Perhaps it was the glistening fake snow covering the wooden floors of the Ballroom. Or the crowd of aristocrats, hovering about and staring at the dais. Or the bright-colored dresses, the over-decorated drapes, the over-accentuated flakes on the windows.
Something didn't feel right.
Céleste gaped at her father and Sébastien conversing. About what, she wondered? She wasn't sure she'd ever find out.
Her cheeks flushed as they turned to her. Sébastien scrambled onto the podium and cleared his throat; her father clambered to her and tucked her arm under his.
"It is time," he said, taking her closer to the platform.
Halting a few feet from the man who'd set free hordes of butterflies in her gut, she bit her lip to stop her smile from expanding. To calm her nerves, she looked askance.
Duke Cornelius loitered nearby, obscure and calculating as ever, his stance menacing, his bulging arms crossed over his plain brown ensemble. He didn't wear a mask like other attendees and seemed unwilling to speak to anyone. He loomed off to the side, near his King who flirted with Julia; but his gaze zoned in on the main crowd. Something was off about him, too; his aura of cruelty and crudeness had amplified, his attitude awkward and scrutinizing. The usual groupies didn't flock near him while batting their lashes to draw his awareness. He was alone, scanning through the guests, searching, probing—looking for Marguerite?
Before Céleste could whip around to ensure Marguerite was safe from him, her father nudged her, which prompted her to peer up at the podium once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I beg your attention for a few more moments," said Prince Sébastien, silencing the room. He shuffled his feet. "I will follow my brother's example and declare my future betrothed."
She balked at him. A few women nearby whispered as they watched her, in envy or genuine admiration, she wasn't positive.
"To break tradition a smidgen, I wish to ask, in front of all, for her father's blessing to seek her hand in marriage." Sébastien motioned for Sir Richel to step forward.
As he let her go and marched over to the Prince, Emeric took his spot at Céleste's side. Radiant in his khaki suit, he squeezed her upper arm. "You look splendid, sister."
She beamed at him, and both returned their focus to Sébastien, and to Sir Richel bowing before him.
"Sir Barnabé Richel, Marquess of Valeville, esteemed councilor and friend to my father." His tone was firm, though Céleste detected a hint of a tremble in it. "Will you grant me leave to marry your daughter, Miss Céleste Richel?"
The world stopped spinning, but Céleste's head didn't. Her heartbeat raced a million miles a minute, and the butterflies flapped their wings faster and faster, banging into her ribs, flinging themselves against her lungs.
"I will, Your Highness."
"Do you consent to allow her to reside at court to finish her tutoring, so she may learn to become a Princess?" As he spoke, Sébastien linked his gaze with hers.
The winged creatures inside turned savage, so wild they hurt—yet she smiled.
"I do, Your Highness." Sir Richel adjusted his position and spun to beckon Céleste to him.
Her legs locked, her shoes glued to the floor, and she couldn't move.
Emeric tapped her shoulder, urging her forward. "Go!"
Issuing a silent warning to the butterflies to calm down, she forced her limbs to glide up to her father.
She could have sworn she'd sensed her mother's presence; her lavender scent swirling around them, like a subtle and soft encouragement. She murmured in her ear, congratulating her.
"You remind me of her on our wedding day," Sir Richel mumbled as he set a hand on the small of Céleste's back, as if reading her mind. "She would be so proud of you. A proper lady, a future Princess." He side-glanced at her, the corners of his dove eyes crinkling. "Do not disappoint me."
The butterflies died, plopping to the pit of her stomach as if shot by poisoned arrows.
Why must he ruin the moment?
She refocused on the Prince, who descended the steps one at a time, arms swaying at his sides. "And you, Miss Richel; I should ask you if you consent. So do you? Will you be my wife?"
She almost screamed her innermost thoughts—yes, yes, a thousand times yes!—then remembered where she was, and who surrounded her.
"Yes, Your Highness." She curtsied, ignoring her father's judgmental glare. "Nothing would please me more."
The instant Sébastien's hand wrapped around hers to heave her up from her curtsy, the butterflies reanimated, awoken from the dead. His warmth traveled up her arms, and his citrus aroma enveloped her like a cloud of bliss.
"Thank you." He brought her knuckles to his lips and placed a lingering kiss atop them. "You honor me by accepting."
As he twisted her to the crowd, the area filled with claps and cheers. So many pleasant people gawked at her, in awe or jealousy; but the one person that she most needed to see wasn't there.
The Prince appeared to have noticed too, as he led her towards the dance-floor. "Where is Maggie? She was with you earlier, no?"
"In my power as Queen of Totresia, I declare the Masquerade open!" yelled Adelaide in the background, in her tart tone.
The music started—a lively tune Céleste usually enjoyed. "I do not know." She peeked at the buffet, at the sofas, at the windows and patio door—no Duchess draped in vivid scarlet and black lace.
"Odd. Antoine disappeared too. I had hoped he would be there to..."
"... congratulate us," Céleste finished. "I thought the same with Maggie."
