declining." He seized her forearm and hauled her to the dance-floor, ignoring her protests.
Appalled, she fought to keep her jaw in place. Her gaze found Antoine atop the dais; he glared at them and shook his head.
"I am not sure what game you play, Séb."
She curtsied, and he bowed, placing his hand on the small of her back. "Not a game. I wish to discuss Céleste."
"What about her?" Marguerite suppressed a chill as he slid his fingers between hers and they took off. "You gave her false hope and ditched her. I assume your mother interfered? What more is there to say?"
The music picked up. "I know." He twirled her so fast it made her dizzy. She hadn't danced like that in years, nor did she remember Sébastien as one who liked to partake in such activities.
"And?" The rhythm slowed. "What is it?"
"I changed my mind," he said, his words so soft she battled to hear them as the tunes accelerated again.
"You what?"
"I changed my mind, Maggie. I care not about appearances or threats or warnings." He gripped her closer, his lips a few inches above her ear. "I will fix this."
Her mouth dropped open, but before she could formulate a reply, Cordelia brushed by them, again with the unknown man.
Whatever her discussion with Sébastien had been about, Marguerite put it on hold. "Who is dancing with your sister?"
Sébastien also noticed Cordelia on the dance-floor, and became rigid, loosening his grasp on Marguerite's waist as he pulled from her ear. As they swirled, they both had a perfect view on the man in question, who said something to Cordelia that made her giggle.
"Cornelius Schwartz."
Marguerite's eerie hunch of mistrust returned to her gut, creating knots that were so tight she had to let go of Sébastien's hand to clutch her stomach.
She knew that name and as it repeated in her brain, she wanted to stomp up remove Cordelia from his reach, decency and etiquette be damned.
"Him? He... he is—"
"—the Duke of Terter, yes." Sébastien's lip curled. "A Giromian."
Her legs wobbled, and she missed a step. "A Giromian at our court? What is happening?"
Sébastien grunted and helped her recover from her imbalance. "Mother neglected to remind Antoine of some treaty we have with Terter. One allowing their eldest son to join us, to choose a wife."
Nostrils flaring, Marguerite almost stepped on his foot. "How... when... why?"
Again, the Prince ensured her misstep went unnoticed. "I do not know."
The musical notes crescendoed, but Marguerite couldn't focus. Sweat beaded on her forehead and she couldn't remember any dance steps.
"Mother dropped this on us out of nowhere. He was already en route. So we have another competitor, and not a friendly one. But it matters not."
She scowled at the Prince. "Have you lost your wits? A Giromian at court on your mother's orders? You must be—"
"—indifferent." He spun Marguerite towards the crowd near the buffet. "He should not be here, but I have set my heart on someone he would not dare to approach." He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Her." Jutting his chin straight ahead, he motioned at a blushing blond in pastel pinks a few dozen feet away, doing her hardest to look anywhere but at him.
Céleste.
Their earlier conversation buzzed to Marguerite's brain and she flipped to him. "Do not toy with her. Not if you cannot guarantee your mother will not punish you both for it."
A different melody began, and nobles dashed about around them, seeking new companions. Sébastien continued to admire Céleste.
"I do not toy." He bowed and placed a quick kiss on Marguerite's knuckles. "I have never been more serious." With a tiny grin, he sauntered to the platform.
Engulfed by the couples dancing, Marguerite felt overwhelmed, exhausted. She tried to locate Céleste, but instead found the dark-suited foreigner, standing at the edge of the dance-floor, peering about for someone else to dance with.
She crouched, concealed between a vivid violet gown and a feathered petticoat, and hurried off before anyone saw her.
A Giromian in Torrinni?
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