A throbbing, stinging pain roused Céleste from a fitful sleep. Her scalp felt like someone had scraped it off with a razor-blade, and her temples pounded like hammers breaking her bones.
She blinked at the stream of sunlight peeping through a slit in her curtains.
She groaned—then someone else groaned beside her.
"What?" She peeled off the mattress and gawked at the person, breathing in a slow, steady rhythm. Still asleep, despite the rumbling in her throat, as if complaining of Céleste's abruptness. "She slept here?"
Marguerite's golden locks lounged over the pillow, and parts of her navy gown protruded from the covers, dangling onto the floor. She looked so peaceful, so unaffected.
At the sight of the tear-stains streaking down her cheeks, Céleste's memory jogged.
Romain stealing Adelaide... Jules stealing the throne... the Duke taking Marguerite—Maggie!
Another sharp pang thrummed at her temples, and she stared at her nightstand, wishing she had water. Why hadn't she prepared for the agony she'd endure after a night of copious drinking?
As if someone had read her thoughts, her bedroom door opened, and Johanna slipped in, humming as she carried a tray of food. Her gray eyes widened at the vision of Céleste and Marguerite in the same bed.
"Miss Richel?" She tiptoed forward, the tray trembling in her grasp.
Céleste lept over Marguerite's body to land on the ground with a cringe. She pressed a finger to her lips. "Do not wake her!"
Though shock wrote all over her expression, Johanna set the tray of eggs, ham, a slushy-looking porridge, and a steaming cup of tea on the vanity table. "What happened?"
Céleste waved Johanna to the door. "She... we had a long night. Many developments." She spun to glimpse Marguerite. "Would you fetch her breakfast, too?"
Johanna's face reddened. "I already dropped hers off and wondered where she was. It is in her room, I will get it."
Céleste had seconds to catch her balance before Johanna returned and slid Marguerite's tray next to hers.
"Thank you, Johanna," she said, swiping some sweat from her forehead.
"Did she..." Johanna joined Céleste near the door once more, "did she tell you why she was so distraught that she would not sleep in her own bed?"
"She did, but I am unsure if she wishes to speak of it yet." Tipping her chin down, Céleste realized she'd slept in her marvelous gown; and that the seamstress still needed to re-alter it for the Masquerade. "Wait. Before you go—" she skidded to her armoire, extracted the first outfit she found, and snuck behind her changing panel. "Would you," she threw the silky white threads over the top of the shift after stepping out of them, "deliver this to the seamstress? She knows what to do with it."
It took a few moments for Johanna to react, but soon Céleste saw her tug off the dress. "Of course."
Céleste loosened her corset and released a lengthy breath as the pounding in her skull lessened while her waist and chest relaxed.
How did I sleep in this?
The door closed; Johanna had left.
Once Céleste had shimmied into her day-wear, she moved to the bed and perched on the edge beside Marguerite.
Her golden strands encased her delicate features; so at ease, so tranquil, it pained Céleste to wake her.
She rubbed the Director's shoulder, and almost at once, the woman's bloodshot turquoise eyes wrenched open.
"What... what is..." Her gaze landed on Céleste. "Where am I?" Her voice was groggy as she licked her lips and swallowed.
"My room," said Céleste. "Do you remember? Last night?"
Wincing, Marguerite hauled herself from her lying position and hung her legs over the side of the bed. She bent over and placed her head in her lap. "How could I forget?" She emitted something that sounded like a snort. "I am surprised you do. You were bathed in alcohol."
Céleste ignored the jape. "Johanna brought us breakfast." She rose and marched towards the meals. The egg scent wafted into her nose and, having not eaten much the night before, her stomach grumbled.
Marguerite lifted her head enough to gape in the food's direction. "Coffee?" She sniffed. "Coffee. That is all I want."
Johanna wouldn't dare omit that, and Céleste smiled as she approached Marguerite's tray and smelled the rich beverage with its hints of cinnamon. She plucked the cup of dark, tar-like substance and brought it to Marguerite, who snatched it with fervor.
The Director breathed in the steam and took a sip, not once twitching at the scalding liquid. "The girls?" She sipped again. "Did Johanna check on them?"
