Princess of Candor (#1 PRINCESS series-part of the GOLDEN UNIVERSE)✔

•T W E N T Y - T H R E E•

♪ 'Cause I don't wanna bring it to light
That the fact is I'm losing my mind ♪
{Adam Melchor ft. Lennon Stella—Light year}

Fresh clothing arrived, and the girls took turns removing their travel-worn clothes behind the partially see-through, mostly ripped divider near the dresser. The sun had set, and their bedroom door remained locked. Thomas didn't try to check on them, and the mystery Baroness didn't provide any instructions for how the rest of their imprisonment would go.

Cordelia winced while changing, several times. She kept worrying that Helen, despite having turned her back, was watching. Trying to glimpse her bare skin, curious about what lay beneath her layers of rumpled, rugged clothing. But hadn't she already seen under Cordelia's clothes? Had they ever gotten that far, and would Cordelia ever dare let her memory venture into that territory to figure it out?

She decided that if she were to ponder it all—the potential that she and Helen might have exchanged more than friendly hugs and smooches on cheeks—it wouldn't be that night. She dismissed Helen's request to chat before bed, like they had done in the past, while the boys played cards or smoked cigars nearby. The boys weren't there, and Cordelia worried where their discussion would go.

And in any case, her mind was charged with questions about their current situation, not their past one. A nagging noise in her brain urged her to find a means to pick the bedroom lock and sneak out to find Thomas and drown him in queries. Or to find the nearest exit and disappear—though traversing such thick forests on foot and at night wasn't smart.

Cordelia's eyelids became too heavy, and Helen snored softly on the other side of the bed, their backs to each other. She determined that, for now, she'd stay put and wait for the right moment to concoct a plan of escape. To where, she had no clue. Continuing her voyage seemed suicidal, but scurrying on home was just as deadly, as she feared the reception she'd get from Antoine. She deserved it, sure; but that didn't mean she wanted nor was prepared for it.

***

A faint but pleasant scent of baked goods woke her as it crept into her nostrils. Opening one eye, Cordelia saw Helen at the foot of their bed, picking through a platter of croissants, coffee-cakes, and fruit tarts. On the nightstand, she sighted two steaming mugs, and a handwritten note that she squinted to read.

"Enjoy the breakfast — but do not get used to such comforts."

Cordelia assumed it was the Baroness' doing—a brief show of kindness before she treated them like real prisoners and fed them with stale bread and moldy cheese.

"She said she would be back later, to talk," said Helen, noticing that Cordelia's eyes were open. She plucked a croissant—Cordelia's favorite—from the platter and waved it at her. "Hungry?"

Cordelia's belly growled; of course she was hungry. Famished. She'd declined the foul-smelling potage that had arrived the night before, at the same time as their stack of ill-fitting clothes, and preferred to go to bed with an empty stomach. But the pastries; no, those she wasn't able to resist.