Céleste's abdomen tightened as a wave of nausea navigated up her throat.
Why did I drink all that wine?
She wasn't the only person affected by the easy access to strong liqueurs and bubbly beverages. Many had already fallen prey to the dangers of drinking, and it showed. They traipsed about the room like no one watched them, guffawing at one another, dancing too close, stuffing their faces with food to drown the effects. If Céleste were sober, it would have disgusted her.
But she was one of them.
The crowd of nobles had thinned while she stood in a daze. They stumbled to the doors, bade drunken farewells to friends and foes alike, as the orchestra played in the background.
From the corner of her blurred vision, she caught the Giromian King kissing Julia's knuckles, sending swarms of redness up her cheeks. Then he marched to the dais and spoke to the Dowager, before bowing and departing with the inebriated party-goers.
A few lingered on the dance-floor; the newer courtiers who drank too much but lost their chaperones. The lower-bred ones clustered near the windows, in awe at such a spectacular view, still unsure how they secured an invitation.
It was a stunning set-up. Shimmers all over, decadent delicacies, overflowing drinks—
Overflowing.
The word nearly drove her to burst, but two foggy figures appeared before her, halting her sickness from spilling to the floor.
"Céleste?" The voice was too buoyant. Esther. "Are you all right? You look pallid."
Céleste sucked in a breath to steady her queasiness. "Uh... I..." She smacked a hand to her forehead. "No, no, I am not."
"Heavens," the second figure said, her hair like twinkling tangerines, her tone leveled but stern—Harriet. "She had too much to drink."
Too embarrassed to confirm, Céleste sulked against the buffet table.
"This will not do. You are a contender now. We must get you upstairs before you bring shame to your name," whispered Esther, slipping one arm under Céleste's. Harriet grabbed her other, but remained silent.
"Should we not wait for the others?" Céleste fought hazy images of Cristina and Axel swirling on the dance-floor, of Charlotte and Jules exchanging slobbery kisses—though she wasn't sure they had kissed, now that she thought of it.
"Miss M. will round them up." Harriet peered about the area. "Where is Miss M.?"
"I detected her sneaking out. She likely needed some reprieve from," Esther waved about her, "all this. And those Giromians... I should have taken Emeric's example and not attended."
"Wait!" Another individual joined their trio. Upon narrowing her gaze, Céleste recognized Julia in her blue and gray garb. "Are you leaving? I should go, too. The King retired, so..."
Esther turned her nose up and dragged Céleste out of the way, but Harriet motioned to the exit where they were headed.
As they scurried along, they side-stepped girls staring at well-dressed men by the dais. They squished between a woman screaming at her husband—something about sneaking a peek under someone's skirts—and past a puddle of suspicious liquid.
Julia took the lead, Harriet on her heels. Céleste struggled to not stumble over her own shoes, forcing Esther to slow her pace.
"Did you see Charlotte and the Prince?" Julia scoffed. "Half her décolleté was spilling from her bodice when I spotted them earlier. So disgraceful. Her father will not appreciate that."
Harriet glared at her. "Is Charlotte not your friend?" She slid out into the corridor, and the lighter, fresher air whipped through her strawberry curls.
Shrugging, Julia passed over the threshold next. "Not anymore. Not after... well, anyway, her attitude is atrocious. Shamelessly flirting in the public eye like that? Horrifying."
Preferring to keep her mouth closed to conceal the results of her drinking, Céleste only nodded. Far from the overwhelming hovering guests, her thoughts cleared a little. No longer smelling their intoxicating perfumes mixed with sweat, her lungs expanded.
In silence, they meandered down the East Wing, cruised through the King's Corridor, and erupted into the Entryway. A few loitering nobles were in deep discussion by the giant doors, where the guards watched with caution.
One of the men detached from the group and sashayed over to them, halting in front of Harriet. In her state, it took Céleste a bit to recognize him—but she figured it out. Towering, terrifying—it was Harriet's father.
His bushy pepper brows arched, and his graying mustache twitched as he snatched Harriet's upper arm. "Leaving so soon?"
Harriet hung her head, trying to tug him away from the girls. "Not now, Father."
"Did you," he leaned in, his tobacco and wine scent wafting up Céleste's nostrils, "do as I asked?"
"Can we speak of this tomorrow, please?" Harriet's tone was prudent, but she sought to lead him towards the men he'd been conversing with.
