As they did the day before, the heaps of pale peach silk and satin draped over Marguerite's figure, widening around her like a halo of lace. She posed before the mirror, practicing her stone-cold but not too uninviting facial expressions. Her crown—one of her mother's—glimmered, heavy with azure jewels, fixed atop her curled golden locks.
She looked like a Queen, but felt like a terrified orphan.
Marigold, clothed in radiant peacock-blue, escorted Marguerite from the bedroom. If she detected Marguerite's terror, she acted otherwise. Together they glided down the two sets of stairs, but the closer they got to the Ballroom, the more Marguerite's heart hurt, thumping so hard and so fast she worried it might explode.
She considered letting it explode, but before long they arrived at the doors, and she had no choice.
Praying under her breath—for survival, godly intervention, or a swift death—she watched the guards tug the doorknobs and reveal the glowing space within.
Masses of colors and diamonds and feathers and flowers welcomed her. Tricorn hats and veils and poofy sleeves and lacy trains lined the cerulean carpet.
Everyone studied her as she took one step, then another, and paused in the threshold.
Decked in classic blues, matching her guards, the herald thrummed his staff to silence the murmuring attendees. "Announcing Her Majesty, Queen regent Marguerite of Giroma. And her lady-in-waiting, Miss Marigold Porter, daughter of the Lord of Lekske's right hand, Mister Porter."
Though her lips tugged up at the delectable pastry scent wafting into her nostrils, Marguerite squinted at the herald.
Someone was missing—the one meant to accompany her down to her throne, where Sébastien awaited.
"Where is the Duke of Spestein?" she said to the staff-wielding man.
He shrugged. "I am unaware, Majesty."
Tenser than she'd been in hours, Marguerite permitted Marigold to guide her, instead.
In the rows of nobles and dignitaries and foreign guests, sinking into bows and curtsies, she searched for him. She gritted her teeth to stop her lips from quivering, or her insides from spilling out her mouth; but having no sign of Henry worsened her dismay.
Atop the podium, Sébastien stood in a radiant beige and white suit, and over his tamed ponytail, he'd placed his Totresian crown. So poised and proud, he took her breath away, reminiscent of his father.
Pleased as she was to see him, she couldn't help but worry about Henry. Had they gotten their signals crossed? Did he wait elsewhere, or did he plan to arrive late on purpose? He'd warned her earlier that day he'd planned a speech to introduce her, a formal welcome to Giroma, a kick-off to the festivities. But as she climbed onto the platform, locking eyes with men who blushed at her attention, she still couldn't locate his corn-tinted hair, his flamboyant grin, or his outrageously colored-suit.
The Duke of Spestein was nowhere to be seen.
Did he lurk in the hallways, gathering last-minute intelligence? Was he checking in with soldiers, securing the perimeter, verifying all the confiscated weapons?
Something was off, and the ominous sensation grew more dire as Sébastien took her by the arm and led her to her throne.
He whispered in her ear, "Henry has disappeared," then plastered a strained smile over his lips, pretending all was well.
Nothing was well. One meager detail—Henry's absence—was enough to destabilize the fragile objective for the evening, shifting Marguerite's confidence from low to nonexistent.
Peering into a crowd of folks she didn't know—and wasn't sure she wanted to—she feigned a weak grin, begging her stomach to stop gurgling. Someone among these visitors was against her. He or she paraded about in her favor, when in fact Cornelius had bought them, drawing them into a murder plot against the crown.
She was too dizzy to sit, her eyesight blurry from the dazzling jewels decorating head-gear, bodices, gown hems, wrapped around wrists and fingers—
"Maggie," said Sébastien, fixing the cluster of guests, "Henry was to speak. You must open the ball in his place."
Scouring attendees—and not spotting the devil Duke who wanted her dead, and his red-headed witch of a wife—she sucked in a breath and drew a step forward, to the edge of the dais.
Unrehearsed speeches were something she'd have to get used to, but a nervous fluttering erupted in her gut, reminding her of the day she'd announced her brother and mother's deaths.
"Ladies, Gentlemen, friends, newcomers, partners, future allies—welcome. Thank you for joining us tonight." Her lungs tightened, and every extremity swelled. "We gather this evening for introductions, overflowing beverages, and baked goods. For dancing and discussions, and to broker peace, to fortify our country against external attacks."
With no notion of Henry's speech, she sensed her improvisation skills running dry as she ran out of things to say. Without deeper knowledge of these people, how was she to shock them into showing their true faces?
"Tonight, we discard all hatred and grudges. I ask you all to refrain from violent thoughts or disturbing opinions, and I urge you against forging inappropriate alliances. We will deal with issues later; this evening, we celebrate."
Sébastien snuck a glass of yellow-tinted wine into her hand, and urged her to raise it. "Toast them," he mumbled, turning to the audience with another fake smirk.
