Céleste hid in shadows as she navigated the slumbering corridors of Torrinni Castle. She snaked past the first floor landing, crept down the stairs, and slithered out into the frosted air. The early morning sun blanketed her face, and the guards eyed her warily, but the initial part of her ruse had succeeded—they'd waved her on to her tasks, believing her to be a serving girl. In her worn-down gown and falling apart wool coat, she looked nothing like Miss Richel.
Adrenaline pumped to her heart, causing it to thump and thrum as she skittered across the lawn, boots crunching over the icy dew. She tore the stable doors open, sucked in a breath—and came nose to nose with Esther Bristol.
"Hello there, Céleste," said the former contender, clad in an unusual shade of charcoal, her vivid auburn curls concealed beneath a hood. Her peppy blue eyes fixed on Céleste as she crossed her arms. "Fancy finding you here."
"Esther?" Céleste pulled her coat's collar up higher. "When did you get here?"
"At the same time as your brother, of course." Esther's hood dropped. Her hair, smelling of lavender, fell in heaps over her shoulders. "I have been watching you."
As her fists tightened, Céleste huffed. "He would employ his own fiancée to spy on me?" Her eyebrows scrunched. "This should not surprise me."
"He did not ask me to." Esther smirked. "I did it on my own accord, because I had a hunch. And," she scanned Céleste from head to toe, "it appears I was correct."
"A hunch?" Céleste wanted to chuckle—Esther was far from observant—but knew in her situation, she'd do best to be polite.
"I listen to the rumors. The Dowager leaving, Charlotte's strict wedding plans, the annulment... and your father's letter, that you still have not replied to." Esther's nose wrinkled as she stepped backwards. "I am not the child from before, hoarding macarons and spreading useless gossip. Do not underestimate me."
"Fine." Céleste sneered and clapped her hands. "You caught me sneaking out, future sister-in-law. But if you would not mind, I am in a hurry, so—"
"—to go where?" Esther snuck her arm under Céleste's, and to Céleste's surprise, she tugged her towards the horse enclosures. "If I am to guide you, you must give me details on our route."
Céleste argued, Esther threatened, they debated—but Céleste had no alternative but to concede, and permit Esther to escort her. The poor girl wanted out, away from her fiancé's temper, from the court's usual drama.
"Besides," said Esther, as they trotted off on their horses under the slowly rising sun. "You are underage, and disguised or not, you would not get far without me."
She was right; at the gates, the guards asked questions Céleste hadn't prepared for. "Which market?" or "where is your list?" were queries she never would have been able to answer, but Esther took charge. As the fiancée of the future Marquess of Valeville, she had some leeway with her comings and goings.
They traveled through the cobbled streets of Torrinni as its people woke and began their duties. An aroma of fresh batches of bread accompanied them, and the steel humming of weapons being forged rang in their ears for miles, until they faced the barricade at the city's exit. Here, too, Esther prevailed in getting them out, claiming Emeric wanted her to paint some landscapes at the edge of the town. When she babbled on about colors and canvasses, the soldiers were too annoyed to deny her request.
Outside the walls, they met with fields of sleeping crops and high trees with bare branches that seemed to scratch the sky. Céleste hadn't been this far since she'd arrived, and she'd forgotten how vast the Torrinni region was.
"I still do not quite understand why we are going there," Esther flicked her wrist to the right, "but the palace is north-east, so that way."
When Céleste had tried to explain to Esther that she had questions for the former Dowager, Esther had grimaced, snorted, then gagged. She, like most young women at court, abhorred Clémentine. But Céleste didn't want to reveal too much to her, worried she'd report it all to Emeric. So she begged Esther to comply, to go with it; and Esther promised not to interfere.
Two hours passed before they spotted the new Duchess of Torrinni's residence in the distance. It had the same architectural style as the castle—faded white stone, rounded windows, vertigo-inducing gray rooftops. It stretched side-to-side, surrounded by gleaming iron and gold gates, and a barrier of guards.
Céleste feared these men would be more reluctant to grant them entry, as King Antoine had been adamant on restricting visitors to his scheming mother. Yet Esther, as always, had the magic words.
"On business for my betrothed, the future Marquess of Valeville, who sends me here to check on the King's mother." She perked up in her saddle. "At the King's behest, I might add. He is secretly concerned about her, and as a lady who spent much time in her presence at court—"
Again, her blubbering got the best of the soldiers, and they motioned for her and Céleste to ride into the courtyard.
Céleste noted Esther's weapon—talking too much—for any future emergencies.
They parked at the small stable off to the side, then dismounted, both in awe of the magnificent building up close.
Esther's steps were quick, but Céleste's were sluggish, regretful.
Why had she thought she could confront the cruel woman who'd turned Prudence's life to hell? The monster who'd tortured her through childhood, denied her the man she loved, lied about her heritage?
Her skin crawled, but she'd made up her mind. She had to do this.
