She felt it before anyone else did. The golden-haired Duchess hovering around her son, devouring him with her endless pools of tropical green splashed with blue. Wearing her best dresses when they took their walks, their hands millimeters from touching. Sabotaging any other courtier's chances of meeting Antoine. Her name—the one Clémentine chose but now detested—on every Totresian tongue.
Marguerite, the Duchess of Torrinni, the Golden Girl of Totresia.
Everyone considered her a favorite of King Edouard. He privileged her over any other noble—and over his own daughter. Cordelia was young, thank the heavens, and didn't understand why he didn't visit her, why he educated Marguerite in his stuffy office instead of teaching her, or her brothers.
Clémentine couldn't ignore it any longer. The Duchess of Torrinni wouldn't ruin her peaceful household.
Edouard will see reason—I will make certain of it.
A few days after the seventeen-ninety-one Masquerade, Edouard announced he received an invitation for a large meeting of European monarchs, taking place in Paris. He selected his councilmen, sent word to those he preferred to reside at court in his absence, made his travel plans; and declared he would bring Antoine and Marguerite to it.
It was the final blow to Clémentine's ego. She refused to allow this girl—whose identity and origins remained unknown, though Clémentine had no doubt she was foreign—voyage with her husband and son, acting like a part of the family. She wasn't, never had been, never would be.
"No," she said, straining not to bare her teeth at her beloved. He overruled her all those years ago, when taking the two along on his trip around Totresia; and he spoke over her when deciding Marguerite would receive private tutoring with him.
She loved her spouse more than anyone in the world, but he was too naïve. Marguerite was a rodent, a sly snake squeezing into their comfortable circle, hoping to gain a crown, a throne beside Antoine.
Not if Clémentine could help it.
"What do you mean no? You do not think they should come with me?" Edouard's bushy eyebrows linked, and he scratched at the stubble on his chin. Though still as handsome as the day she met him, he had grown weaker, and a few gray strands dusted into his chestnut hair. Stress, responsibility, and the weight of the country on his shoulders had drawn a thick but invisible line between them, and she struggled to hop over it and reach his heart. Most days he was too preoccupied to listen to her; and when night fell, he only yearned for silence and brandy.
"He should; she should not." They sat in the Parlor between their quarters; a shared space where they joined for a night-cap, or to discuss affairs of the day away from their squires and ladies, or to relax in the quiet while peeking out at the moonlit gardens below.
Plush chaises and sofas and hand-carved tables filled the room, all dating from centuries ago, belonging to Edouard's ancestors. Clémentine added her personal touch; violet draperies and lacy doilies she'd brought with her when she moved to Totresia.
"Marguerite should stay here?" He clutched his goblet, and Clémentine smelled the brandy and tea mixture from where she sat, on the other side of the coffee table. "She is to be Antoine's advisor, Clém. With the new King of Giroma attending, she has to be there, to help our son learn to control his outbursts. Have you heard Antoine speak of Romain? He has never met the boy and expresses a serious hatred. It is unbecoming of a King of Totresia."
Clémentine scoffed—she also detested the inexperienced Giromian King and his tight-lipped mother, but she had her reasons that didn't line with Antoine's. "You would dare tell me you never threw a fit because of Gregor? Your father never argued in public with Gregor's?" She took a swig of her watered-down wine; she'd already had several goblets at supper, but the diluted taste helped her sleep. "He must learn on his own. Without her there, flapping about at his heels. She is a girl. Some Europeans might accept your modern notion of a lady advisor, but Giroma? That would provoke them. Bringing your Duchess will only worsen our passive-aggressive predicament."
"My Duchess?" Clémentine spotted the irritation in his tone. He loved Marguerite with all his soul, and it wounded him to see Clémentine wanted to get rid of her, as he'd said on more than one occasion. "You insist on this? It will not please you if I go about my own plans?"
She set down her drink and crossed her arms, narrowing her gaze, locking onto his. A move that used to capture his attention and push him to do whatever she asked. Would it still work after all their recent disagreements?
"It is enchanting," he once said to her, after they met. She scowled at him for a remark he made that upset her, and it threw him over the edge. "I cannot imagine looking into anyone else's eyes for the rest of my life."
Their love was a fairy-tale; but with the passing seasons, Clémentine found she cherished their partnership while he ignored her to vagabond from town to town and shower his peasants with love. When he returned home, he embraced Marguerite first. Not his own wife, not his children.
Why is he still so obsessed with her?
"I insist that her presence would do you no justice." Her fingers were restless, fiddling with the silk of her evening dress. "To have Antoine alone, to work on his temper, would be a good exercise. A test of character and strength for a future King. Your committee loves your son, and so do our people; but he must convince Europe if he wants to walk in your shoes."
The King smiled, the skin around his eyes bunching. "Well, you are not wrong." He reached across the table to beckon for her hand. "For someone not born as a royal, you have royal insight, dearest."
Sulking, lips pouting, but cheeks flaring with heat at the compliment, Clémentine set her palms in his. His calloused thumbs rubbed over her knuckles and he tugged her close, leaning forward so that their noses would touch. She squeaked, but giggled at the playfulness, the affection.
