No matter that Céleste was allowed onto the Royal Floor, and that she'd been there before only days prior, she hesitated as she arrived at the top of the stairs.
In their burgundy suits and their sashes littered with badges, the guards of the second-floor landing always seemed more intimidating than any others.
It wasn't a place for a girl like her to be wandering about—too many masked enemies lurked nearby with sharp eyes, poison on their tongues, and false sympathies in their voices.
She didn't want to be on a mission for someone who had upset her. But Marguerite had begged, and deep down in the depths of her soul, Céleste couldn't lie—she sort of enjoyed the thrill. When she'd heard Sébastien was up in his room—a place she surely wasn't supposed to visit until after their marriage—her heart palpitated with adrenaline.
That adrenaline fizzled off as she immobilized on the final step.
"Miss?" One guard gazed at her, one eyebrow twitching up.
She shook herself. "Ah, uh, yes. Prince Sébastien's suite, please?" She winced, realizing she was seeking him out unescorted.
The guard didn't seem as preoccupied as he pointed. "Straight across the way, Miss."
On the opposite end of the landing, she saw the giant oak door she'd been intrigued about a few days ago. She'd explored little, since a horde of staff-members had scampered up the stairs and she'd seen Marguerite sneaking about with Antoine—
Focus, Céleste!
Her heeled slippers grazed the carpet as she progressed to Sébastien's room. To the right was the hall that would lead to the monarch apartments; and to the left was a smaller, but no less decorated corridor. If she were visiting court with her family, she'd possess quarters here; her father's rooms were somewhere around.
Encasing the door were two soldiers who eyed her with caution, bracing to bar her from entering. She stopped a few feet before them and gripped the edges of her skirts.
"I am Céleste Richel, His Highness Prince Sébastien's betrothed." Her voice croaked. "Is he inside?"
Both nodded, sliding aside to allow her to pass. But she was rooted to the floor, heartbeat thrumming in her ears, fearful Sébastien would scold her improper behavior. They'd never met without a chaperone hovering in the distance, and to pry into his private chambers seemed intrusive, even for her.
When she finally unglued her feet from the ground, she barely made it a few steps when muffled voices slithered through the cracks and under the dents in the bottom of the door.
The first voice was familiar, though she hadn't been around it much of late. "—yes, it is fabricated, but to be certain, is there any way? Have you—" It was spicy and sweet all at once, a hint of high notes to it, a touch of masculine pride.
Prince Jules?
"—no, impossible." The grunt that barreled under the door was one Céleste had witnessed many times—King Antoine. "It has not happened in several months, I swear it. That woman..."
Céleste gulped, her sense of intrusion worsening. She sought to turn away, to run off; and yet her curiosity tugged her closer to the door, to stick her ear against it. The guards didn't object, though they regarded her with curiosity.
But there was one more person she hadn't heard speak... and this was his room.
"Right, so how can we prove that without framing Maggie? How can we embarrass the Queen and force her to cough up the truth?"
There it was; the subtle, sultry yet somber tone of her fiancé, sounding less agitated than the other two.
She leaned harder against the door, uncaring that the soldiers likely looked at her as if she were insane. She felt it; she was an eavesdropping mess of a girl frantic for answers and too afraid to barge in and obtain them.
"We cannot, because Mother holds the cards." Jules' tone turned softer. "I no longer want to help her hold them. I have had enough, and I said as much to Maggie. I mean it."
"So it is not Adelaide we must coax into divulging the truth; it is Mother. She is the one wishing to rid Totresia of Maggie. More so after all this. And I cannot participate in that. She means too much to me." Jules' timbre crackled. "Mother wants to manipulate me into ruling, into throwing her out, but I refuse."
Céleste rested her fingertips against the door, to stabilize herself before she slid to the floor. Out of trepidation, shock, confusion, she had no clue; but she had to stay strong, to concentrate on their conversation.
"Yes, well, I am sorry, brother, but that might be unwise," said Sébastien, ever the level-headed and logical sibling. "You might have to keep playing a role, for the moment, at least."
King Antoine groaned a garbled agreement.
