Sir Wells, professor of History and Geography at the Academy for Noble Girls, had a reputation. He claimed he once lived so close to the border that he spoke better French than English, yet he hated teaching about anything other than Totresia.
"Our founders named the Totresian territories, regions, and counties after their chief cities," he said, in his thick French accent—that many stated he faked for attention. He dragged Céleste from her daydreams as he paced at the front of the room. "Can anyone tell me why that is?"
Three of the Juniors drew their eyes up from their notes, confusion smearing across their delicate features. They'd spent their time gossiping instead of studying; but the question didn't surprise Céleste. She'd done her homework.
Staring at the creamy curtains framing one of the imposing windows, she sighed.
To better define who their leading noble overseer is.
How she wished to jump out, beyond the drapes. To enjoy the autumn weather before the crisp air turned too cold, before the sky threatened to release icy drizzles of rage. It was uncommonly cool for Totresia, this year. Céleste's Junior year; and it was the last she'd have to endure with the leeches like Charlotte Geitz and Julia Espinar and Hermione Nicholls. These were her ultimate moments among the vultures who roamed the Academy's halls in search of someone to mock.
"Have none of you read the chapter on Totresian territories?" Sir Wells' tone turned sharper as he tapped a foot to the floor. "Your assignment?"
Two of the girls peered into their laps. Constance, a ditzy student who daydreamed more than Céleste, gaped at the wall, stuck in some reverie about who knew what.
Sir Wells crossed his arms. "This will not do."
Céleste also stared into her lap. Her face didn't scrunch in shame, as she'd completed the requested task; but she'd read other books the night prior. Others who held her focus more. Others like the one she was hiding under the bulky Totresian History tome she'd placed on her thighs.
The Golden Girl.
She never separated from it. It had become an extension of her arm, a dictionary, a good-luck charm. She didn't want to bring it into class with her, but today she had to. She'd uncovered information she longed to ask her professor. Geography questions about certain places described in her novel. She had to know if they were real, if they existed, and where to find them if they did.
She'd stopped her patterns of eavesdropping and disobeying; but now, knowing her favorite—and prohibited—book was within reach, concealed from her teacher, roused a renewed sense of adrenaline to spike her blood. She hated to admit it, but she'd missed it.
Sir Wells pivoted, finger in the air as he spoke, dictating a new paragraph for the ladies to copy. Céleste didn't move, and her quill remained dry, as if she'd never dipped it in ink. Whatever he mumbled on about drowned in her ears, and her eyelids grew heavy as she imagined herself dancing.
Navy layers of shiny silk draped over her. Tiny diamond beads on her bodice shimmered in the moonlight. A mask of satin ebony covered her skin, contrasting her red-tinted lips and the dirty blond curls piling atop her head, weighed down with ribbons and flowers.
She was a ravishing courtier.
A ballroom took form before her. Its walls were raven and emerald, its floors pure gold. Windows popped up with thin white cloths that swayed in the breeze, dangling from hinges. Sconces decked the corners, gleaming, flickering, but never extinguishing.
Other masked attendees arrived in the room in a sea of colors. Happy teals, ruby reds, dazzling silvers, sizzling combinations of orange and yellow. They clasped hands and swirled to a lively tune erupting from a giant ivory piano in the far-right. The bronze chandeliers above showered them with sparkles, reflecting off their bejeweled fabrics, fluttering across the walls like fireflies.
One couple in the heart of the space captured her curiosity.
Them.
A woman in a white-feathered dress, a mask of gold and silver disguising all but her vivid ocean eyes. A man with chestnut hair, several heads taller than the lady. She had golden tresses tumbling down behind her, and was fresh as dawn, beautiful as a wild daisy, radiant, smiling, elegant. He sported a forest-and-black suit, clashing with her bright hues as he rocked her back and forth, laughing.
They were the stars of the evening, Céleste could tell. The main attraction of the Ball, the fantasy all aspired to. But they ignored everyone, basking in their bubble of comfort and pleasure. Dancing, kissing, noses touching.