As he twirled her, she continued her search, wondering if Marguerite was concealing herself from the Duke on purpose. Céleste scouted the secret exit, the main doors, the orchestra to the right—but nowhere did she uncover the vibrant skirts of her former Director.
She did notice Cornelius approach the podium and wave the Queen to him. His face was beet-red, and his fists were clenched, his spine rigid with tension. Obviously reluctant, fighting a snarl, the Queen came close and leaned forward as he lifted to his tip-toes, muttering into her ear. She grimaced as she pulled away, flicking her wrist at him. He huffed and stormed to the patio doors.
What was that about?
"I had no clue the King had taken off," said Céleste, pressing her cheek to Sébastien's coat. The fabric was smooth, soothing.
"He mentioned before the Ball that he was loath to listen to Jules' proposal." Sébastien's glove slipped up her back, making contact with her bare skin. "But I did not expect him to go. He must have snuck to his Office, or to the Cigar Room for a quick digestif."
"Why does no one seem to care?" She tilted her head to better visualize her dance-partner, but his attention was elsewhere. "The Queen makes announcements in his place, and no one reacts? Tonight and at the Christmas Eve Ball. It makes no sense."
"Antoine is not the focus of these events. It is not his Season. If I had exited, or Jules, that would have caused a scandal." He caught her ogling him, which made his cheeks flare up. "We should not worry. He will come back once he has downed half a bottle of brandy and yelled a few choice words at his paperwork. It is how he unwinds."
"Right... but what about Marguerite?"
"What about her? Maybe she needed air? It is not an easy night for her." Sébastien slowed the pace, holding Céleste close, his heavy breaths whooshing down her décolleté. "We cannot blame her for needing a moment to gather her thoughts."
It is too strange. Too coincidental.
Céleste stopped following the dance's steps and broke free from his embrace. "Do you not see something amiss here? Do you sense no discomfort, no unease?"
"Should I?" He cocked his head, more amused than upset at her abrupt refusal to continue dancing. "I just became engaged to a wonderful young woman; why would I fret?"
She flashed him a weak smile. "And I am beyond joyful myself, but I cannot help it. Something is bugging me."
His smirk faded. "What?"
"Maggie in danger of marrying a foe. The King angry at said potential marriage. The King stomping out under the pretext of not listening to his youngest brother's speech. Maggie vanishing. Do you not..." She blew out her cheeks. "Do you not assume they might be together?"
He blinked, squinted, sucked in his lips. "Well, I..." He slid a finger under his mask to scratch at his lower lash-line. "I admit it is odd."
As more couples poured onto the dance-floor, all within earshot, she dragged him towards the buffet tables. "Did he have a plan?" She snatched a macaron without paying attention to its color and shoved it into her mouth.
Sébastien tucked a few wisps of hair behind his ears. "Not that he told me. He seemed adamant that he had no solution to keep Marguerite in Torrinni. Or even in Totresia."
"And yet," she gagged as she realized the pastry was pistachio flavored, "they are both gone. Strange timing, no?"
"I suppose—" he whirled around at someone raising their voice behind him, near the veranda doors.
Céleste angled sideways to witness who'd caused the commotion. The music muffled most of the argument, but Céleste and Sébastien were close enough to pick up on it.
The Duke.
"... but you let her out! I must locate her. Now!" He shook a fist at one of the guards shielding the veranda doors.
"I did not, Your Grace. She must be inside." The soldier never once flinched at the Duke's grunts and groans.
"Let me out!"
The guard had no reaction, not even looking at the Duke. "By order of the King, no one is to leave until he permits it."
"Where is he, hm? Gone from his own party? Does that not strike you as hypocritical?" Cornelius resembled a spoiled child throwing a tantrum about not getting the biggest piece of pie. His blond waves tumbled over his forehead, slipping into his mouth, and he spat. "I demand to exit!"
"Not until the King allows it, Sir," chimed in the second guard, as unfazed as the first.
Why would King Antoine give such eerie commands?
Dejected—or coming up with a different tactic—Cornelius charged to the other side of the room and sank into a couch behind the platform. A toxic veil of fury seemed to weave around him, in fumes of dreadful charcoal.
Sébastien swerved to look at her, brows shooting up. "What was that spectacle about?"
Céleste was dizzy. Lightheaded. Confused, sick to her stomach, fearing the worst. "He senses a problem. He figured out Maggie was missing, and so is the King, and he is assuming—"
"—that Antoine helped her escape?" Sébastien grabbed the edge of the buffet table and pried off his mask. Lines from the seams had indented into his skin in swirling patterns, and his jaw tightened. "That after nine days of research and discovering nothing, he had a stupid impulse to lure Maggie out to save her?"
Covering her mouth with her hand, she gulped down the bile that had risen up her throat. "What have they done?"
He crunched his mask in his palm. "I am uncertain, but if King Romain gets wind of this, and Mother, Antoine will lose his throne for sure. And Maggie," his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, "I am afraid to think what might happen to her." He loosened his cravat. "We must intercept them before they do something rash. Something they might regret. Because knowing them both, the runaway Duchess and the defiant King... things can turn sour in seconds."
Céleste ripped off hermask. "Yes. Before it is too late."
•••