Marguerite wondered if she'd ever sleep normally again. Not that she had in the past three years; but if only she were allowed a dreamless slumber without visions of her mistakes, or Antoine's gaping at her nakedness as he licked his lips, or Queen Adelaide snarling as she aimed a pistol between her breasts, or Clémentine kicking her to the curb and crowds of courtiers pointing fingers, laughing, leering.
After hours of tossing and turning, she dragged herself from bed to discover it was eight o'clock.
Another image haunting her all night was that of Céleste and her attitude if she were to find out the truth. What would she do? Understand, accept her error, help her do damage control? Or would she shun her?
Marguerite had to see her, gauge her mood, interrogate her to see if she had any suspicions.
"She should be awake by now, since she was in bed so early last night." Focused on the adjoining door, she dressed, weaved her hair into an acceptable chignon, and marched over to the girl's room.
"Céleste? Are you up?" Usually she'd stroll in and drag the curtains apart, but something told her to knock, to wait.
After several knocks and minutes of waiting, she received no response, not a peep from the other side. She jiggled the doorknob and sidled into the suite to discover an empty—but made—bed, a tidy vanity, and the drapes parted to reveal a dreary, gray January sky.
Brows furrowing, Marguerite returned to her room, wondering if Céleste had hastened downstairs for breakfast before her lecture.
As she settled at her vanity to powder her nose, the bedroom door opened, and Johanna arrived. "Good morning, Your Grace," she said, hurrying to deposit a steaming mug of coffee before her.
"Have you seen Céleste today?" Marguerite dabbed thicker layers beneath her charcoal-lined eyes.
Lowering a breakfast tray onto the tea-table, Johanna sighed. "I have not. She asked me to wake her in time for her lessons, but she was already gone when I arrived. And her room," she averted her gaze to the frayed edges of her apron, "was a mess."
"I noticed last night," said Marguerite, recalling the piles of dresses near the window and the products all over the floor. She'd dismissed it, thinking the young girl had been searching for something specific in her things. "What time did you show to wake her?"
Johanna grabbed the doorknob, ready to leave. "A little after seven o'clock."
Marguerite frowned as her serving girl disappeared out into the hallway. An odd hunch prodded at her insides as she recalled the disarray of Céleste's room and her early sneaking out. She rarely got up before eight without help. Something was amiss.
What was she up to? What, or who, would draw her from her suite earlier than usual?
After putting on a pair of comfortable shoes, she zipped out of her quarters and glided to the service stairs for a quicker descent. At the bottom, she whipped over to the Dining Room side-door and peered inside, but didn't spot Céleste.
Doubts growing in her gut, she dashed down to the garden doors. One step outside revealed how freezing it was, and she didn't think Céleste would take a stroll in such weather.
But that reminded her Céleste loved the Winter Garden, so she visited that too... to no avail.
"Where is she?" Marguerite was certain most etiquette courses were later in the morning, and Master Martel's sessions were never held so early.
She checked the Reading Room—deserted.
Then the Library—empty.
Filling her cheeks with air, she stomped by the Art Gallery. "She used to tell me of her daily plans."
She cruised close to the Queen's Solar, bumping into a lady who said she hadn't spotted Céleste at all.
As she resigned to hurry back to her room, Marguerite heard loud chatter and commotion coming from the East Wing. Sliding that way, she detected a line of lower-level nobles and lesser citizens, waiting to enter the Ballroom.
Someone was holding court again, but this time she wouldn't risk it being Clémentine. Antoine had warned her to keep away, and so she would.
Pirouetting back through the Queen's Corridor, then taking a left into the Long Corridor, she made her way to the main doors.
"Has Miss Richel come by here today?" she asked the guards, all of which shook their heads.
With a grunt, she returned to the service stairs, but her stomach grumbled, tempting her to enter the Dining Room. Johanna had delivered her breakfast upstairs, but what if Céleste had now finished her tutoring and was also hungry?
To her surprise, few people were in the Dining Room; which she should have expected, since most were likely in the Ballroom with whoever held court. Only a few girls of an age with Cordelia huddled on one end, and a noble she recognized from Mara, who was reading a battered novel near the hearth.
One more person stood out to her. A youthful ebony-haired man next to the middle of the table, his beige and brown frock coat creasing as he got up, pushed in his chair, and pivoted towards where Marguerite had frozen in her spot.
Sébastien.
She knew he'd seen her when his eyes narrowed and his body language screamed of reluctance, though proper etiquette meant he had to acknowledge her.
"Marguerite." He approached, his walk stiff and stuffy.
"Your Highness," she said, issuing a quick curtsy, not once removing her gaze from his. A shiver skidded down her spine at his coldness, at the way he crossed his arms over his torso like a shield. "It pleases me to see you."
His upper lip twitched as he inclined his head. "Likewise." So polite, so curt. It was unlike him, but she knew why he acted like so.
She masked her disappointment with a brief smile. "Have you seen Céleste?"
