The next day, Céleste received an invitation to travel into Torrinni City, to explore the town and its potential venues, to inspect the cathedral, to taste local dishes. Prince Jules and Charlotte decided to employ outside help for their wedding meal, as a gesture to the people. Though Céleste admired the intention, she suffered through the entire process.
Charlotte once caught her zoning out the carriage window instead of listening to her babbling about the wedding dress she'd finally found. She yelled—but Céleste talked her way out of the girl's anger by claiming to be stalking the landscapes for perfect places that a painter might paint her royal portrait at. Charlotte liked that idea, and allowed Céleste to remain in her thoughts for the rest of the ride.
Later, in the cathedral, Charlotte barked at an altar boy for more light. Céleste, still stuck in her dreams, knocked over a pillar, which pulled on a string, which brought down a curtain—and Charlotte's requested light blasted in. Céleste had stilled, her jaw dropping, as Charlotte clapped and ordered that that curtain be opened for her ceremony. She had no clue Céleste hadn't meant to help; she was only being her usual clumsy self.
At one of their restaurant tastings, Céleste scarfed down a meat pie too fast, and choked on a massive piece. Instead of screaming at her, Charlotte took it as a sign to not use that cook's services.
The future Princess spent most of the day running over the cobbled streets of Torrinni, hands flapping about with excitement, adrenaline, or anger. Julia was always in her shadow, trying to tame her. Cordelia tagged along, rolling her eyes at every occasion, often linking her arm with Céleste's while whispering under her breath.
All the relentless meandering around the city had one advantage; it tired Céleste so much that that night, she slept better than she had in weeks. She had no haunting memories of Prudence, saw no ghosts of Clémentine, and didn't hear Adelaide's whispers about dashing off to find a new King to terrorize. Nor did she think of her father's cruel letter and its consequences.
When she woke, on January the fifteenth, fresh and rejuvenated, she stretched, and promised herself today would be a good day. No Charlotte meetings were planned, and she had no tedious lessons or events in the evening. Today, she could take care of herself, and what she craved most was to see her betrothed and do her damndest to not divulge Antoine's secret discussions with the military.
She scribbled a note requesting that Sébastien meet her for breakfast or lunch or both, then settled onto her sofa with a sigh. In her silence, her father's words came back to bother her, threatening to dampen her mood. But she'd received no news from him, meaning Antoine's trick of wasting time had worked. For now.
Had Sir Richel figured she'd turn to the King for help? Or had he expected his youngest to heed his every word, never disobey, and be the sweet yet spunky daughter he'd raised?
Céleste had changed while at the Academy. Her first few years she'd been timid, kept to herself, stuck her nose in books; but in her Junior year, thanks to her Golden Girl book, she'd blossomed. She gotten caught reading it, talked back to those who'd punished her, defied Seniors for mocking her... but did her father know any of this? He'd visited over the years, but the professors—and even Prudence—never seemed to apprise him of his daughter's sly transgressions.
"Oh, Father." A part of her ached to be his little girl once more, to accept his orders and do as she was told. But he didn't know Prudence; he didn't understand the bond that had formed between her and Céleste, and how severing it would be detrimental.
Lost in her own mind, Céleste hadn't seen the time fly by until a messenger arrived with Sébastien's reply. But it was not a letter—it was a verbal message.
"He said the military is here, with His Majesty, and he has to be there, to be the voice of reason." The serving girl he'd sent to her stood in the threshold, chin lowered, shoulders slumped. "His Highness has to stay with the King."
Céleste thanked the girl, then closed her door and leaned against it. "Sébastien found out too soon."
She wandered over to her vanity and sat with a huff, focused on her quill, wondering if she should send another note to apologize. Had Antoine told his brother that Céleste was aware of all this? Or had he protected her knowledge? Regardless, Sébastien had chosen to supervise Antoine, to ensure he didn't start a war over a woman who might not have wanted to be rescued. Céleste appreciated that.
She wanted to trust Antoine, but he tended to get out of control with matters of the heart; with matters concerning Prudence. Though Céleste wanted her in Totresia too, violence was not the answer.
She stood up and paced in front of her fireplace. The dying embers warmed the floorboards and soothed her sore feet.