Affection he didn't give her as of late.
"You have convinced me, my lady," he said, planting tiny kisses up to her wrists, drawing her closer. A fire woke in his eyes, flickering like flames from a hearth, bursting with energy like a summer sunrise. His jaw clenched as he continued to peck at her wrist, and one hand wrapped around her upper arm to heave her up as he stood.
"Edouard," she said, breathless from his smooches, heartbeat picking up so much speed she felt dizzy. As tingles streaked up and down her spine, a sensation she hadn't allowed to jostle to life in a long time animated in her lower belly.
Desire.
***
When Antoine and Edouard and their enormous retinue departed a few days later, Clémentine made sure Marguerite was too busy to wish them safe travels. She arranged for her to have a music lesson, reminded her she'd turn sixteen in a few months, and would need to perform certain pieces with perfection to woo potential spouses.
When the girl groaned at her commands, she forbade her from uniting with the Princes for their afternoon walk.
After several days had passed, the Duchess begged Clémentine to let her write to Edouard, to apologize for not being in the courtyard when he took off; and in a quick whisper, she added she wished to compose a note for Antoine, too. Though Clémentine's elevated eyebrows and stiff posture should have dissuaded the girl, her begging turned to insistence. Even when the Queen ordered her out of the Solar, and restricted her free time after her lessons, and forced her to eat supper alone in her room, she beseeched.
"Please, Majesty. Please let me jot a small note to them."
One night, preparing for a Ball she'd set up to welcome a group of young girls to court, the Queen twirled, admiring herself in her massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. "Why would I let her speak with them? So she might complain in code about how much she hates me? No."
Her lady, Alice, busied about fixing creases in the emerald satin gown, and nodded. "It would give her too much hope, Majesty, I agree." She always sided with Clémentine, no matter what she said. "But... and forgive me for mentioning this, Majesty... but what if you watch her write this letter? Dictate what she says, ensure she only scribbles what you allow? You would keep your son and husband happy, and she will cease annoying you."
Clémentine stopped spinning, breaths stalling. "Supervise her?" She gave a slow, disbelieving nod. "Right, it will delight Edouard to read her words, Antoine will be more obedient, and she will stop her moaning." She smirked, skimming her fingertips across her jawline. "Yes. Well done, Alice."
So, the next day, she caught Marguerite before she withdrew from her mid-morning etiquette lesson.
"I have decided to grant you your request," said the Queen, plopping beside Marguerite at a Library table. Such lessons would take place in the Reading Room, but a few ladies had reserved the space for a book-club, since Clémentine banned them from discussing their scandalous novels in the Solar.
The young Duchess perked up, a glowing innocence smattering over her delicate porcelain features. "M-my request?" Her eyes were bright and full of life and curiosity, matching the shade of exotic oceans, and her hair like golden corn kernels lying in the sun. She had a small, fragile frame; like a doll that would shatter to pieces if dropped.
Clémentine wasn't jealous of her beauty, but she saw the appeal the Duchess had to court-dwelling gentlemen. How they gawked at her when she bustled by, laughing and fawning over Antoine, unaware how popular she was. Clémentine had a multitude of future prospects lining up for her, but she'd long ago chosen whom she wanted Marguerite to marry.
In due time. She is not yet eighteen.
"Oh! You mean—" Marguerite lept from her seat, lowering into a deep curtsy, holding in her squirms. "Majesty, thank you! I am ever grateful."
"Yes, as you should be." Clémentine pushed the girl's quill towards her, motioning for her to sit. "But you will write what I dictate, is that clear?"
If the girl disagreed, she said nothing, though she slouched a bit as she took the quill, hovering its tip over the parchment. She gritted her teeth as she waited for the Queen to speak.
This should retract her claws from my son.
She rose, sauntered over to stand behind Marguerite, and cleared her throat. "Dearest King Edouard..."
***
Another few weeks passed, and Clémentine grew more and more tired of the moments she wasted scrutinizing the Duchess' behavior. But she had no choice—by keeping her occupied, she would create a divide between the girl and her dear son and convince them to spend less time on their friendship, and more time on their future.
She didn't hate the Duchess. She raised her, and never loved her, but didn't wish her harm. Above all, she disliked her improper proximity with her sons; a proximity that seemed to worsen with every passing year. Though she recognized the girl's potential, how she charmed everyone with her wit, she prayed she'd steer clear of Antoine.
Hoping to divert her from the Crown Prince, Clémentine showered her with attention—but it repulsed her to see the girl so enthused. She invited her to her private tea-dates with Cordelia, included her in family dinners, gave her spots of honor in the Solar. But she never smiled, never praised her, never encouraged her.
Clémentine reserved her kindness for Cordelia. At ten, soon-to-be eleven, she was a prodigy. She spoke with more eloquence than Marguerite had at her age, recited poetry in several languages, excelled in her royal tutoring. Master Martel adored her, and her chaperones claimed she never strayed from proper behaviors and never mingled with anyone her mother didn't value.
"Those who need watching are your boys, Majesty," said Alice one afternoon, after Marguerite and Cordelia left them in the Winter Garden. They had met with the Queen to observe a new batch of flowers arriving from Spain—red carnations.
