Sitting in the Queen's Solar, sipping on tea and nibbling fruit-filled biscuits seemed so mundane to Céleste. Mundane activities, mundane snacks, mundane gossip—with all she knew, she had difficulty hiding her boredom. She struggled to pretend all was well in the presence of the one she suspected the most.
Charlotte's pinky finger rose as she hoisted her intricate golden mug to her lips. In her peach-and-coral gown, she stood out, her sneaky smile loaded with juicy secrets and ripe with betrayal.
Yesterday, Antoine and Jules had put the Count of Belnau's potential treachery as a priority on their list of things to solve. Jules would head into the city soon, to the prison, and interrogate Thatcher by any means possible. Antoine ordered it, hoping to find proof to accuse Belnau of gambling debts, conspiracies, and possibly treason.
So as Charlotte sat prim and proper, using the Queen's Solar as if she were still the monarch's wife, did she have any clue her father was a suspect for aiding Cornelius with his fiery riots? Was she aware of her father's games, his dues, his schemes to secure her the highest royal crown?
How Céleste wished to seize her cheeks between her fingers and squeeze, to wipe off the coats of powder, the layers of pale flesh, and dig into her brain to unearth the answers.
Shoving a biscuit into her mouth before spitting out something incriminating, Céleste chewed, munching on her accusations.
Antoine and Jules had warned her to keep a low profile, but declining Charlotte's invitation to tea would have caused discord. She'd craved to ask Charlotte why she would want to spend time with her, but chose to seal her lips.
She has her reasons, and if I want information, I must obtain it myself.
Julia, the one originally meant to collect intelligence from Charlotte, was useless. Despite her attitude the day before, she sat there with a goofy smile, acting as if all was normal. She took tiny bites of pastries and gulped down her beverage and laughed at whatever or whoever Charlotte mocked—as if nothing had changed.
"So," she said, lowering her voice and leaning in towards Charlotte. "Is it a fact? The true King snuck into his own castle and surprised the nobles?"
They perched on the sofa facing the hearth, and Charlotte, on the right, tried not to roll her eyes. "Word has spread, it seems."
Céleste's nostrils flared, and more so when she caught a whiff of Charlotte's vanilla-tinted perfume, its sickeningly sweet fumes prompting her to hold in a sneeze.
Gossip, gossip, gossip—it was all they ever did. And today, though the Solar wasn't full, a few ladies loitered nearby, desperate for more tales to tell.
"So what happens now, then?" Julia sent a fleeting glance at Céleste; once that flickered with irritation and conveyed defiance. She batted her lashes at Charlotte. "Is there no means for you to retain your position?"
Céleste pressed her lips together and glared at Julia. "What are you doing?"
Julia returned her glare, but with the rest of her face stuck in such neutrality, her mouth so close to quirking into a smile, it was disturbing to view, forcing Céleste to tip back in her chaise.
"I am ensuring my best friend is not deprived of what she deserves. She is the Queen; she showed a unified front and stepped up to the plate, no?"
Céleste sensed a growl growing in her throat.
Julia had chosen her side—to defend Charlotte, endorse her reign, betray Antoine, and by default, Denis.
This makes no sense.
"What you say is treason, Julia." Céleste kept her voice mellow, but a roar waited to unleash; one so powerful it would smack into Julia's cheeks and wake her up from her nonsense.
"It is friendship, Céleste." Charlotte's expression contorted with rage. The manner in which she spun to Céleste, snarling, sniveling, sent shivers down Céleste's spine. "She does not wish ill on King Antoine, she simply hopes to see me succeed, is that not right, friend?" She nudged Julia, who nodded, her face inflamed, her shoulders squared. "As a friend, I wish to protect her from the scandals our beloved King Antoine mutters about to anyone who will listen."
Antoine and Jules' requests for Céleste to hold her tongue faded, as if they'd never existed.
"Are you insane?" She moved to the edge of her seat and glowered at Julia. "Have you listened to nothing Antoine told us on the road home? Do you not recall how your fiancé was murdered, and someone in this very castle helped orchestrate it from afar? Did you forget we were not to divulge anything to her?" She gestured at Charlotte and narrowed her eyes. "Friend or not, it does not matter! What about Denis?"
Charlotte's mouth opened, about to release fire—but Julia spoke first, her nose in the air and her hands clasped in her lap.
"Denis is beneath me. And these schemes are too far-fetched. Goodness, Céleste, you let such ideas warp you? What a shame." Her cheeks twitched so discreetly one might have dismissed the motion as nervousness, but Céleste knew better.
