Céleste waited. And waited. And waited.
She stood by the herald as commanded, but a few in the crowd had noticed her. They examined her outfit choice, whispered about her hair-do, pulled apart the accessories she wore.
And yet all she could think of was the man who'd clapped at Marguerite's encouragements. Who was he? She'd sighted his blond hair as she shuffled into the Ballroom, but had no time to visualize anything else.
The doors burst open to her left—the individual she'd seen in the corridor now towered in the threshold. All turned to him, and though he wasn't as tall as the Princes or the Totresian King, there was a certain flair about his posture, a flamboyant confidence and energy from how he carried himself.
He removed his hands from the pockets of his silky brown suit, and the badges and insignia plastered on his sash glittered in the chandelier light. Atop his tresses was a gold and silver crown decked with sapphires.
That was King Romain?
His eyes the shade of evergreen trees skimmed the room, wide and curious as the attendees lowered into curtsies and bows.
Céleste did the same, and the herald tapped his staff to the ground. "His Majesty, King Romain of Giroma, revered guest of our Royal Court!"
He marched onto the carpet with pride, as if it belonged to him, taking stable strides towards the dais. The noble folk rose as he passed them, some silent, some muttering mixed comments at the sight of him up close.
He arrived at the podium, and Céleste couldn't see, but she imagined he bowed. She craved to see it; him inclining before King Antoine, his most fervent enemy.
Too curious, she sidestepped, ignoring the herald's grunts about waiting for her escort. On the podium, in a blinding silver coat flapping over black breeches, a crown of ruby jewels resting on his tamed mane, Antoine glared at the Giromian King. Adelaide beamed beside him, engulfed in vivid crimson and gold. Sébastien and Jules stood on either side and peered down at the foreign monarch with obvious disdain.
King Antoine waved him up the steps. "King Romain, we honor your presence in Torrinni," he said, his voice stiff.
Céleste tried to glimpse the Dowager, who lingered in the background; but the Ballroom doors creaked open again, and the herald shoved her aside.
Marguerite emerged, and hurried to Céleste, snatching her arm.
"Ready?" Her eyes were alert, flecks of yellow and blue swirling in them like a magical fire. Her lips looked like she'd dug her teeth into them, and she fidgeted as she fixed a stray strand of hair.
"Are you?" Céleste's toes bunched in her shoes.
"Not like we have a choice," Marguerite snapped, tugging her to the edge of the rug.
"Introducing Miss Céleste Richel, daughter of the Marquess of Valeville. And her escort, Miss M., Director of the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls!"
They were off, gliding down the path at a brisk yet respectful pace. Marguerite kept her chin tucked, twitching with each step. Céleste's focus stayed on the foreign King, who studied them as they approached. Something was off about him; he was comely, with strong shoulders and muscular arms and a sturdy gait, but his smile was too forced. His eyes were too prying, too invasive. Like he read through her, through Marguerite, and didn't like what he saw.
What happened in the hallway?
Before Céleste knew it, they'd landed at the bottom of the platform. Those atop it scrutinized her, analyzed her posture, judged her attire. She gulped and lowered her head.
Marguerite tumbled into a hasty curtsy, then slithered a few inches to the side, leaving Céleste more or less alone.
Céleste also curtsied, feeling like her throat was closing up, blocking her airways, stopping the blood from rushing to her heart—
"Miss Céleste Richel." King Antoine spoke, not the Queen. Céleste's shoulders tightened at his rigid, raspy tone. "I welcome you to our Totresian court, no longer as a ward to our Academy Director, but as a contender to my brother, Prince Sébastien of Totresia. Rise."
Céleste obeyed, stealing a brief glance at him to gauge his demeanor. His features had softened compared to when he'd welcomed King Romain onto the platform.
"You are ineligible for marriage until you have completed your studies. But you are available for courtship by any bachelor at court, though I daresay they would have to fight my sibling for that." A few chuckles came from the audience, and even Céleste released a quick giggle at his candor.
Queen Adelaide grinned, and Clémentine, from afar, gave a swift nod. Jules mimicked a slow clap as he winked.
Before Céleste could peek at Sébastien, her gaze wandered to King Romain, who was, to her astonishment, looking at Marguerite. Probing her, yearning to pry into her mind. or peek under her dress.
Tearing away from such a disgusting sight, Céleste spotted Duke Cornelius, perched beside the right edge of the dais—and he was staring at Marguerite, too. If Romain's ogling had been disturbing, the Duke's was worse. He wore a disturbing, playful smirk as he scanned the Director's silhouette from her breasts to the hem of her gown.
Holding in the urge to regurgitate her lunch, Céleste moved to contemplate the only person who mattered. Sébastien smiled, warmth spreading up his cheeks, his eyes bright and blissful. He took a step closer to the King, who nudged him down the stairs.
"Take your contender, brother, and open the night, would you?" A small joy erased Antoine's irritability, if only for a moment.
Sébastien descended without hesitation and captured Céleste's hand to kiss it.
"You look splendid," he whispered, his lips lingering atop her gloves.
She flushed, turning away to hide her redness; but as she did so, she noticed Romain had moved towards Cornelius and was leaning down, muttering something in the Duke's ear.
And both gaped at Marguerite again.
Marguerite was oblivious, concentrating on Sébastien and Céleste
"Well done," she said, before disappearing towards the buffet, out of view from the interested Giromians.
As the Prince led Céleste far from the mysterious men, she refocused on him, so dashing, so proud to display her on his arm. It intensified her flush, and she gawked at her slippers as the crowds parted to let them settle on the dance-floor.
With his fingers wrapped around hers, he pulled her to stand before him. He tipped her chin up, forcing their eyes to meet—and his were gooey with sweetness, overflowing with admiration.
"Céleste."
Everything around her, every worry, every jeering, jealous woman, every intrigued man—all blended into a uniform blob, molding into the décor. All noise faded, save for the beginning notes of a ballad. All the lights shimmered like stars in the night sky, sprinkling over Sébastien's face.
"Sébastien." She fought her lips wanting to part as he held her hand and slid his other to her lower back.
The tunes echoed from the orchestra, and they took flight. Familiar butterflies woke in her gut, dancing with them. Their wings flapped with such fervor she was dizzy, detached from the world in some delirious daze.
"I meant it," he said, his lips brushing against her earlobe, creating vibrations that spiraled down her spine. "You are a vision."
"And you," she gulped, "the most handsome man in this room."
All thoughts of Romain and Cornelius watching Marguerite evaporated. Sébastien spun her, and all the troubles burdening her melted in a pool at her feet.
"And thank you for this. For giving me a shot, though I did not deserve it."
Sébastien pulled her closer, his musk shooting up her nostrils, shoving her farther into her hypnotic state. "You deserve everything and more. I am sorry for making you confront your brother like that. I should have made the arrangements myself."
"But I am too young for this—"
As the music sped up, and other couples joined them on the dance-floor, he tightened his grip on her hand. "You need not worry about a thing. And too young? Might I remind you I am only one year older than you? Our statuses force us to mingle at impossible ages, but I would have it no other way." He half-lidded his eyes, smiling widely. "I am ever so grateful your brother mentioned you, and more so that I got to you before anyone else."
Only the day before, she'd fashioned herself as a fraud, not belonging at court, too immature to have a chance at courting such a marvelous man. Yet now, each word he said, each compliment he blew at her, weakened her knees and animated the butterflies.
Once an insignificantlady-in-waiting, she'd began the ascent towards royalty—an ascent she never expectedshe'd even come close to.
•••