Never had Céleste been so unappealed by a steaming plate of breakfast foods. The fluffy eggs, the crunchy bacon, the thick gravy-like sauce dripping from the sausages, nearly overflowing the platter, made her gag.
She groaned as she pushed the porcelain plate away. "No."
"You must eat," said Sébastien, his voice so far, so foreign.
"It is not a crime to fast." She shoved her food farther, holding in the urge to throw it all in the hearth on the other side of the table. "I am not hungry."
His soothing touch brought her to jerk her head sideways to find his darkened eyes narrowing at her. "But you have not eaten since yesterday morning." He was so calm compared to the restlessness in her mind. "Even then, I urged you, and you refused. So you promised me, remember? You said today you would try."
She glared at the sleek strands curtaining his kind face, at his slightly hunched shoulders. He might have acted like nothing affected him, but she wouldn't play along. She wouldn't feign surviving another day at Torrinni court without her best friend.
"I will not."
"Eating will not change what happened yesterday, but—" he seized her fork and dipped it into the eggs, their bright yellow texture jiggling under her nose, "—do these not look scrumptious? Our cooks are the best."
Macarons are scrumptious. I would have eaten those.
Céleste's belly wasn't ready for solid foods. She couldn't swallow Marguerite's disappearance—
"Prudence," she said to herself. "Her name is Prudence."
Sébastien's eyebrows raised as he kept the fork lifted before her mouth. "It is. Now eat."
Reluctantly, and only so Sébastien would stop treating her like a child, she accepted the bite. She chewed as he waited, eyes wide, to make sure she swallowed the food.
Céleste loved him dearly, but since Prudence's departure, he'd watched her like a hawk. He'd had her followed, sent ladies and maids and pages to keep her company, to read her stories, to distract her while he served at Antoine's side.
But nothing had worked. It had only been a day, yet Céleste despised her new life as a future Princess.
It wasn't so much her predicament that bothered her, but that Prudence had rushed head-first into her own without a second thought. Had she been forced? Coaxed? Blackmailed into leaving with her brother, the despicable King Romain?
"Do you think they serve eggs in hell? I mean," she snickered, "in Giroma?"
Sébastien sat up straight, almost spitting out his tea. "Excuse me?"
"Or do they plan to lock her in some high tower and feed her gruel until she marries that foul-mouthed Duke?"
"Céleste." Sébastien set his drink down. "She is not their prisoner." He took her hand and squeezed it. "Of course they serve eggs in Westten."
She spun to him so fast he released her. "But what if she is their prisoner? What if she had no choice and is waiting for us to rescue her?"
"You must trust her," he said, ignoring her scoffing and moving a lock of blonde curls from her forehead. "Romain is her brother. Do you really think he would coerce her? He let her choose, I have no doubt. He is unpleasant, but just."
"And how do you know?" She squinted at him, tightening her forearms to her chest.
He caressed her cheek, his touch sending chills down her spine. "Because I do. I am a Prince of Totresia and these are things I learned as a child. King Romain of Giroma would never harm a family member."
She dropped her arms, lifting her gaze to the intricate golden beams lining the ceiling. "I miss her. I fear for her, so far from me, from you, from... your brother—"
"—do not bring him up." Sébastien growled, the sound low and threatening in his throat. He retrieved his cup and swirled its liquid before gulping it all down. Céleste wrinkled her nose at the hint of liquor in his tea. "He faults himself for her withdrawal from Torrinni, as he should, but I would not worry about them being separated. They need the time apart."
"Fine." She huffed, scowling at the remaining food on her plate. "But why would she... how could she leave us?"
Sébastien hoisted his drink to request another dose. "Do you not trust me?"
"Of course I do." She sniffled, and tears welled in her eyes. "But she was my mentor, my friend, the sister I never had. And she is stuck in a horrid foreign country with a man she does not know and expected to wed a vile thief of a noble whose allegiances are unknown—"
Sébastien clapped his hand over her mouth. "Do not finish that sentence." He peered around the room, eyebrows scrunched. "There may still be Giromians from Romain's entourage lurking about. You must be careful with your words and where you say them."
Once he removed his hand, she pivoted towards the table, snatched her teacup, and drained its unfortunately cold contents.
"Marguerite—" she slammed the cup down with a thud, "—Prudence belongs here. I care not who hears me saying that. She should be here, with us, and with Antoine."
"Céleste—"
She waved him off. "I also do not care that you are mad at him! I am too, but he is her soulmate and always will be, and nothing can change that—"
"—except the fact that he is married." The Prince winced. "Unless you have forgotten about," he cupped a hand around his mouth and leaned closer to her, "that blasted redheaded tyrant he married a few years ago?"
Céleste fought a yelp. "How could I forget? She is always at the heart of all the gossip and terror in this dreaded place."
Sébastien regained his proper seating position as someone set another teacup before him. "Right. Which means Prudence is safer away from here and all that nonsense."
Céleste snorted. "Safer with a twisted brother with a penchant for insults and about to marry a man from a treacherous family?"
Grabbing his cup, Sébastien glowered at her. "Actually, yes. Mother and the Queen... their wrath is stronger. And to be honest, I have a feeling Romain will not complete his sister's union with Cornelius once he finds out how deceitful Terter's ruler is. Turncoats cannot go unpunished in Giroma."
The word turncoat made her shiver. She hadn't heard it often, but her father had muttered it a few times when talking about Duke Cornelius' father, or the former Vidame of Limesdale, Eugene Thatcher.
"Romain may arrange a different marriage for her," said Sébastien, after downing half his cup.
Céleste disliked his alcohol consumption so early in the morning and so out in the open, but deep down, she couldn't blame him. All three Totresian royal brothers had followed this unhealthy pattern since Prudence's dramatic exit, and Céleste had little say in it.
"There are plenty of suitable matches in Giroma. I place my trust in Romain, as strange as that sounds."
Though still uneasy, Céleste relaxed as he slid his fingers between hers. His toothy grin—albeit strained—and his warmth always helped her unwind, if only for a moment. If only to halfway convince herself he was correct, and she needed to move on with her own life.
Perhaps Prudence would write to her, or she could write to Prudence. Why not be friends at a distance? Surely letters didn't take too long to reach Giroma.
She focused on the family portrait above the fireplace; the one that showed Marguerite, with her golden blonde waves and her hearty smile. That same girl was now Prudence, a Giromian Princess betrayed by those who had raised her, lied to by those who'd claimed to love her.
How things had changed since Céleste had discovered her The Golden Girl book was true.
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