With a half-hearted shrug—another uncommon attitude on behalf of the middle Prince—Sébastien scratched his upper arm. "We had a quick meal together not long ago, but she hurried out without finishing her food. She was upset, though she did not say why."
"Upset?" Marguerite stroked her eyebrow, one foot tapping to the ground. "I wonder what is wrong. She has said little to me since yesterday morning."
"Yes, well," the Prince peeked behind her, "friends do not always have to chat with one another and divulge their secrets."
When he refocused on her, his eyes were hard as diamonds, almost as cruel as his mother's. He maintained an unusual distance between them, as if standing too close would infect him.
She remembered his reception of Antoine's announcement. The instant chagrin in his expression, the slumping of his shoulders, the refusal to utter a single word to her.
"Séb—"
He lifted a finger as his lips formed a flat, fierce line. "Save it. I am in no mood to discuss this, and certainly not here. Not when all of this nonsense has changed my fiancée's behavior towards me." He moved that same finger to his chin. "Come to think of it, I believe she had a tutoring session with Cordelia, so I assume she is there now. No clue where it is taking place, though."
She made to touch his arm, but he side-stepped, avoiding her. "Sébastien, please." Keeping her voice low, she clasped her hands near her chest. "Please talk to me. If not here, then let us go elsewhere. Do not hate me."
For a second his mask of indifference melted. "I do not hate you." Almost at once, he slipped on his courteous cover and set his hands behind his back. "But I am not ready to chat about it."
"She did not even tell me her lessons were with Cordelia." Marguerite's hand nestled at the base of her neck as she shifted her weight. "What is happening? Why was she upset? Is she..." She swallowed, sensing a bulge in her throat. "Is she avoiding me?"
He stuffed his hand into his pocket. "How would I be aware? She was distant with me, too."
"Did you tell her?" She tensed, bracing for his answer; if Céleste had found out the truth, had discovered what Marguerite had done, it would explain everything.
"I would never. We all agreed to heed her father's request, did we not? But..." He opened and closed his mouth, winced, and massaged the back of his neck. "That could justify her mood. You know her. I would not put it past her to have figured it out. She would assume I was aware and give me the cold shoulder for not telling her. And avoid you."
"Oh dear." Marguerite sucked in her lips, swallowing again—but this gulp was more painful, more difficult.
"I instructed her to ignore the rumors, but of course she did not." He fidgeted about, all his careful composure dissipating.
"You warned her there were rumors?" Her fists bunched.
"She is a future Princess, taking lessons with my sister." Sébastien scoffed as he set his tight fists to his hips. "Do you truly think she would not have heard them on her own, eventually?"
"Does Cordelia," she jabbed a thumb at herself, "does she believe that it is me?" Uncomfortable tingles jolted to her temples at the idea of the Princess' reaction to such a scandal, and more so at one led on by her beloved Marguerite.
"I doubt it, but if she listens in on Mother's discussions, then she might have an inkling." His firm features softened as he let his arms droop at his sides. "Maggie," she shuddered at him using her nickname, a slither of emotion in his lowered voice, "I am not mad at you. Disappointed is what I am feeling. I am certain your intentions were not to cause all this, but you two still love each other, and that will ruin our country, our family, and you, if you do not address it. Your actions will be detrimental to us all. It is not only you; he also has much to atone for."
Though it elated her to understand the Prince didn't despise her, she clamped her mouth shut, afraid to say something that might change his mind.
"I have to caution you. Some of the noblemen say this is all staged. But I watched you and him together the last few days, and I do not agree. You did do something, I can tell." He flinched and scratched the tip of his nose. "Do not forget the consequences. Aside from Mother and his wife. we do not know who we are dealing with."
"Antoine and I have theories—"
Sébastien gripped her elbow and yanked her close, scowling. "Do not speak his name like that. Too many ears in here."
Shocked—she'd noticed no one of note loitering in the area—Marguerite tried to rip from his grasp, but he tightened it.
"All this is unlike you, unlike him, and I advise you both to find a new alternative, a new arrangement, before it is too late."
She broke free and wrapped a hand around her throbbing elbow. "What alternative? We spent days and days seeking one and came up short, which led us to this. If Antoine—if the King goes back on his warning towards the Duke, if he releases me... what will happen?"
He coughed into his fist. "I do not know. I do not wish for you to leave, but I cannot let my brother lose his position, either. What you have done has given you time, I will grant you that. So use that time to research. Negotiate. You are his advisor now, so advise." Without giving her an opportunity to reply, he scampered off and out of the Dining Room.
She couldn't move. Her lungs filled with oxygen, but she couldn't expel it.
Céleste knows.
Against Sir Richel's wishes, against her own, the girl she saw as her closest friend and understudy was more than certainly aware of what had transpired the night of the Masquerade.
All her earlier worriesabout Céleste's reaction resurfaced as she battled the quaking of her legs andbolted out of the Dining Room.
•••