Alice shooed everyone from the area to allow the royal woman her space, once the flower-presentation had ended.
Clémentine enjoyed nature, but it was too chilly to take lengthy walks outside. In the Winter Garden, with its marble-and-stone benches and high trees, she felt at home. The glass pyramid roof allowed sunlight to pour over the greenery and prismatic orbs to dance about the faded yellow-stone walls.
Heels crunching over the pebbled pathway, Clémentine sighed. "Yes, they are incorrigible. Sébastien reads and wants nothing else. In the rare moments he does not, he takes up swords and guns and fights. Such a peculiar boy." She smashed a red carnation in her palm. "And Jules? Oh, that child... I tend to favor him, I admit it; but he listens to no one. Sneaks off through his secret passages to visit her though I do not permit it."
"We must remember; they are young, Majesty." Alice's features were gentle and pure, and though Clémentine didn't enjoy how she sucked up to her, she was the only lady whose company she appreciated for more than a few minutes. "Prince Sébastien will make a fine warrior; and Prince Jules will amuse court with his jesting. Both are so handsome, so proper at the dinner table—"
"—but they will not leave her alone." The Queen glared at the nearest glass door as if Marguerite loitered there, curtsying, her smile wide and her energy ever intoxicating. "My husband will not allow me to send her away to her Palace that sits empty and unused."
Alice sat on a bench in the shade of a beech tree. "Majesty, would you grant me leave to express my thoughts?"
A sweltering fire stirred in Clémentine's rib-cage, waking an eerie excitement within. The last time Alice made a suggestion—letting Marguerite write to the King and Prince under supervision—Clémentine slept soundly for the first time in months. "Yes. What is it, Alice?"
Alice beamed, her sapphire eyes like gems in a dark cavern, lighting up Clémentine's obscure heart. "How about a pilgrimage? I could go with her, accompany her to churches and cathedrals to meet with priests and nuns, donate coins and bless peasants. It would put you in a good light, and garner more support for your husband, too. He and his envoy will return soon, no?" Clémentine nodded. "So send her off now, and I will ensure we take our time. She will not be around to distract them."
Short of yanking Alice into a hug—she'd done that once and the poor woman near had a heart-attack—Clémentine seized the woman's forearms. "You are a genius, Alice. I will organize this at once."
She summoned Marguerite to her office later that afternoon. "You are to go on a voyage. One that will mean the world to Edouard and I." She slid a parchment to her, and, perplexed, the girl batted her lashes too often, wringing her hands in her lap. "A pilgrimage. You will represent us, prove to all that Edouard cares for his people, for the most unfortunate. As our highest noble in the Kingdom, and an advisor to the Crown Prince, it falls on you to do this."
Marguerite scanned the note—cities she would stop in, places she would stay, speeches she would have to memorize for the commoners who showed to meet her. "But I... am I not too young for such things?"
"Nonsense!" Clémentine gripped the chair arms, digging her nails into the velvet surface. "Edouard had his first religious tour around the country when he was much younger than you. This is not something you can decline. You must do it. Show yourself benevolent to the people, and soon we will have so many marriage proposals for you there will be no doubt how loved you are. Is that not what you want?"
Marguerite's features turned sallow as she wet her lips and pulled her chin up to gaze at the Queen. The saddened glimmer in her irises would have fooled anyone else; but not Clémentine. "Majesty, I... I am only fifteen. Is it not too soon to find a husband?"
Clémentine sensed a vein throbbing on the left part of her forehead; she knew she shouldn't have offered to detail the situation to Marguerite. She should have sent word for her to pack and thrown her in a carriage without explanation. "I was fifteen when I arrived here and fell in love with Edouard," she said, refraining from rubbing her face in exasperation. "Seasons take a while to organize, in case you forgot. As a Duchess raised by royals, we will have lavish festivities that befit your station. We have three years left, yes, but it is not unreasonable to start the groundwork now."
Rolling up the scroll, Marguerite swallowed. "If you... if you say it is so, I cannot disobey, Majesty."
If only you would say that when I warn you against pursuing my son.
Clémentine flicked her wrist towards the door. "Splendid. You may go, then. You leave in two days; have Alice aid you in packing."
Halfway up from her chair, Marguerite paused, blood draining from her face. "Two days? But His Majesty... Antoine... they are to return in four—"
"—timing is everything." The Queen arched a brow and her gaze switched between Marguerite and the doorway. "Edouard ordered this, and if you are still home when he returns... well, do you wish to anger your King?" Whimpering, Marguerite shook her head. "That is what I thought. Hurry. I will see you off myself."
Clémentine didn't regret the lie, as it coerced Marguerite into obedience; she'd never disobey King Edouard.
Two days came and went, and when the Queen ushered Marguerite into a carriage, winking at Alice, relief flooded inside her chest, tranquility eased the constant pressure in her temples. She waved, and once they reached the middle of the driveway, she pivoted towards her castle, a bemused smile spreading across her lips.
Have fun, Marguerite. When you return, Antoine will not be waiting.
•••