After a multitude of questions from Clémentine's lady, the mysterious Mary—Céleste remembered her from the Academy, and at court—they were led through a glass door to the left of the main doors. The lounge, Mary called it; a dusty space of burnt orange couches, old wooden tables, bookshelves loaded with large tomes, and mustard yellow curtains.
Half an hour went by before Clémentine finally joined them. Her clicking footsteps—that still gave Céleste chills—echoed in the hallway, and she paused at the threshold, cocking an eyebrow.
"I thought Mary was jesting."
Céleste and Esther sat on a canapé facing the door-frame, and at the sight of her, they stood and dropped into curtsies.
"Esther Bristol and Céleste Richel. Interesting." Her voice hadn't changed—piercing and hissing, as usual. But her appearance was less frightening; there were bags beneath her eyes, her hair was barely combed into a passable bun, and her dress choice—pale cream covered by a muted coral shawl—was demure. Too demure for her. "What do you want?" She whooshed in and lowered into a chaise across from the girls.
Céleste had seen her recently, yet it was as if she'd aged a decade. "We... I..."
Clémentine fanned out her skirts. "Cough it up, girl, I do not have all day."
Her coldness broke the fearful trance Céleste was in. She rose from her curtsy and cleared her throat.
"I am here to understand your torment of Princess Prudence, and why she now believes I am in danger at court." She squinted. "And also what your husband was up to, and why he ruined Prudence's life, too."
Clémentine immobilized, one hand still clutching her dress. "Are you, now? You came all this way for that?" She grunted and tossed one leg over the other. "Do you not worry you are in more danger here? I am the danger, or so Prudence seems to imply. She must not know my sons banned me."
Esther, who had settled onto the divan, melted into the cushions. If she'd been confident earlier with all the guards, her facade now dissipated like a cloud of smoke carried off by the wind.
Céleste wouldn't relent. She wouldn't show weakness, so she stayed on her feet. "Indeed, she does not. But I wish to reassure her of my safety, and for that, I need the truth from you. All of it. So she might be aware that you cannot do me—or her—any more harm."
"I see." Clémentine's upper lip curled. "Does the King know you are here? Does Sébastien? They would agree with Prudence that you are not safe with me, young lady. They would not have allowed you to visit." She glanced at Esther. "But I assume she helped with that part. Got through barred doors and gates by using her fiancé's good name, yes?"
Esther gasped, but Céleste nudged her; she wouldn't let the vile woman's venom affect anyone today.
"They have no knowledge of my visit." She shifted her weight. "But when they learn of it, they will forgive me. We all love Prudence, and though she is afraid for me, I am afraid for her. As we speak, your eldest son may be in talks to invade Giroma on false accounts, with false information. To save her."
A slight quiver of Clémentine's chin caused Céleste's heart to skip a beat. "Antoine? Invade?" A tiny drop of sweat formed on her forehead. "No. He would not. He knows better."
"It seems he does not, Your Grace. He believes Prudence to be in peril and in Giroma against her will. Prudence envisions me in peril. It is a mess, and I need clarity to aid him and Sébastien and Prudence, to tame this wildfire before it gets out of control. Again." Céleste's legs quaked, and she had no option but to sit down. "Is there anything you might tell me to stop him from starting a war? Anything about Giroma, its King, its people? Anything I might say to Prudence to persuade her you will not plot against me?"
The former Dowager looked to be on the verge of spitting out an excuse or dismissing her; but something in her demeanor altered. Her shoulders drooped, and she leaned forward, her voice low, her eyes narrowed.
"My children are all that matter to me, Miss Richel. And Totresia's security, of course. Is Antoine truly planning for an invasion? Is Sébastien involved with it? And Jules, where is he in all this?" She gulped. "I care not for Prudence, but you... you are Sébastien's beloved, and I have meddled enough in my children's love lives. You may certify your safety to her. I am willing to swear it, if you wish."
Taken aback by the ominous sincerity in the woman's tone, Céleste's mouth popped open, snapped closed, then she pursed her lips.
"Antoine has lost his mind, Your Grace. He is blinded by love, by rage. Sébastien is concerned. Jules," she rolled her eyes, "is busy with his wedding. Oblivious."
Clémentine snapped her fingers. An overworked governess flurried in. "Fetch me my tea," said the Duchess. She peered at Céleste, eyebrows arched. "Anything for you two?"
She and Esther declined, and once the maid left, Clémentine got up and meandered to one of the bookshelves encasing the window to the right.
"First off, I must admit one thing, one secret I have held on to for decades. It will explain Antoine's behavior somewhat." She kept her back to them, but Céleste heard the hesitation in her words. "Edouard had an older brother. Someone murdered him in cold blood, for the hand of Pauline, daughter of the Duke of Spestein."
Esther unleashed another gasp, and Céleste hiccuped.
A brother?
