Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
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In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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Princess Cordelia of Totresia was born in the late summer of seventeen-eighty-one. Not long after Prince Jules started to walk, when Prince Sébastien strung together a few real sentences, and she and Antoine were five, standing a few inches taller, understanding a few of the more complicated words in the English vocabulary.
Cordelia, the sweet, dark-haired child, changed Marguerite's somewhat steady life in more ways than one. She was the Queen's daughter in every manner—from her chocolate eyes to the stern expression on her face, despite her infancy; and the sound of her voice when she sought to communicate. She was the focus of all conversations, the light in any darkened room, and the most revered baby in Totresia.
The concealed insults Marguerite used to hear whenever she walked into an area became scarce. No one seemed to notice her anymore, except for King Edouard and the Princes.
They still loved her. Her fun times of frolicking outside with the boys, climbing trees, escaping their chaperones, making up fantasy adventures as they weaved between shrubs in the orchards—those didn't stop despite the Princess' arrival.
The Princes—mainly Antoine, the only eloquent one of the bunch at that time—spokeof her often, to remind how they adored her, and to recount their favorite moments in her presence. Moments no one permitted Marguerite to take part in.
Their realsister. The one who shared their eye-color—Antoine's irises werea tad lighter—and their royal blood. The one Marguerite was certain would replace her.
One day, when Marguerite tripped, and Antoine helped her up, he told her how he'd always be there for her. Then he explained how he'd do the same for Cordelia; he'd protect her against harm, start wars for her safety, defy any man who tried to defile her.
Once alone, Marguerite cried—he'd never said such things about her, yet she'd always assumed he felt them. He'd never proclaimed to guard her honor as he did for his sister.
So, as a respectable noble Totresian girl, taught to hold in her emotions, she had to listen to Antoine, and soon Sébastien, prattle on about their precious new sibling and how they'd turn the world upside down for her.
The hardest part about Cordelia's arrival was the Queen's behavior and how it transformed.
She always had a sternness about her, a harshness to her features, a firm hand in how she raised her children. But with her own daughter to cherish and coo at, she no longer looked at Marguerite with the affection she used in the past. She no longer called her the rescued flower, her blooming daisy in the storm. The nicknames and kindness were all reserved for her daughter. Her real daughter.
Clémentine's attitude had begun its change during her pregnancy; she already had little patience for Marguerite's learning mistakes, little tolerance for her confusion.