"Do either of you realize she has been trying for years to evacuate Marguerite?" Jules became animated again, without a care for how his voice carried out. "Locking her in the Academy was a secondary scheme. She would have given her to the Duke the day after you chose Adelaide, Antoine. If she had not run away, he was in town, waiting."
"What?"
"Excuse me?"
"The Duke was in Torrinni three years ago? She had summoned him?" She recognized Antoine's slowly simmering irritation.
"I only found this out recently," said Jules, lowering his tone once more. "I overheard them talking about how this should have all happened three years ago, and the Academy stint to teach her a lesson had been a waste of time, and everything became too complicated. That was before you banned him from court, Antoine. Now, I cannot begin to imagine what is brewing in that evil mind of his."
"So that is why she needed me to marry Adelaide? Why she manipulated Father into telling me to? So she could ship an eighteen-year-old Totresian Duchess off to Giroma?" More fury fissured into Antoine's timbre.
Céleste's limbs numbed.
Everything is connected...
"Yes. And when she ran, she provoked Mother, who did not believe she was mature enough to marry, to maintain the union with Terter. So she sealed her up, or so that is how I understood it." Jules' voice faded out, as Céleste's brain continued to fog over.
Marguerite had no idea about any of that, did she? It didn't explain why Clémentine had such a grudge against her, but it proved how long and with how much determination she'd been conspiring. How had it gotten to this? How did the woman once described as a caring Queen turn into such a conniving, back-stabbing culprit?
"... and this is huge. So why come forward?" Sébastien's comments lulled her from her semi-faint spell. "Why did it take you so long to feel guilty, to run to your brothers with this solid information?" He'd lost his composure, she could tell; he sounded the same as he had the night of the pregnancy announcement dinner.
"Because Mother owns me. At least, she did. It took me a bit to realize it, but you have the power, Antoine, not her. While you are King, all her threats are pointless." She imagined Jules' usual airs of poise and pride melting. "I must admit, the appeal of a bigger crown, of more recognition, of more lee-way with my activities..."
Someone scoffed; Céleste assumed Antoine, as he spoke next. "More lee-way? Do you have any idea how much a King is watched? There is no lee-way. Look at me—I had two guards escort Marguerite to my room in the utmost secrecy, and still someone found out and leaked the information! Your nightly activities, your drinking and gambling habits would have been scrutinized day in and day out."
"Ha, but Mother would have done most of the ruling," said Sébastien, a certain unfamiliar spite to his words. "She would have been in the public eye, as she wanted. Jules would only be a little boy sitting on a big throne—"
"—which was enticing to me!" Someone stomped, and Céleste pictured Jules about to lose his temper. "The title without the overbearing duties? And the conditions, the things she told me, the things she knew... things not even you are aware of, Antoine. She used those things to sway me, fabricated pretty words she was persuaded would seduce me." If he'd been enraged seconds before, Jules no longer harbored any anger in his tone. If anything, it sounded deflated. "At first she promised I would have my pick of the ladies, too. I could marry who I preferred. But she refused Frances. That is when I should have walked away, but..."
"Wait," Antoine chortled, "you are telling us you did not want Miss Geitz?"
"What?"
A heavy silence plagued all three siblings, before Jules finally spoke up again. "She was not my first choice. Not even my second, to be truthful, but I soon saw her appeal. She is mature despite how she carries herself in front of others. And she provided me with all the gossip strewn about at court, which helped me reach this decision: to slip from Mother's grasp before she squeezes me to death."
Céleste's feet almost slipped out from beneath her.
Charlotte was the one feeding intelligence to Jules? And I had thought it was the other way around...
She hadn't wanted it to be true, but Dowager Clémentine craved to be Queen again, through her son. She yearned for power, for authority, for the status she'd lost prematurely when her husband died.
Céleste banged on the door, furious at herself for not seeing it, for not listening to Marguerite. Furious that Sébastien had been correct, that Marguerite did have the most accurate hunches, that she was a mistress but still the only decent person at court—
The door pried open, and she gasped, realizing she'd accidentally announced her presence. All the voices within had ceased speaking, and Sébastien stood before her, hair wild and tangled, gaze alert as he scanned her.