"I did not ask." Again, Céleste's memory jolted. "Speaking of the girls... we have another problem I have to tell you about. I was too frazzled before, but..."
"Speak," said Marguerite, keeping the rim of the cup against her lips.
"The Vidame of Limesdale has his sights set on Julia." Marguerite's eyes narrowed then widened, and her unkempt eyebrows swished up. "Harriet... she held him off, but he introduced himself to Julia, as we were retiring, and she... Harriet told me to warn you."
"Of course." Marguerite's grip around the cup tightened. "He is part of all this, of course. Romain will marry Adelaide and pass Julia on to someone else; someone he paid to aid in all sorts of shady dealings. Julia is Sir Thatcher's price for..." Clutching the mug with one hand, she massaged the corners of her forehead with the other. "And Harriet told you to warn me because she knows. She knows. Oh, I was right. We must lie low."
"But why? You, perhaps; but me? I am not in danger, am I?"
Marguerite stood and brushed past her. "If you associate with me, you are." After a few steps to the adjoining door, she pivoted and frowned. "I will handle this. Thatcher will not touch a hair on Julia's body, I swear it."
"Can I help?" Céleste made a move to follow her, but Marguerite flicked her wrist in dismissal.
"No. Stay out of this. Until I come to you." Marguerite entered her room.
Now what?
***
Most of the day, Céleste overheard Johanna coming and going, bringing books and documents to Marguerite. Delivering whispered messages Céleste couldn't decipher, even when gluing her ear to the adjacent door to listen.
She once slipped in when Marguerite was elsewhere and gasped. Empty coffee cups piled up on her nightstand, heaps of opened tomes littered the tea-table, notes scrunched on the vanity. There were half-eaten meals on her bedspread, used handkerchiefs on the floor, and the curtains were closed. The air was so stuffy, Céleste coughed. It had been half a day of seclusion, yet Marguerite's room looked like she'd sheltered herself for weeks.
Marguerite returned to find her snooping, and threw her in her own chambers; and locked the adjoining door.
Céleste had tea with Sébastien later that day. When she tried to ask questions, to discuss the situation, he shushed her.
"We cannot be so open about this," he whispered, his teacup up to his mouth, muffling his speech. "I am glad she filled you in on everything, but we cannot show how much you are aware of, not in public."
That evening, she caught a piece of a conversation between Johanna and Marguerite. Something about a storm coming, a poison brewing. Nobles from around the country were arriving—those on the council who didn't reside at court. They were pouring in, taking rooms upstairs, some staying in the city.
Johanna had sounded perplexed. "What does it mean, Miss?"
Marguerite's timbre was firm, frightening. "It means a meeting. A big one. A vote."
Heart thumping in her rib-cage, Céleste pried from the door at that point and hurried to her vanity to write a message to her brother. Desperate for news, intelligence; anything to help.
He never wrote back.
The next day, December nineteenth, Céleste coaxed some information out of Johanna.
"Julia only meets with Romain, if he summons her, which—" she teetered at the threshold of Céleste's room, "—he has. Maintaining appearances."
"But no sightings of the Vidame?"
Johanna recoiled. "No. I keep a strict watch on her, and when not with Romain, she is in her chamber. Safe."
The following day, as Céleste applied a final touch of powder to her nose—though she had no plans to go anywhere—Marguerite billowed through the adjoining door. A light brown gown clung to her slender figure, and her hair was wild, waving behind her.
"Céleste."
"What is it?" Céleste jumped up, one palm smacking to her chest.
Marguerite caught her wrist and dragged her into her chambers. "Harriet is coming to talk with me. You must be there. A witness, if you will." She motioned at Céleste to sit at the vanity. "I struggled to get a letter to her, wary her father would intercept it. But with all of Totresia at court, he is occupied."
A few instants later, a knock signaled the Vidame's daughter's arrival. Marguerite heaved the girl inside.
"Miss M.?" Harriet's expression was fearful and her shoulders tight, nervous. She saw Céleste and squinted. "What is wrong?" Her strawberry curls were tangled and tumbling down her back, swirling under the folds of her silky beige dress. The flames in the nearby hearth illuminated her distraught face. "Did Céleste deliver my warnings to you? About Julia and Father?"