She was too distraught to go over her geography lessons—Spestein was in Giroma, no?—but recognized the name Pauline.
"Prudence's mother? What does she have to do with this?"
Clémentine fingered the spines of the books on lower shelves. "There once was a Totresian-Giromian agreement that the eldest royal child from Totresia would wed a high-placed noble from Giroma. And vice versa with a royal child from Giroma to marry a noble from Totresia. But Gregor, the Giromian royal heir at the time, did not like that. He took Pauline, who was, in those days, the highest Giromian noble daughter. She was who Edouard's brother was to wed."
If Esther was still there, still alive, she'd made herself silent and scarce. Céleste didn't even feel her breathing. But thick tension licked the air, and she struggled to breathe it, too.
"Philippe, Edouard's older sibling, was furious." Clémentine pulled out a book and blew dust from its cover. "He cared for Pauline, but she had no preference over who she married. She was to be Queen, either way." She puffed out a short, irritated breath. "I understand she has changed, since; became less self-centered after having children."
She pivoted, clutching the book to her chest. No spite or hatred lingered in her gaze; only a glittering ache, an eerie longing.
"Philippe confronted Gregor, and Gregor killed Philippe. Edouard was eighteen and became the new heir to Totresia. He swore, on his brother's grave, to get retribution." She took a few steps toward the girls. "Once his father died, and his mother followed, he plotted. He erased Philippe from all books and history, bribed nobles into forgetting his existence, wanting no one to link Gregor's assassination—that he was scheming—with our family."
Céleste had run out of reactions. She covered her mouth and sniffled at the stale, leathery scent on her gloves, dizzy from Clémentine's tale.
"I had met Edouard a few months before that. When we were betrothed, he told me all of it, and asked me if I would still marry him if he were to murder someone who had ruined his family." Clémentine's chin dipped. "I accepted, but I had no choice, anyway. Marrying him would save my family. So I consented, and he never brought up the matter again." Her fingers trembled. "When we found the carriage wreck, one year later, and I saw the insignia, the disfigured but easily recognizable Giromian King... I played along, as promised. I did not question Edouard's decision to snatch the baby we discovered, to raise it, love it." She snapped her neck up so fast Céleste cowered into the cushions. "But recalling what those Giromians did, I refused to let him unite her with my precious Antoine. I detected a pattern of death, and I would not let Prudence ruin my family. Marguerite... that rotten weed."
Céleste adjusted her seating and grimaced. "Quite a tale. You conspired behind Edouard's back as he conspired behind everyone else's. A plot within a plot." Her throat was scratchy, and she regretted not accepting Clémentine's gift of a hot beverage. "But, again, how does this connect with Antoine and his current situation?"
The book fell from Clémentine's hand, landing with a thud that prompted Esther and Céleste to jump up from their spots.
"The nobles at the time were sworn to secrecy, ladies. Philippe is no longer in Totresian history. Your father was in on this, Miss Richel. But he—and the others—were not to pass this knowledge on to their children. Meaning your generation of nobles has no clue what transpired. No idea of Philippe and what he and Gregor and Edouard did." She kicked the book and strode up to Céleste, halting once their dress hems touched. "I presume Romain is aware that Edouard offed his father, and his thirst for revenge still brims beneath the surface. One tickle at his border, one hint at invasion, and he might explode. But Antoine has a reason to provoke Romain: Prudence. If he were to find out about his uncle, and Gregor's part in his death, he would march to Westten now. With or without his soldiers."
Céleste's knees buckled. "They both have reason to want to kill one another." She shook her head. "So you tell me this so I can ensure Antoine never finds out? Me? I am horrible with secrets!" She smacked a hand to her forehead.
"I tell you so that you can tell Sébastien." Clémentine backed away, her lips thinning as she squared her shoulders. "So that he can be aware of the danger his older brother is in, like Edouard was with Philippe. So that he can prevent Antoine and Romain from meeting again—on a battlefield or in a fighting arena, as Gregor and Philippe did. Gregor cheated. And do you know who assisted him in this cheating?"
An acidic taste trickled onto Céleste's tongue. "Who?"
Clémentine's nostrils flared. "The former Duke of Terter, Yohann. Cornelius' father. He orchestrated the fight between Gregor and Philippe. He ensured Gregor won, and Philippe perished. I have no doubt in my mind that he educated his son about this, preparing him to have to plan a similar coup between Romain and Antoine."
Esther crumbled onto the couch; Céleste fell to her knees.
"Because Antoine would confront Romain for the sins of his father, and Romain would do the same, and Cornelius would cheat?"
"You must tell Sébastien all this, so that he may do all in his power to prevent any contact between Antoine and Cornelius. And between Antoine and Romain. Armed with this intelligence, my middle son will know how to keep Antoine in line." Clémentine issued a weak smile. "He was always the smartest. Now, he must avoid a bloody war and the untimely death of his King."
•••