"Céleste?" He fought to fix his mouth into a smile, but all he managed was a lopsided cringe. "Now is not a good time."
Too late to pretend like I was not taking note of all they said.
She curtsied. "Oh, I am aware, I heard it all."
He appeared to have trouble figuring out what to do with his arms, so she took advantage of his confusion and immersed herself into the room.
As she wandered in, she fawned at the gray and teal color scheme, so clean, so pristine. She spotted polished furniture and masterpieces hanging from walls, decadent cushions and luxuriously padded seats, and swooned.
Then she found Antoine, his expression grim and shocked all at once; and Jules, lowered into a defensive stance, eyebrows furrowing.
"Miss Richel?" Antoine's backside had indented into the teal bedspread as he sat up straight.
She dipped into a curtsy for him. "Majesty," then flipped to Jules, "Highness. Please forgive the suddenness of my arrival, but you three are awfully loud!"
Antoine's jaw snapped shut and he peered at his shoes in shame.
Jules, however, guffawed. "You are quite bold, Miss Richel. Sébastien was right—"
"—hush," intervened Sébastien, whisking up to Céleste's side. He took her hand, prompting her to look at him. "But what... uh... are you doing here?"
She folded her arms as she switched her vision to Jules. "Him. Maggie sent me to inquire if he was trustworthy or not."
Antoine got to his feet, and Jules arched up into a more proper position. "Me?"
"You met with her," said Céleste, taking a stride towards him. "She was uncertain how to digest all your confessions."
"I think you will find that he is trustworthy, Miss Richel," said Antoine, dragging his fingers through his hair.
"Right. More so now that I have overheard all you discussed. And I might be of assistance in all this." She bit her tongue, screamed at herself internally to stop before she plunged into the theatrics she so wanted to avoid; but it was too late. "I can speak on Marguerite's behalf, since she cannot be here with us."
"Ah, and where is she?" King Antoine's fingers fumbled through his mane once more, this time hastier, his upper lip twitching.
Should I tell them? What if someone else is listening?
"I am not sure, but she could not risk visiting any of you in such a situation."
Jules leaned against one of the bed's pillars. "Fine. So how can you help, Miss Richel?
Sweat clustered over her forehead, and waves of regret crashed into her gut. She had thought none of it through, hadn't meant to make herself known. Had she tiptoed away and returned to the comfort of her room and waited for Marguerite, they might have brainstormed, formulated, figured things out—
But she was on her own. She had to get out of this situation... or assume it.
"You are lacking a feminine piece of your plan. Princess Cordelia is tied up in her role as your mother's puppet, but I am not. I could make more of an effort to engage in daily lady activities, request access to the Queen's Solar, dig deeper. And befriend Charlotte, as I have started to do."
"Are you sure?" Sébastien's arm grazed against hers, his fingertips about to take hold of her. "You nearly choked on your breakfast when I asked you to get closer to her, to get knowledge on Jules—"
Jules snorted. "What?"
Antoine nudged him. "Hush, let them speak. I am interested."
Sébastien grabbed Céleste's wrist and turned her to him. "Adelaide and Mother are millions of times worse than Charlotte. Do you see yourself up to such a task?"
"If it means we get rid of them, and when I am Princess, I will not have to deal with them..." She huffed, a few strands of loose hair whipping up her forehead, sticking to her sweaty skin. "Then yes. One last undercover mission to save Marguerite, and then I am done. No more schemes. And you—" she yanked Sébastien closer and linked her gaze with his, as stern as she could muster, "should stay out of it all too."
"You are angry with Marguerite?" Antoine's tentative, trembling tone drew her from her staring contest with Sébastien.
"Yes," she said, trying not to snarl at the King of Totresia, "and at you, too. But you are not my friend. She is. I do not wish her harm, but I am sick of her nose sticking into every sordid affair at court, and sick of being dragged down with her." Her fists balled up; she was uneasy about such bluntness in the presence of three people who had grown up with Marguerite, who loved her despite her flaws.
An eerie, discomfortingquiet took over them all as they sat, sullen and sulking as they realized theheaviness of their tasks ahead.
•••