**THE PRINCESS SERIES is part of the GOLDEN UNIVERSE, and considered a sequel to THE GOLDEN QUEEN/A BRAZEN LOVE**
♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE GOLDEN UNIVERSE NOVELS AND THE BRAZEN NOVELS TO READ THIS SERIES! AS WELL AS BOOK ONE, PRINCESS OF CANDOR!♦
In...
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♪ Gonna claim you like a souvenir Just to sell you in a year ♪ {Billie Eilish—GOLDWING}
Cordelia wasn't sure how, but they survived the trip. As the boat's violent rocking subsided, and she heard the calls of "land ahead" and sensed the slowing of the hull's speed, she released several breaths she'd been holding in.
Helen's state was dreary. She'd been unable to keep down most of the water Cordelia had given her, and nibbled at a few stale biscuits towards the end of the journey, which gave her eyes a bit more pep. But she was shriveled, raggedy, her cheeks seeming to melt, and her skin still wavering between stark white and acid green.
When they were fetched by the sailor boy—the same who'd brought them down there—Cordelia let out a few more breaths, and helped hold Helen up. Her legs were jittery, and though she'd not say so herself—her damn English pride—Helen needed the assistance. Her steps were careful, as if watching for rats wherever she placed her foot, and after a few minutes she grew accustomed to Cordelia's aid and allowed her to direct their walking.
Upstairs, the sun blared into their faces, warming their bones. Not that it had been chilly, in the hull; but Cordelia's skin had been icy with panic, and Helen's clammy with cold sweat. The fresh air—albeit fishy and salty—was exactly what they'd needed, and they both sucked it in in large gulps with small smiles slipping over their lips.
The scenery in Dover differed from Calais, Cordelia noticed at once. There was the same hustle and bustle of sailors and passengers, dock workers, merchants, hagglers, drunken men having marched away from rowdy taverns near the beach. But everyone spoke English. Cordelia had grown so used to the French tonalities, the musical notes, the fast-paced rhythm of the words. Here every sentence was choked, croaked, cross-sounding, yet it pleased her ears. Having to attempt rapid translations in her mind had been exhausting, and she sensed herself relax slightly.
As they moved along the gangplank—the captain in front, having greeted them on the deck and inspected them for damage, as if they were part of his cargo—Cordelia sighted a large white cliff behind the port, high and towering. It was covered in greenery at the top, and she spotted a castle—Dover Castle, she presumed. It was tall, a bland beige shade though it sparkled a tad in the sunlight.
On the dock, the captain bid them farewell, and pointed towards the mess of wooden planks that would lead them to a boardwalk, where most of the passengers and passersby congregated. Along the boardwalk were buildings, similar to those in Calais, but lacking the pastels and cheery colors. These were plain white, or a boring brown, with high rooftops and lofty windows, signs dangling over doors, people hurrying in and out carrying packages or food or dodging looks of those nearby.
It reminded her of Paris, for a spell. Though it was grayer, drab in terms of coloring, it had the same haste, the same noise of boots on pavement, the thud of doors slamming, the bell ringing for doors opening. The commotion of conversations cascading from left to right, hanging over the air—conversations she had no trouble understanding.