"A toast; to your health, your happiness, and a prosperous future!"
A chorus of "long live Queen Marguerite!" echoed out, and warmed her heart for a few seconds.
Lowering into her seat, she glared at the doors, praying they'd burst open and Henry would stroll in, sporting some silk emerald coat or a pair of bright pink breeches, clapping at her speech, chuckling as if he'd stopped the end of the world with a wink.
But he never came. Instead, the herald popped up as her people lined up before the dais to formally introduce themselves, or request to be a contender.
Marguerite set her sweaty, gloved hands onto the throne's armrests. "Come forth."
The first man sashaying up to her was one she'd hoped not to meet so soon. "The Marquess of Tegrary!" yelled the herald, as the nobleman removed his charcoal hat and bowed. His peppered hair matched his twirling mustache, and though he was short, he was stout, strongly built.
After kissing her knuckles, he smiled, though the gesture lacked sincerity.
"Sir," she said, refraining from asking how he dared greet her as if he wasn't the leader of the Marquessate that Sébastien and Henry hoped to steal from Terter. "I did not expect you."
He was a potential ally. Did this mean he had come to accept? To decline? Or to threaten her in person?
"I had to witness you for myself," he said, his tone practiced and polite. "I also offer my son as a suitor. He is training at the Academy, but as my sole heir, a union with him would give you the Marquessate of Tegrary and its territories." He flinched so quickly it was barely noticeable, but Marguerite and Sébastien saw it.
Marguerite squinted, understanding his terms—marry his son, and he'd retract his allegiance to Terter. "Your son?"
"Yes," the Marquess acquiesced, "and I would discuss conditions as soon as possible to seal the deal. I was told this would absolve certain issues, no?"
Sébastien's hand landed on hers and squeezed. "We will take your offer into consideration, Sir."
The man bowed at Sébastien. "Please do."
He backed off, leaving place to the Marquess of Uspal—a stiff gentleman who didn't even try to hide the daggers in his gaze. A known friend of Schwartz, he offered nothing to her but a curt word of encouragement, and stated he also offered his son as a suitor.
The alarm accruing in Marguerite's mind would surely show in her expression at any moment. Disgust and panic mingled in her abdomen, and she regretted her tiny sips of champagne as they bubbled within, rendering her nauseous.
More men came, each provoking more dreariness and despair as they winked, slobbered over her, whispered back-handed compliments, produced petty well-wishes. Their colognes drenched in pine or overpowering musk worsened her sickness, and their distasteful smirks as they ogled her caused her fingers to twitch with the craving to smack them.
Sébastien drank cup after cup of alcohol, and had begun a fourth when Marguerite met the fifteenth man in line.
"Calm down, would you?" She nudged him, and he almost spilled the liquid into his lap. "Your incessant drinking is inconspicuous, and I need you lucid."
He grunted. "But he is missing. Missing." He fidgeted, never settling in one spot for more than a minute, his gaze concentrated on the doors.
The Viscount of Locben plastered his moistened lips over the silk of her glove and complimented her beauty; she thanked him, but sneered at Sébastien.
"Henry? Yes, we established that already."
"No." Sébastien sat up straight, his brows shuffling up and down as sweat appeared between his nose and upper lip. "I mean yes, he is, too. I do not know where they... where he is—"
"—they?" Struggling to stash her fear in her knotted intestines, Marguerite scanned the room. "What are you talking about? Are we expecting someone else?"
As her gaze reached the end of the line, her heart stalled. She had no notion if they were who Sébastien referred to, but they were there, bringing up the rear. Her biggest foes, saving themselves for her final greeting—the best for last.
Duke Cornelius, and his grossly gracious wife, Adelaide, clad in blazing golds and bloody crimson, were outrageous and regal as ever. They waited their turn, like two wolves anticipating their feast, their fangs hiding behind their pretty lips.
The Duchess had pulled her hair out of her face, and the Duke's wheat-colored strands framed his flimsy frown, and were weighed down by a feathery hat.
Many stared at them in awe, defiance, admiration, yet the two lovers paid no mind to anyone.
They looked at Marguerite. Adelaide's piercing blues and Cornelius' marble bullets scowled in her direction, undulating closer and closer.
Marguerite wanted to hurl, to screech, to pick up any object and thrust it their way. To snatch a pistol from her guards and aim it at their powdered faces and tear into their perfect skulls, painting the walls red.
But she also craved to dash down the hall, and to jump off the balcony, concealing herself in the grass until the ball was over.
Was that immoral idiot under the impression he, a soon-to-be accused traitor, was welcome to glower at the Queen like so?
Marguerite wished to return his nasty expression, yet she glanced askance, powerless to control the emotions clogging the top of her throat.
Surrounded by enemies,fake-worshippers, gossiping vipers, and potential murderers, she had no cluehow long she'd be able to prevent her innards from shooting out.
•••