"But what will Séb do? Will he wrestle with the King, scold him, bend his mind? Or has he allowed the military meetings to happen?"
She was trapped in the middle—Antoine, the impulsive one who refused to listen to advice and wanted his beloved back; and Sébastien, the wise one who observed at a distance and didn't want to partake in anything rash.
"What do I want?" She wrenched her closet open. "I do not want to shun my friendship with Prudence. Sébastien will not like that, but he will still love me without my father's formal approval, right?" She snatched a pale green gown with flowing yellow sleeves, and threw it onto her bed. "But what about Prudence? Do I want to yank her from her new life in Giroma? Or write to her to see if she even wants to go? Am I as brutal, as rebellious as the King?"
As she removed her nightgown and shrugged on her layers of hoops and corsets and stockings, she pondered the King's words. He was brash, thinking with his heart instead of his brain. She understood his passion, his love... but Prudence had left, and possibly by her own choice. Traveling across the country and into a foreign land without being certain of her feelings seemed presumptuous. Silly. Dangerous.
She threw the dress over her head and let it smooth out over her undergarments. "He cannot get ahead of himself. Sébastien may not have enough pull to sway him, to calm him down..."
Spinning to her vanity, she once more gaped at her quill. There had to be a way to communicate with Prudence, a means to get a letter out to her, so that Céleste might confirm what she wanted. So that she might explain herself, and why she rushed off without a goodbye. Without Prudence's aid, Antoine would march to Giroma unprepared, and it was a battle Totresia would lose.
"It is not about what I want; it is about Prudence." She strode to her sitting area, but didn't sit. She proceeded with her habitual pacing, praying it would provide her with answers. "Will she ever return? Does she need us to retrieve her, was she kidnapped, forced by her brother, as the King seems to think? Would that justify a war?" She tapped a finger to her chin as doubt seeped into her gut. "Perhaps Father is right, and I should not be involved in all this. I could always take my renouncement of our friendship back later, no? Once we have more awareness of her intentions, her emotions..."
Prudence's departure was nothing like when she was Marguerite, hoping to escape Clémentine's wrath, to save herself from the woman's plots. This wasn't like when she wished to hide from Antoine and his mistakes, to be away from Adelaide and her sly smirks, to run from the place where her mentor had died. This time, she wasn't running; she was going home. She hadn't snuck out as a clandestine shipment; she took off legally, as the Princess of Giroma, the inheritor of a different legacy, the rightful daughter of a different deceased King.
So was she coerced into leaving? Or was this truly her decision?
"Maybe she does not wish to come back, ever. She hates Totresia. Hates us." She scoffed. "Well, not me, but Totresians. Clémentine and Adelaide and even Antoine, I assume." Twisting her upper body towards her vanity, she winced. "But I must find out for sure. I must speak with Prudence."
As she sat on her cushioned bench, her door creaked open. She shot to her feet, covering herself up as if she were in the nude, exposed to the elements. At first, she detected no one in the threshold, and she shook her head, believing a breeze from the corridor had slipped into her room.
Yet as she squinted, and the door opened further, she spotted a familiar head of dirty blond curls, a set of menacing gray eyes, and sturdy, stiff shoulders that gave her pause.
"Father?" She almost unleashed a shriek, but as the being gave one final shove into the door and entered the room, she gasped. "Emeric?" Her lips tugged into a smile, yet at the sight of his grimace, she covered her mouth. "What... why are you here?"
He kicked the door closed behind him and crossed his arms. "Sister." Something about him had changed; lines dug into his skin, bunching around his eyes and mouth, creasing into his forehead. His knuckles were white, and his nostrils flared, as if about to expel smoke. He resembled Sir Richel Senior so much, Céleste placed her other hand over her heart, her breaths hitching in her chest. "I am here to stop you from doing anything foolish."
"Foolish?" She lowered the palm that had been concealing her mouth. "What are you talking about?"
He jutted his chin at her vanity. "I heard you, loud and clear. So unless you are about to change your mind and write to Father and inform him you relinquish your friendship with that Princess, you would do well to stay away from any writing utensils." He narrowed his gaze. "Or do so, if you wish to give up your inheritance and shame your family name. But I beg you, do not send a letter to Prudence of Giroma."
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