Too fidgety to return to her empty room, Marguerite went to the Library and settled in her favorite chair near the fireplace. A perfect place to ponder, prepare, reflect.
But she couldn't sit still. Instead she paced as three names circled over and over in her mind.
Clémentine. Cornelius. Adelaide.
She wasn't yet sure about the third one, nor was she positive she was complicit. But the more she thought of it, the more she saw a link between the Dowager and the Duke. They terrified her and reprimanded her—but something else was off. Clémentine hated Giromians, and the Duke wasn't reputed for being a kind soul. What would push them together? Had they struck a bigger bargain than him picking a wife among the Totresian contenders? King Romain's arrival was part of it, yes; but was there more?
Marguerite recalled Cornelius hadn't chosen someone yet. Or had he?
Has he set his views on another of my girls, with Clémentine's help?
Had Clémentine summoned her girls for the Giromians? Was that why she was so adamant on them coming to court this year, of all others? Had she made some sordid bargain with Giroma, promised them Totresian wives, and the Academy was her last resort since every other lady refused?
Too many questions. Why would a foe of Giroma strike deals with its King and highest ranking noble? Did Clémentine seek the peace alliance all Totresian monarchs had prayed for, to end the centuries of passive-aggressive fighting?
Edouard never would have permitted it. But since he is dead...
Thoughts flurried in and out of her, draining her energy, rendering her too dizzy to keep pacing. She sank into the comforting cushions, yet their softness did nothing to assuage her fears.
Totresians garnering Giromian interest, Kings dethroned by their mothers, Queens marrying their husband's brothers... it was all too much. Too intense. Too unreal.
Did Clémentine not see how she would weaken Totresia by removing Antoine from power? Out of her three sons, he was the strongest. The better-versed in royal politics. The one with the real claim. Jules was a child. A reckless, drunken, loose-lipped fool that she adored, but who wasn't ready to be King.
Unless he gives her special permission to control the kingdom for him while he goes on with his frolicking?
Marguerite couldn't wait for Adelaide to deliver her message to Antoine—if she intended to. She needed to find him first, share her woes, pick his brain. And fast, before Clémentine and Cornelius had any chance to set things in motion.
If Antoine wasn't upstairs, where would he be? There were few nobles out and about that day, and no lines of lesser men and paupers in the Entryway, meaning he wasn't holding court. So would he be in the Meeting Room? Or his Office?
I will start with those.
After a few inhales of the smoke from the fireplace, to fill her lungs with the fierce flames she'd need to confront Antoine, she ran. It mattered not that Clémentine had scolded her against it—nothing mattered but reaching the King.
As she traveled down the Long Corridor, she heard the viper and vice voice that halted her heart-beats and squeezed her insides. The sound came from somewhere ahead, around the corner, in the King's Corridor—where she needed to go.
"... of course he is not here when I need to make arrangements. We will communicate with the Queen, then. She is more inclined on Ballroom matters, anyway. Have you seen our monarch today?"
The Dowager. Damn!
Marguerite pressed herself against the edge of the Long Corridor wall.
The footsteps stopped feet from where Marguerite prayed to be invisible. The Dowager's lavender and pear scented perfume whooshed into her nostrils, tickling them.
"He mentioned needing a walk," said another individual Marguerite recognized—Princess Cordelia. She had less spite than her mother, but had trained her tone to be almost as cruel, as sharp. "He was in a mood."
"As usual." The Dowager's timbre became faint as her footsteps took off down the King's Corridor again. "I will oversee operations, but would you find the Queen? Tell her I request her approval of certain fabrics."
"Of course, Mother." Cordelia zoomed past, going in the other direction, towards the vestibule; luckily, without seeing Marguerite. A few of her ladies-in-waiting were on her heels as they hobbled up the main stairs.
Releasing a few breaths and letting her shoulders droop, Marguerite peered towards the castle doors. If Antoine needed a walk, like Cordelia claimed, then Marguerite knew where he was. The same location she used to meet him when they required a break, space from Clémentine's hovering, air from the pressures of royalty.