Instead, he shoved her aside and parked before Julia. Esther kept Céleste close. "Good evening, ladies," he said, tart and honeyed, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that made Céleste's insides do uncomfortable back-flips.
The veil over her eyes lifted, allowing her to view him better. He wore a burgundy velvet suit, his breeches were too tight, and his coat button was about to break as the fabric stretched over his gut. He wasn't enormous, by any means, but his presence incurred instant fear.
My eyesight chose the worst moment to return.
"I am Sir Eugene Thatcher, Vidame of Limesdale—and you are?" He extended his hand to Julia, ignoring Esther's squeak and Céleste fighting not to gag.
Shoulders tensing, Julia began to give her hand to him. "Julia Espinar, of—"
Harriet swept in and smacked him away. "Tomorrow, Father. Please. We are tired and our feet hurt, and we wish to go to our rooms."
He clutched Harriet's chin, forcing their noses to crash into one another. "Watch your attitude, girl." He then threw her off as he ogled Julia from head-to-toe, his eyes hungry and predatory. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Espinar, and I do hope to see more of you." With that he issued a brief bow and scampered to his associates near the doors.
Esther hauled Céleste over to Julia, like a ruined package she wanted to discard, and seized Harriet's wrist, helping her find her balance. "What was that about?"
Harriet nudged them all to the steps, urging them to climb. "He seeks a bride, remember?" A subtle tremble hid in her otherwise composed voice. "And apparently he likes Julia."
The dark-haired girl seemed to stop breathing, her nose wrinkling in disgust. And though Céleste was the drunken, near-drooling one, she dragged Julia up the stairs.
When they reached Harriet's door, they paused.
"I will take it from here," said Harriet, taking Julia by the hand. "I have to educate her on how to avoid Father's interest at all costs." She cringed. "I dislike you, Julia, but I do not wish his affections on anyone." She began down the opposing corridor, but turned to Céleste. "Tell Miss M. about this, would you? You will see her before I do. She needs to be aware of my father's prowling."
It fell on Esther to accompany Céleste down the other hall to her quarters.
Once they arrived, Esther stuck out her fingers to grasp the door-knob, but Céleste stopped her. "It is all right. I will be fine."
"Are you certain?" Esther glimpsed the area as if worried the walls had ears and the ceiling was formed of shattering glass.
"I am. Mar—Miss M.'s handmaiden can help me get to bed, and I... my head..." Céleste massaged her temples as her scalp seared in pain. "I am fine."
"In that case..." Esther squeezed her shoulder with a weak smile. "Sleep well. And do not forget to tell our Director of Harriet's father."
How could I?
The man's disgusting demeanor would stay with her forever. How he stood close, too close, to Julia. How he studied every curve of her breasts and hips, every inch of her face, licking his lips like one would at a five-tiered cake dripping in chocolate.
Had he acted like that, or was Céleste's woozy imagination getting the best of her? Why would a Vidame seek to take King Romain's promised prize?
With difficulty, she pulled the door from its frame and reeled into her room. She leaned against the wall, lapping in large gulps of oxygen as spots sparkled in her eyes. Someone had ignited her hearth and a soothing heat skidded to her ankles and legs.
She removed her shoes and threw them to the side, pulling out the pins in her hair.
In a few heaving steps, she made it halfway inside as something lurched up her throat, slick and slimy and—
"Céleste?"
The voice, so soft, so troubled, came from her bed. The suddenness of it shocked her insides back into her belly.
"Who is there?" Her senses returned to her as she tiptoed closer, regretting having disposed of her shoes—she could have used them as weapons.
But when she noticed the person curled in a ball on her duvet, curls like molten gold in the firelight, lacy navy threads dangling from her limp arms and shaking legs, Céleste gasped.
"Marguerite?" She whooshed over, ignoring the dizziness flaring up as she dropped beside her Director. "What are you doing here?"
Marguerite sniffled as she hoisted herself into a seated position. The flames showed how her eyes had surrendered their earlier luster, and her cheeks were a mix of rosy rouge and smeared powder. Her gloves and shoes were on the floor, and her tresses fell in messy piles down her shoulders.
"I... I needed—" She buried her face into her knees, rubbing her runny nose all over her silk skirts.
Distraught, Céleste pulled her into a hug, uncertain what would bring the Golden Girl to fall so low.
•••