Goosebumps crawled up Céleste's bare arms as she observed, intruding on their joyful moment. Curious, she snuck closer, yearning to catch a better peek.
It was them, matching the descriptions in her book without fail.
The Golden Girl and the Crown Prince!
As she took a stride towards them, their image fizzled and blurred. The gleeful ball-goers disappeared. The scenery faded, becoming a soaked courtyard with a black sky above, splitting to unleash heavy drops of rain.
The Duchess was running. She whooshed past Céleste without seeing her, tumbling down the path, bolting farther and farther.
Stuck in a trance, Céleste couldn't budge. She heard a horse neigh, and saw the lady galloping off, hair wet and dripping onto her cloak. Her white dress had transformed to gold and she'd removed her mask. Even from afar Céleste could see the distress in her pinched expression.
The night she ran away?
The Duchess pulled a hood over herself and flew off, faster and faster. She twisted her upper body to look behind her, and waved at Céleste. "Miss Richel!"
Céleste's limbs stilled as her skirts melted in the rain, fogging into the atmosphere. Her feet glued to the ground as she glimpsed the Duchess, who grew smaller and smaller. "Wait. Wait!"
"Miss Richel!" Her voice was deeper, raspier. "Céleste!" Masculine.
Masculine?
Céleste's ball-gown shifted into a pale blue school dress, its sleeves ruffling at the edges. Her tresses unfurled down her neck in delicate waves. Her decorated heels transformed to worn-down boots stopping at her ankles. When she reached a hand to her face, she noticed her mask was gone. The rain had subsided, and a room formed around her. White walls, light wooden floors, windows, a roaring fireplace. In place of the maiden and her mysterious gaze was Sir Wells.
"Céleste, return to this classroom at once!"
As she came to, realizing what had happened, she caught the scrutiny building on the faces of the three other students as they glared at her.
"Oh, dear."
She hadn't left her seat. It was another daydream. One she'd promised herself to stop having, to not let occur in class.
Sir Wells' nose scrunched, and he seemed ready to flare up and explode like a firework. "Miss Richel—"
"—I have your answer!" She huffed, desperate to make up a cover-story. "I did the homework, and I know it! To better determine who their leading noble was, that is it!"
One girl gasped, another suppressed a giggle, and the third whispered something under her breath.
Céleste flinched. "Is that not the answer?"
Sir Wells' eyes were about to burst in flames. "It is, but I gave it a while ago, Miss Richel."
Her chin sank. "Ah, it seems I must have wandered off into my imagination while retrieving it..."
The professor dragged a hand down his face. "This is the third time." His stern timbre prompted her to sit up straight and fight a series of chills racing down her spine. "This lesson requires your full awareness. Our history is important, even for young ladies. Yet you fall behind again."
"Sir, I—" She braced to stand and defend herself, but as she hoisted up, the books in her lap scrambled to the floor, including the one she'd been concealing.
Eyebrows searching upward, Sir Wells scanned the cover of the smaller, golden-clad novel before Céleste could bend down and snatch it from his grasp.
"Oh, Sir, this is—"
"—it is what?" The corners of his mouth drooped, and his bushy brows formed an angry line across his lower forehead.
She swallowed hard. She hadn't been in this much trouble since last year, and she'd done everything in her power not to be, ever again.
"I-it is a bit of light reading, Sir. Nothing to fret over, I only longed to ask you questions about it after—"
"—ask me questions about it?" His cheeks turned scarlet, and he whistled like a boiling kettle. A blood vessel thumped near his temple, and she could have sworn smoke drifted out his nostrils. "What questions would you ask a History and Geography professor about a romance novel, Miss Richel?"
The other pupils clapped their hands over their mouths. Even Constance woke from her usual stupor to witness this moment; Céleste's shameful plummeting from model student to girl who snuck her less-than-favorable reading materials into class, where they didn't belong.
This is it! Father will lock me up for good.
Sir Wells steered himself away from her, but the flush in his cheekbones didn't subside. "Come with me, Miss Richel. This is a matter best brought to Miss M. herself." He gripped the golden-bound book so tight, Céleste worried he'd break it.