She requested a hooded coat from an empty-handed serving girl who loitered near the doors. A few minutes later, she rushed out, cruising around the castle and towards the forest. The sun had commenced its slow descent, casting shadows in the faded grass that made her keep checking behind her, worried someone would follow.
No one could see where she was headed. She would have taken a horse, but she had no time to visit the stables and risk bumping into one of the Princes or a noble who might recognize her. And besides; her feet knew the way better than any mare's hoofs would.
As she approached the border of the tree-covered space, the atmosphere changed. Chilly wind breezed through the branches, and her boots crunched over dying leaves. Earth and dirt smells broke into her nostrils and her hood slid off as her hair blew out.
Her disguise would be unimportant once inside the woods.
She jumped over dead roots, weaved between tightly knit trees, examined broken trunks where she and the boys had inscribed their names to mark their passage.
She was close.
Twigs snapped under her weight as she neared a clearing surrounded by holly bushes and covered in dry brown needles.
A slither of late-afternoon sunlight peered in through the whipping branches overhead, basking the middle in a heavenly glow—and highlighting two men in cloaks, talking.
They flailed and gestured, and their voices were animated. Two horses nibbled at shrubs in the distance behind them.
Antoine wasn't alone.
Wary of interrupting—and unsure who the second person was—she stooped near a beech tree at the entrance of the clearance. Squinting, she sighted the second individual, his lime-green suit so bright under his navy cloak, she had to look away. Only one man at court wore such bold colors.
"... and before Mother orchestrates it all!" Prince Jules croaked, his trembling tone foreign to Marguerite.
"Why are you only telling me now?" A similar hoarseness in Antoine's speech made her recoil and lower closer to the ground.
"Because we were not yet certain!"
Antoine's cloak matched the chestnut-colored leaves he stomped upon. "But why? Séb left because of her drama, and you? You are inept to be King, even she knows that!" He marched up to his brother, jamming their foreheads together. "Your gambling habits! Your frivolities in that damned tavern! Does she not know about those? Has she chosen to not care? Our mother? Doubtful. This makes no sense."
Ignoring the trouble she was stepping into, Marguerite shot up from her crouch and cleared her throat to signal her presence. "Actually, it does."
Both flipped in her direction. Jules' jaw dropped, and Antoine's eyebrows wiggled as if he had no idea where to put them.
"Maggie?" they both said, gawking at her as if she were a wood nymph wearing nothing but leaves and flower petals.
Antoine's light eyes narrowed on her as she meandered over. "What are you doing here?"
"I sought to talk to you, but I must add my opinion to this conversation." She sidled up to Jules, exchanging a knowing glance. "Jules and Séb spoke to me of all this, and it makes sense for her to choose Jules because he is her favorite. She is skilled in swaying him and double-crossing him; am I right, Jules?"
He scrunched his brows, as if trying to decide how to interpret her comments.
"This is absurd." Antoine's face reddened and a vein pulsed at his temple. "Does she want to throw me off my throne via some secret law only a few of us know about? Perhaps. But replace me with him?" He spat as he swerved away, fists clenched at his sides. "Why cause such discord between brothers?"
"That is another matter altogether," said Marguerite, taking a tentative stride towards him.
"Jules—" the King whirled around, eyes laced with fire, mouth pinched in a thin line. "Leave us. And leave your horse for her. We will finish this later, with Séb. He is our voice of reason."
Fuming, Jules disappeared through the bushes where Marguerite had come from.
Once he was out of earshot, Marguerite wandered closer, but paused at Antoine's tight jaw and tense shoulders. "What is the matter with you?"
"Conspiracies." He groaned as he dragged a gloved hand down his face. "All of you come to me with your theories about Mother doing this, and Mother doing that, but no one has the proof I need to eject her." He stormed towards something on the ground behind her.
She twirled, following him with her gaze. "That everyone comes to you with these conspiracies should be your proof." She watched as he picked up his hat, dusted it off, and scowled at it as if about to devour it. "I have more to add, so—"
"—naturally." His lip curled as he squeezed the hat. "Since you have returned to court, all the plots have reanimated. Why do you provoke Mother so? Why does she hate you?"