Her jaw dropped—those weren't Julia's words, they were Charlotte's.
She whispers in Julia's ear and dictates her life, all over again.
Céleste stood up, and her pale sea-foam layers whooshed around her like an ocean of furious waves desperate to drown Charlotte. Violence coursed into her veins, and her hands curled into fists. Though she was angry at Julia—disappointed at her crawling back to Charlotte—it was Charlotte she bared her teeth at.
"You are not the Queen anymore, and never will be again. Why must you seek to control her, and everyone around you?"
So composed seconds before, Julia lost her facade of fury. Her mouth propped open, and her pupils bulged, darting between Céleste and Charlotte. "She... she is not... you do not understand—"
Charlotte threw her arm in front of Julia, blocking her speech. She flushed violet, and a nerve pulsated in her temple, but she didn't jump at Céleste's throat or indicate any urge to scream or yell.
"Dearest Céleste." She steadily rose to her feet, like a lion hopping out of the bushes in slow-motion, and got as close to Céleste as their gowns would permit. "I should have never allowed you into my inner circle. I do not like you, and never will. You are a bug, buzzing about putting ideas in Julia's head. I abhor it." Lightning pierced through her eyes, and though she and Céleste were the same height, she arched her spine to be taller, more menacing. "Queen or not, I still outrank you, until you are wed to Sébastien. Your demeanor displeases me, so I ask that you leave. This invitation is rescinded." She motioned at the door, then retired to her seat.
Céleste focused on Julia, expecting her to interfere—but she dipped her chin and peered at her teacup. Uncaring and cold as she was when they first met at the Academy, vicious as when they'd traveled to court. A follower, an obeyer—if Charlotte demanded it, it would happen.
Charlotte raised her arm and signaled towards the door. "The exit is that way, Miss Richel. I hear the Reading Room is a lovely place for loners like you."
A few mocking giggles came from the unwanted audience of ladies, sending shock waves to Céleste's heart and pain to her forehead.
She was a loner; Sébastien and Prudence were in Giroma, Antoine and Jules in meetings, Cordelia who-knew-where. She had no friends at court.
Biting her tongue, she dropped into a half-hearted curtsy. "Fine." As shame fluttered to life in her gut, and her lungs constricted, she flashed a warning look at Julia. "I pray you are able to fend for yourself, from now on. Those you think to trust will turn on you."
She stormed out, ignoring the gazes on her and the nausea that crawled up her throat at the thought of the rumors that would soon fly around. About her. Céleste Richel, dismissed from the Salons.
She grumbled curses under her breath as she stomped out of the Solar. With no reason to dwindle there and draw more attention, she grabbed the edges of her dress and marched down the Queen's Corridor, then the Long Corridor, and took the main steps two at a time until she arrived at the top.
Charlotte had Julia in her claws. She'd ripped her from Denis, from the safety of those seeking to uncover plots and save Totresia. The former Queen regent had re-distorted Julia's allegiances, retained her loyalty, and turned her against those who sought true peace.
But how, and why? Had Céleste missed something in Julia's behavior that should have alerted her? Was she faking it the whole time?
Strutting down the hall, she reviewed Julia's remarks in her mind.
"She was defensive of Charlotte, but they were friends, it was not surprising."
Charlotte's comments stung.
"I do not like you, and never will."
Only because Céleste wished she'd said them first. For the foul-mouthed Princess to beat her to uttering such truths was a low-blow.
"Denis will be so upset," she said to herself, holding in her tears of anger, fear, dismay. "Julia has no idea how she has ruined our plans. No idea what we discovered about Charlotte's father."
She hurried the rest of the way to her room, and stiffened against the door once she closed it behind her. Panting, her rib-cage aching, she struggled to steady herself.
Eventually, she regained motion in her limbs and wandered to her vanity, where she found a note with an emblem she recognized as Giromian.
"What?" Falling into her chair, she tore the letter open, and unfolded the paper. A familiar, comforting handwriting shone on the page—it was from Prudence.
Céleste cocked her head as she read. "She is not Prudence anymore? She has renamed herself Marguerite!"
The message created momentary sunshine, but Céleste's ominous clouds soon returned. The Queen of Giroma's communication didn't bring reassurance—it brought more news of peril and plots.
After re-reading theletter, she set it onto the vanity and went to bed, where she stuffed her faceinto her pillow. The cushiony fabric was all she had for comfort, now.
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