"Ahhhhhh!"
Her scream conjured ghosts of her past as it danced across her chamber and rattled the goblet of water on her nightstand.
Squinting at the daylight seeping through her window, Marguerite struggled to recognize her surroundings. It took minutes for her to ease into her location, to reacquaint herself with Romain's vast, gold-encrusted quarters.
In her nightmare, she'd been locked in the Ballroom, smoke trapped in her nose and lungs, suffocating her. Antoine reached through the haze and yelled her name, nobles fell in heaps of crimson and maroon, and death loomed ahead of her.
She was now awake, but it all felt so real, too real.
She clutched at her chest and realized she'd fallen asleep in her daywear. Breathing in, then out, she begged her heart to restore itself, for her soul to unload its fears.
Why the Ballroom, why Antoine, why fire, she'd never know, but she had to move past it. God would never grant answers on how her dreams had turned so disturbing, plaguing her during a daily nap.
The ornate copper clock near the fireplace showed three o'clock. An hour and a half since she'd finished her meal with Sébastien and retired for a quick rest.
A rest that had entrapped her, engulfed her, and enticed her to never wake again. Or never fall asleep.
Muscles stiff, she rose and slipped on her shoes, readjusted the folds of her dress, and the collar of her long-sleeved bodice. As she opened her bedroom door, Marigold appeared, breathless as if she'd ran miles and jumped through fiery hoops to get there.
"Majesty." She curtsied low. "I heard your yelp, and I apologize, I came as soon as I could."
"Good thing the fire was only in my dream, then." She had no way to block her tone from turning sour. What if the castle had been aflame again, and the girl hadn't gathered her wits fast enough? "You had better rehearse for such emergencies. I cannot have my staff dying anymore." She pinched the bridge of her nose and waved the girl up from her curtsy. "Where is Prince Sébastien?"
"He has not left the Study, Majesty." Marigold moved aside, permitting Marguerite to immerse herself in the hallway. "The Duke of Spestein is with him."
Her fists bunched, recalling how she'd scolded Sébastien about his private meetings with Henry.
Marguerite took off down the flights of stairs, wincing with each step. Her belly ached, and nausea fluttered up to her throat, but she had to hurry before her advisors chose her future husband for her, as she assumed they would.
She whirled around corners, flew by nobles who sank into curtsies and bows, and whipped up to her office, freezing in the threshold of the opened door.
There they were, seated at the council table, several stacks of parchments under their noses, two silver goblets in their hands. They hadn't heard her arrive—despite her heels screeching to a halt in the doorway—and studied something on the papers.
"A theme? Should we let her pick it? Perhaps we should hire a planner. It would be justified, in terms of expenses. This would be a big deal." Surveying his notes, Henry smacked his lips after a sip of his beverage, fiddling with the quill in his free hand.
"Well, she is the theme, no?" Sébastien's voice was more muted, sounding farther away. "Something simple, not over-the-top. Marguerite is not one for excess. It shocks me she has not yet torn down every inch of this castle, to rid it of its extravagances."
Marguerite crept backwards, hoping to hide in the shadows and listen longer to their conversation; but the floorboards creaked, and Sébastien's neck snapped towards her.
"Maggie?" His chair scraped as he stood. "Is that you?"
Henry followed his gaze as Marguerite wandered inside, arms crossed. He also rose, spilling half of his cup's contents on the table, his light sable eyebrows shooting upward.
"Cousin!" A giant—and fake—smile slathered over his lips as he dropped his quill, whizzed past Sébastien, and roamed up to her, dipping into a bow. "What an honor that you would join us!" He planted an exaggerated kiss atop her knuckles. "How was your nap?"
The over-saturated glee in his tone made her gag. "What do I have the honor of walking into, gentlemen?" She ripped her palm from Henry's grasp and moved forward, focused on the immobile Sébastien. "You were deep in debate over something, so please, do not let me disrupt you."
The Prince's gaze, like chocolate melting under a scrutinizing heat, faltered. His cheeks flared with red and he gulped. "I was about to summon you." She glowered at him and, caught in his lie, his chin sank. "I did not wish to wake you."
"What did I tell you about convening behind my back?" She pirouetted to Henry. "Did he inform you of our discussion, when I requested for you to keep me in the loop of all things concerning my life?" She huffed. "I have sneaky children for advisors! Sly creatures who seek to defy me at every turn."
Henry flashed another wide grin and swayed forward, his hand fanning over his broad torso. "Majesty, please, he speaks the truth. Some matters are best left to us, I assure you. The city—"
Sébastien's thunderous throat clearing interrupted the Duke. "Henry," he muttered, his lips barely parting. "Unnecessary."
She snarled. "Unnecessary? What is this?"
