Despite having lingered in the Winter Garden long after Antoine left, and getting into bed much later than customary, Céleste couldn't sleep past seven o'clock the next day.
As she stared at the clock, she yawned, stretched, and prayed for a day of rest; with no surprises from her father, no secret conversations with the King, no forced tea dates with Charlotte.
The cold wooden floor sent a chill up her legs as she put on her night-robe and walked to her armoire. Before she made it a few feet from her mattress, she noticed something on the ground in front of her door.
She tiptoed closer and found a folded parchment with a glimmering stamp atop it—and frowned.
"No. No summons. I am not in the mood."
She snatched the note and huffed at the sight of the royal seal as she unrolled the paper.
Dearest Céleste Richel,
It would honor me greatly if you joined me for breakfast today, in the Dining Room, at eight-thirty.
Sincerely,
Her Majesty, Queen Adelaide of Totresia
She grunted as she set the letter on her coffee table and plopped into one of the chairs. "It is unlike our dear Queen to be so to the point. What does she have up her sleeve this time?" She rubbed her forehead. "What would she want with me?"
Being in the Queen's presence was never pleasant. Céleste remembered Prudence's anxiety whenever she had to meet with Adelaide, and grimaced as the same sentiment filled her with dread.
Still boiling from her father's request, Céleste hastened to get dressed, opting for a baby blue gown that would radiate innocence and hopefully calm; one never knew what mood the Queen would be in. She pulled her curls up halfway and puffed them for volume before pinching her cheeks for color. After slipping into some comfortable shoes, she shrugged on a pair of white gloves and took off.
Her dread worsened the closer she got to the Dining Room. For an instant she debated running outside or hiding in the Winter Garden and wasting time until the Queen sent someone to drag her to their meeting. Yet her feet carried her without fail to the location, and she took a deep breath before pushing the doors open.
Inside, a flock of ladies hovered at the end of the table, whispering amongst themselves while sipping on tea. The Queen sat at her dinner throne, draped in crimson, her skin paler than usual, her shoulders hunched. She seemed elsewhere, unaffected by her ladies and their chatter, staring into her cup with little enthusiasm.
Céleste sucked in her belly and proceeded onward. As she neared the crew of women attending to Adelaide, she smelled a trap. But Adelaide spotted her and perked up, meaning it was too late to turn tail and return to her room.
"Miss Richel!" The Queen shot to her feet, and her hair, usually piled atop her head, flew loose over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes weren't cold as usual, but lacked emotion, near lifeless. "You came!"
Céleste curtsied, gritting her teeth. "Why would I turn down the invitation, Majesty?"
Adelaide waved her ladies off. "Leave us." She beckoned Céleste closer, to the same spot she'd occupied on the night of the contestant dinner. "Sit with me, dear Miss Richel."
As the ladies vacated the area, Céleste strode over and took her seat. "It is a pleasure to join you, Your Majesty."
She tried her hardest not to cringe at the overly curt tone her voice took, as everything but pleasure coursed in her body at that moment. She felt disgust, pain, and an eerie sort of sympathy; did the Queen have any clue her husband plotted to renounce their union and throw her out of court?
"I must apologize, Céleste." The Queen gasped as she dropped into her seat. "May I call you Céleste?" Céleste nodded. "Thank you. Yes, so I must apologize." She watched as a butler poured hot water into her cup. "For all the plots I was recently involved in."
Céleste caught herself before she chuckled, and chewed on the insides of her cheeks as the butler filled her mug. A lavender scent slithered into her nostrils and she rummaged through her brain for what to say. Feign indifference? Deny the Queen's involvement? Be upfront and confess she'd always known of her schemes, thanks to Prudence?
Before she could decide, Adelaide shifted about in her chair and sighed. "It was unbecoming of me to fall prey to such games. Childish tricks concocted by someone else... I should have known better. My father raised me to be smarter. To be a French lady with class and tact and morality." Her voice was so stiff and mechanical, it sounded rehearsed.
Had someone told the Queen to issue this plea? Had someone threatened her?
"I must inform you, as I will with all other nobles, that I am not with child, as I once claimed." Her tone trembled, and she bunched her lips as if to stop herself from crying, though not a single tear seemed to clog her lash-line. She peered down at her belly, then straightened up and grabbed her teacup. "Which is perhaps for the best. Though I daresay I am not to blame for this situation."