Marguerite rubbed her tongue over her teeth as she gazed at the leaf-ridden dirt. "Would that I could figure that out. But speaking of hatred—I believe she is in league with the Duke of Terter."
Antoine put his hat on and tugged it down. "Is she, now?"
"He knows who I once was. He called me Marguerite, former Duchess. I have never met him before today, so he would have no way to recognize me from before. And it appears he is aware of the title your mother promised me. You were the only other person I told, and I doubt you spoke with him about it?"
"He what?" He pushed the rim of his hat from his eyes. "And God no. Me? Speak with the likes of him?" After a few large strides, he stood inches before her, his heavy breath traveling under her clothes, coating her skin in warmth. "You think Mother informed him?"
"We must presume so." She fought the urge to grab his arm and pull him closer, to better convey the sensations bubbling inside. The fear, the confusion, the fury. "Your mother and him must have some sort of collaboration, otherwise why would she spill such secrets about me? I guarantee she has given him other facts about members of court. Information on you, your brothers, your sister. He was dancing with her, remember?"
He ripped his hat off, and though he braced to toss it at her, he smashed it against his torso, gritting his teeth. "It is not Cordelia I worry about. My wife is the one drooling all over his elaborate Giromian threads. She thinks I did not hear her blabbering with her birds at the Ball, but when she imbibes so much liquor she loses herself. She is obsessed with him."
"Adelaide? Fawning over Cornelius in plain sight?" Marguerite crossed her arms, wondering how she hadn't caught it.
"That is why I distrust her. The instant he showed up, she changed. More secretive, cautious, distant. Her allegiances are flimsy. That is why I warned you against her. And with what you say now, all points to her having an involvement in this, as we surmised." He clutched his hat hard into his chest, as if it would somehow protect his heart and lungs from the storms to come.
"Involvement? What are you insinuating?" A mass clogged at the top of her throat, straining her breathing.
"Involvement with him. That two-timing, fickle, fiendish fraud of a Giromian Duke. He has not chosen a bride, had you not noticed?" Marguerite's mouth propped open, but he zoomed up to her before she could speak. "I am aware of Romain's choice, via the Duke. Miss Espinar. It would not shock me if Romain had no notion who Cornelius chose and did not care."
Marguerite checked her pulse, frightened her heart might have stopped. Upon sensing it thrumming to life beneath her jaw, she sighed. "Adelaide and Cornelius? Is that what you are saying?"
"Mother wants to annul our marriage, yes? She wants someone else to manipulate, to not question her every move, correct? But would she want to keep Adelaide as Queen while I digress to a Prince? No. She would give her away." He blew out his cheeks.
Marguerite batted her lashes, their proximity becoming more and more difficult with each whiff of his musk creeping into her nose. "You do agree with Jules and me? That he will take your place, but with whoever he chooses as his bride?"
Antoine turned from her and glared at the darkening sky. "I suppose I do. With your claims, his, mine, I have no choice but to deduce this much." He swirled back around but kept his distance. "Mother is gifting Adelaide to Cornelius, among other agreements. That is what she wants from our enemy—a peace offering, solidified by a spouse for Romain."
"This is worse than we feared."
Clémentine would go to any lengths to obtain what she wishes for.
Antoine growled. "Yes, but she cannot win. All this is hypothetical, as she cannot dethrone me without a unanimous vote. The Totresian way. I am uncertain what the nobles will do, or if she has already started overturning them, but I have my brothers on the council. Neither will agree to this."
"Overturning them? You mean blackmail?" He nodded. "And the Giromians here would help with that, I assume?" Thinking of the firm Edouard supporters—Céleste's father, Esther's father, a handful of others—Marguerite refused to let worry plague her. "You still have devoted followers. Those who swore to your father."
"Yes, and Mother organizes Balls for them, to cover the fact that she consorts with enemies and betrays us. You are right—this is much worse."
•••