Henry fumbled to recover, but his grin remained intact. "Unnecessary to mention that Westten has little time to prepare for this ball, so we—
"—ball?" Marguerite's insides became lava and her knees buckled as she twisted to Sébastien. "The festivities we discussed, and I said I would think about hosting? The celebration I hesitate to organize? That ball?"
Concentrated on his boots, Sébastien sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I..."
Marguerite marched over to him, seized his chin, and jerked it up—more forcefully than she meant to. His neck cracked, and he cringed.
"I told you to cease this behavior. It appalls me you would continue it. Am I not the Queen? Are my orders funny to you? Or am I nothing but a lowly Totresian girl in love with your brother?"
Henry scampered over, but she kept her attention on the Prince. He angered her most; he defied her. She knew her words were harsh, that he'd never think such things, but each misstep he took exploded like gunshots in her abdomen. She couldn't help her comments.
Though he cowered, his lip curled. "I meant it, Maggie. I did not want to wake you." He broke from her grip. "This was no conspiracy. You said you would ponder the ball, and I decided to start planning it, in case you accepted. Can you fault me for being prepared?"
She wanted to slap him, but he was correct. A decent advisor would anticipate its monarch's moves.
But she refused to let him off so easily. It was her love-life and her body he was trying to sell to the highest bidder.
"I cannot, but I am furious with you." She pushed past him and plunged into the chair he'd vacated. "You should have woken me. I want to be present when you converse about these matters that involve me."
The Prince settled on the other side of the table. "I was not thinking, forgive me." He gawked at the goblet he'd abandoned near her. "Then the Duke arrived, and we—"
"—oh! Now you will pin this on him?" She switched to Henry, who'd remained in her vicinity. "Did you egg him on, Your Grace?"
Henry scrunched his nose. "I was a factor in the conversation, yes."
She scowled. "I appreciate your honesty. I hate to use my status like this, but I must. I am Queen of Giroma, and while you reside in my court, you must heed my commands. If I cannot contain my advisors and stop them from convening without me, who is to say I can govern a city? A country?" She closed her eyes and scrubbed her face. "How can I convince Giromians to respect me if you two do not?"
Sébastien grumbled, throwing himself over the table to grasp his cup. Henry bowed his head and muttered muted apologies.
"I am here now." She motioned at the paperwork. "I will listen to what you have in mind, in case I decide to go forth with this ball."
Sébastien's features illuminated, though he still averted his gaze, as if one look at her would turn him to stone.
Henry plopped beside her and clapped. "Well, to start, Giromians love balls. I urge you to consider it, and fast, so that we may send out invitations. Everyone in Giroma should be here."
"Everyone?" Her nightmare resurfaced before her, trampling the momentary positivity in her soul. Flames, perils, screams—it all seemed so possible, so unpredictable, so close. "Not those who associate with Terter, right? Not Schwartz himself? A murderer cannot attend a party at my castle."
After chugging his wine, Sébastien wiped hints of scarlet from his lips. "I would advise against that. Some of his allies should attend, though. Those who would report to him how well you are faring, how courteous you are. That would make him fear losing favor, and push him towards doing something foolish."
"Foolish, like kill me?" Marguerite's legs jittered under the table. "If you invite his friends, he will tag along, squirm through the gates, discover a path inside, and—"
"—no." Henry's hand, warm and soothing, brushed over hers. He grimaced. "We will protect you. The royal guard, my personal soldiers, those of your suitors... you have my word. If the Duke shows, it will not matter. He will never attain you." He gazed at Sébastien, and something floated between them; an unspoken bond, a secret message, an agreement Marguerite wasn't privy to.
Marguerite's lungs tightened. "He will murder his way onto the grounds. He will burn our walls again and throw daggers at me and—"
Sébastien crouched on her left, one palm rubbing her back, the other sliding under her jaw. "No. He will not lay a finger on you, on my life, I vow it. Why else did I stay here, if not to keep you alive?"
On her other side, Henry grunted. "I second that. That bastard murdered my cousin and aunt and contrived to murder me. He will not touch you, and as long as I live he will not be King of Giroma."
Sébastien gently tugged her chin to spin her to him. "The ball is the best alternative to indicate how little of a threat he is. No one would go to celebrations in his palace, with the rumors circulating about him. They view him as untrustworthy. Should he summon nobles, only half would go to him. And only half of those willingly. You have the upper hand. By choosing a husband, someone to ally with and strengthen your claim, you will gain more success. It will drive him mad, and his madness will enable you to win."
Again, he was correct, though she wouldn't admit it out loud.
Her future took shape before her—velvets and silks and satins, sparkles and tulle and champagne.
It is an unwanted Season, and I have no choice.
To prevent the Duke ofTerter from smearing her blood all over the Ballroom floor, she had to throwherself at the mercy of Giromian men.
•••