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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As her roots stretched into the Totresian soil she felt so foreign in, Marguerite's petals grew, her wings spread. Timid though she had once been, she was now armed with knowledge—and her King's trust. She no longer feared the future as much.
A few noblemen still whispered when she walked by, but they didn't pester her with cruelty. Many bowed to her, a few smiled, several offered her their arm to guide her to whichever area of the castle she meandered to.
She had King Edouard to thank for the new treatment.
She wasn't alone in blooming into the role set aside for her; her best friend, her closest ally, alsomade a name for himself at the Totresian Royal Court.
Crown Prince Antoine, who sent girls to their knees wherever he arrived, who had hordes of men of all ages flapping about him, who spoke with kindness and poise to anyone in his presence—aristocrats and peasants alike.
Dashing, they called him. Elderly noblewomen admired his wit, flamboyant ladies in their twenties wished he were older, or they were younger, and those of Marguerite's age had no idea how to express their emotions, but blushed when he saluted them.
Marguerite guffawed at the behaviors he caused in his wake, because he was always unaware what he'd done to cause them.
"They think you are handsome," she told him, during one of their after-lunch rituals—marching through the orchards.
He climbed up a tree and seized two plump oranges for them to feast on as a dessert. "Me? Handsome? I am thirteen." He cringed. "They are all older crones who have misguided expectations. It is distasteful to lust after a young Prince."
"Is it?" She peeled the skin from her favorite fruit and sniffed the delectable smell.
He plunged his teeth into his orange, sending juices onto her cheek; and when he reached over to wipe her off, she shoved him into a tomato bush and giggled.
"Will they find you handsomecovered in stains?"
After their separate afternoon lessons, they met in the Library for reading time, seated on either side of the roaring hearth. A brief respite before supper, where they had to sit up straight and be quiet, to avoid Clémentine's scrutiny towards their indiscreet friendship.
"Men and women cannot be friends, Marguerite."
Marguerite curled into her navy-cushioned seat, nestling her book in her lap, clutching a cup of strong black tea in one hand as the other dangled off the chair-arm. The heat brushed against her fingertips, and ashes from the fire covered her gloves on the floor.
Up ahead, the main Library doors screeched open. She perked up, and her novel slid off, landing with a thump.
Antoine, to her right, also sat up. They both leaned left, to gaze past the rows and rows of bookshelves and see who had arrived. Sometimes Sébastien would come in and sit between them on the rug, laying on his back and admiring the enormous painting over the fireplace—the revered family portrait in all its splendor.