Céleste almost released her mug onto the ground. Her eyebrows raised towards the ceiling, picking up on the Queen's undertone—on her hint that Antoine had been unable to conceive, not her. That, or she was expressing distaste at how little her husband shared her bed. Céleste didn't want to dig deeper, unwilling to be thrust in the middle of their marital spat.
Adelaide batted her lashes and pouted. "Forgive me, as it is difficult to let go of grudges." She scanned Céleste's expression, searching for a reaction. It was a gesture so reminiscent of the contender dinner, Céleste wondered if she was asleep and dreaming of this meeting. "Grudges I hope you will not keep against me once you become Princess."
Céleste's jaw slid downwards. Her breaths were rapid, her pulse quickened, and she had no clue what to do. Scream? Laugh? Scowl? Or get up and walk away?
Adelaide spoke as if she'd forgotten about all the hurt she'd caused. She had the audacity to ask that Céleste move on past her transgressions, her cruelty, her backstabbing, and her plans with the Dowager?
Céleste gulped, praying the fountain of insults she wanted to hurl out wouldn't escape. "I see. Well, Majesty, I will do my best to—"
"—oh, stop the act." Adelaide seized her napkin from her lap and slapped it onto the table. "I am well aware—as is everyone in this kingdom, it seems—that my marriage is on the verge of being annulled, and no one gives a damn about me or my apologies."
Céleste stilled, feeling as a fish out of water, desperate for air.
"I am to lose my crown and all that my father planned out for me, but I refuse to lose my dignity!" Adelaide set her hands on the edge of the table and winced. "Your public forgiveness... yours, of all the nobles, thanks to your father's status in the eyes of the crown... would mean everything."
As her legs shook beneath the table, Céleste sensed sweat developing at her temples, about to skid down to her chin. Her head throbbed, and her core clenched, cutting off her breathing.
"How... why..." She clasped her hands, hoping to calm herself, to lessen her flaring anger. "You want me to... out loud... in front of all... pardon you?" It took every ounce of her energy not to reach across the way and slap Adelaide. Or spit at her. Punch her until her skin turned black and blue.
After her betrayal of Maggie? Her lies? Her decisions behind Antoine's, Edouard's, and Totresia's backs?
She had a craving to yell out Charlotte's choice words from the day before—French traitor. Scum. Does not belong here. But what would the ever proper Charlotte, also a future Princess, do in this predicament? Céleste would never use her as an example, but she had poise. Courtesy, courage, and daring. Would she smack the Queen and tell her to shove something up her behind? Or would she nod, accept—even if it was a lie—and forgive?
"Céleste?" The Queen's tart tone broke Céleste's trance. "Are you all right?"
Unclasping her hands, Céleste inhaled and exhaled before glimpsing the Queen. "I am." She'd nod, she'd accept—but she had no intention of forgiving. "I shall think on this public pardon, Your Majesty." Her timbre was strained, and she feared smoke would soon whistle out her ears and wrap around her head from holding in her rage. "I appreciate your honesty. And I wish you good fortune."
The Queen squinted, then shrugged and returned her napkin to her lap. "I suppose that will do, for now." She snapped, and a butler raced over. "Le petit-déjeuner pour la Mademoiselle et moi, s'il vous plaît." The man acquiesced and scurried off. Adelaide leaned back in her seat, releasing her tension. "With that settled... we may both relax, yes?"
Unsure how to relax in such a horrid woman's presence, Céleste issued a polite smile. "What will breakfast be, Your Majesty?"
Adelaide fixed a stray strand of her scarlet locks, then grasped her teacup, bringing it to her plump lips. "I do not know, but I hope for my last days as Queen that they serve me their best. That is all that matters." Her nostrils flared. "For my last days as Queen of Totresia, that is. Because at least in all this misery, there is always potential for another crown, no? A feat that would be," she snorted, "divorcing one King to marry another."
Céleste immobilized. Her eyes were ready to drop out of their sockets, and her skin crawled with goosebumps.
Another crown? What is she talking about?
Had Adelaide set her sights even higher? France, Spain, England? Had her father already made different arrangements, having heard from the family that declined to give consent to the marriage annulment? Céleste recalled Sébastien mentioning them; were they communicating with the Lord of Avignon, and waiting for orders from him?
After a few sips of tea, Céleste wished Marguerite—not Prudence—were there to help her weed through the Totresian plots.
Adelaide was up to something... but what? And how to figure it out?
•••