Refusing to go with him would only worsen the situation; so she stood, remembering how dire it was to end up in Miss M.'s office.
Sir Wells stomped down the hall and pounded so hard on the Director's door, she had no choice but to open and listen to his complaints.
When Céleste trudged over, she caught him mentioning students reading frivolous novels, dirty stories. "How dare she?"
Miss M. held the book in one hand, her other propped up, palm facing Sir Wells, as if trying to slow him down. "Yes, yes, I will handle it, Sir.
Gulping, Céleste sauntered closer.
"Return to your lesson. Do not keep those girls waiting. They might start a scandal." Miss M. then spotted Céleste, and with a small breath, beckoned her into her Study.
Sir Wells glowered, thanked her, and thundered to his classroom.
Once Céleste had crawled past the threshold, the Director closed the door and motioned for her to sit on one of the leather chaises before her desk.
The blue wallpaper surrounding them was pleasant, and the window, prison-like and covered with thick curtains, provided only a slither of light. Miss M.'s work-space was dark. A few candles were lit, no chandeliers hung from the ceiling, no brass sconces decorated the walls like in the hallway. There might have been a fire ignited in the obscure hearth, but the sensation of dread inside would have convinced Céleste otherwise. As if instead of an office, she'd landed in a frosty dungeon awaiting a death sentence.
The office was small, especially considering it belonged to the Director of the Academy. But Céleste had long since learned that Miss M. wasn't one for extravagances. She rarely showed herself outside the room and sent her handmaid Johanna to fetch her meals or deliver letters in her stead. Sir Knowles met with her often, but aside from him and Johanna, no one entered without her leave.
Céleste sat, jaw clenched, chin down, as Miss M. lowered into her chair and sighed again. "Miss Richel." Her tone was softer than expected.
Miss M.is a bigger mystery than all my novels combined.
She never mingled with students, didn't attend the end-of-year ceremonies or graduations. The gossip said she had turned twenty-one earlier that year, came from an unidentified aristocratic family in the south, and preferred to keep to herself due to her sex and how most noblemen reacted to her directing a school for noble girls.
"Look at me." Céleste hadn't realized she'd zoned out while gawking at Miss M.'s quill as she scratched its tip to paper. The nearby fireplace swarmed her with heat, but her blood was like ice as she met the woman's exotic emerald and sapphire eyes. Today, she'd pulled her wheat-colored curls back, appearing sterner than ever. "Do you understand why Sir Wells brought you here?"
Céleste's leg muscles twitched as Miss M. produced the book. The golden binding, the tattered title in messy cursive, the Anonymous scribbled at the bottom in haste.
"I was not reading it in the lesson, I swear."
The Director tapped the cover with the feathery part of her quill. "Yes, but you had it with you, implying you were, or you meant to. You of all pupils should recall how Sir Wells needs attention in his lectures. We do not discourage students from reading in their free moments. But this?" The earlier warmth in her tone switched to wintry, and she grimaced. "This is not good, Miss Richel."
Céleste had never realized how young and beautiful her Director was. She never slouched, showed no weakness, and appeared nothing less than dignified. Her skin glistened, and her shiny strands were always impeccable, never out of place.
Afraid of slipping into another dream, Céleste nodded. "I-I know, Miss."
Miss M. heaved up the novel. "You know, yet here we are. An unexpected choice for a lady as intelligent as you."
Céleste perked up. "You have read it?"
The Director's lips bunched as she narrowed her gaze. "No. Hear-say only. I may not like them, but I listen to rumors. They claim this book harbors myths of fairy-tale love stories and runaways and exaggerating royals. It is a fantasy. I would have never guessed the rumors stemmed from you owning it."
Céleste swallowed, fingers turning numb. "I am sorry, Miss—"
"—Where did you find it?" Céleste opened her mouth to answer, but Miss M. stopped her. "Never-mind, that is not my concern. This is the third complaint about you in recent times. Your daydreaming is unbecoming of a lady, of the daughter of a prominent Marquess who has such high hopes for you."