"Yes." Marguerite lowered into a couch and waved at Harriet to join her. "He will not marry her, you have my word. I have my handmaiden surveying Julia's every move and ensuring none of your father or his goons loiter around her."
Harriet swallowed a visible lump in her throat. "Good. He has been less than discreet, and it worries me."
"Is it worse than you speculated?" Marguerite took the girl's hand in hers and squeezed.
"He is watching me, Miss M. And... so is the Dowager."
Céleste clapped her hands over her mouth to cover her squeal.
Unaffected—or used to Céleste's squirms—Marguerite focused on Harriet. "Clémentine is watching you?" Her nostrils flared. "I always figured you tied into her schemes somehow. She wanted you at court; it was an order she gave me."
"Yes." Harriet peered into her lap. "Because Father and she have some sort of bargain. She warned me, seconds before you met with us contenders at the Academy. She told me I would go to court. I know little of whatever their agreements are, but the Dowager, who despises my father, works with my father."
A striking silence swept through the room. Céleste grasped the edges of the chair as if letting go would mean death. Harriet refused to look anywhere but at the fabric she twirled around her fingers. Marguerite glared at the fireplace.
"For how long?" said the latter, finally.
Harriet shrugged. "Unsure. I only had suspicions of it in my last semester at the Academy."
"And what do they scheme together, do you know?" Marguerite's words were hisses through her clenched teeth.
Shivers ran down Céleste's spine.
"I do not," said Harriet, hunching over, her elbows propped on her thighs. "But the timing... the nobles arriving, the tension... Father mentioned in passing something about work to do. About some vote the Dowager planned to initiate soon."
"Vote?" Marguerite shot up from the sofa, her gaze trained on Céleste.
Céleste got up too, though lacking the same confidence, her legs unsteady. "Is he... Harriet," she wobbled over, "is he involved in this vote?"
Harriet raked her nails through her hair. "He has met with many nobles arriving in secret, I think. So... maybe?"
Marguerite and Céleste again peeped at one another. "Bribery," they said at the same time.
"Bribery?" Harriet's chin perked up. "He did let slip something about a rebellious act. Is that..." Her eyes rounded. "Is that the vote? A rebellious vote? And my father is behind the scenes, changing the outcome of it all?"
Marguerite stomped back and forth by the sitting area, and Céleste's blood turned to frost, sending her into a fit of shudders.
"Did you say anything to him?" Marguerite seethed, and every other breath seemed to transform to smoke.
Harriet shook her head. "You mean defy him? He has already ruined our family name and my future; nothing I say would persuade him to stop." She sniffled.
"Is Sir Richel here? Sir Richel Senior?" asked Céleste, a pinch of fear lingering in the rear of her mind. "Did he come for this vote, too?"
If Father is here, I might be able to communicate with him, since Emeric will not reply.
"No," said Harriet, rubbing her upper arms as she sat up straight. "Your brother is here in his stead; he did not need to travel. Same with Julia's father, since he has Axel."
"Your brother would never vote against Antoine, I vow it." Marguerite's paces stopped with a whoosh. "Axel will follow him, I am sure. And Séb. But those are the only three I am certain will fight this rebellious act. I cannot even be positive about Jules. And who knows what Sir Thatcher and the Dowager and whoever else works with them might do to sway the reticent ones." She brought a fist to her mouth and bit down on it.
Harriet blinked at her Director. "Is there anything I can fix? This is my fault, I should have stopped him—"
Marguerite whirled to the girl's side and pulled her into an embrace. "No. You are not responsible for his actions, I have told you this before. You had little certainty about his behavior, and I do not blame you."
"But what do we do, Marg—Miss M.?" Céleste bit her tongue, angry at herself for almost outing Marguerite's true name yet again. "None of us can get into that meeting and warn them. And if Harriet tries to delay her father..."
"He will harm her,yes." Marguerite tapped her chin and wandered to her vanity. She extracted aparchment from a drawer and grabbed her quill, caressing her lips with theebony feather. "So I must do something now. Something I cannot come back from.It is perilous. Some might say stupid." She went to her bed and sat, grippingthe paper in one hand, her quill in the other. "Leave me, girls. I am going tofix this, and I ask you both to forgive me in advance. This will not endpretty."
•••