Céleste couldn't hold her head up, her neck rigid and uncomfortable. "But I..." She trailed off, unsure if she should voice her honest thoughts. Her protests that such a book was racy, yes, and improper, but she read it for its mystery. For clues on this Duchess and her true identity, if she had one. She read it out of the desire to find out where she disappeared to, and when, and if she was still alive.
"But what? Be candid with me." Miss M. drummed her fingertips on the desk as she let the book sink from her grip. "Tell the truth and it will be easier for me to dish out a punishment."
Punishment?
Céleste lept up from her spot, about to straddle the desk to get her point across, forgetting where she was and who she spoke to. "Oh, please, do not ban me from the Academy! I have worked so hard, have been so good aside from this mishap, and it is minor compared to my eavesdropping, I am sure you understand that—"
"—Céleste." Miss M. pointed at Céleste's armchair. "Calm yourself, I beg you. I do not plan to banish you, Heaven's no. Your father would never let me live that down. Sit."
Lower lip quivering and fingers fiddling with loose threads in her gown, Céleste obeyed. "I... I wanted geography information from Sir Wells. The book... he might have... I just..."
"Next time, mention this to him before the lesson and make an appointment with him. And leave the novel in your quarters, will you? No need to cause him such panic and lead him to harsh judgment." The Director blew out her cheeks. "Your father invests much in you, so please, be serious about your studies. Your questions about mythical books should come later."
"I am serious about my studies!" Céleste shuffled, her spine stiff against the chair-back. "I am at the top of my class and will graduate with high honors!"
Miss M. scoffed. "Yes, you are the smartest Junior, this year. But bringing such tempting tales into sessions where Sir Wells tries to educate you on the history of our kingdom is foolish."
She wanted to disagree, to tell her Director again that she wasn't reading, only dozing into a dream about the characters. She cringed; that wouldn't be much better.
I would do well to stay silent, for once.
Miss M. studied her, prodding, curious. "Do you disagree?"
Legs curling around the chair base, Céleste scrunched her forehead. "No, Miss, I do not. I offer my apologies, once more. I promise to be more attentive in class."
Miss M. rose, lips pouted, and picked up the book. "I will take your apology into consideration and refrain from contacting your father, for now." To Céleste's surprise, she extended the novel to her. "In the meantime, I do not wish to hear of this ever again, understood? I will not confiscate it, but if you must persist on having it, keep it for the privacy of your bedroom. Next time, I will not be so forgiving."
As the familiar battered binding scent wafted into her nostrils, Céleste inclined her head in gratitude; for the book, but also for Miss M.'s decision to not warn Sir Richel.
"Thank you." Relief spread through every cavity in her body in warm, tingling jolts. "I will not disappoint you!"
A mischievous smirk formed on the Director's face, though she concealed it with the quill's ebony feathers as she jutted her chin towards the door. "Go. Do not make me rethink this. I dismiss you from Sir Wells' class today. He is too upset to see you, I guarantee it."
Céleste halted, halfway to the exit. "But—"
"—do not question it. Remember your place in his lessons. You are here for us to teach you. To become a proper, educated lady; one who heeds orders and does her homework and acts like a lady without complaint."
Céleste's fists tightened, a sour taste swarming into her mouth. She wouldn't retaliate. Not now, not in front of the woman who'd given her a free pass.
"Go on, then. Rest, review your assignments for other classes, practice your manners." The Director sat, retrieved the parchment she'd been working on, and resumed her scribbling.
As she exited the office, Céleste clutched the book to her bodice, cradling it like a baby, hugging it like a favorite doll. She'd read it again later, in the comfort of her room, hoping to discover another clue about the Duchess, another bit of proof to show she was real. Not a myth in a fantasy, but a true figure in history.
She thanked the Heavens for her good fortune and skipped up the student staircase, hastening to her bedroom. Her geography questions would have to wait. The Golden Girl would have to remain a faraway dream of eccentric masked events and graceful music and piles of exquisite food—for now.
•••