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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"The Crown Prince and the Duchess—to wed when they come of age!"
Everyone talked about it. From the fruit farmers in southern Totresia, to the wine-makers in Mara, Totresians couldn't hold in their excitement. The noble they obsessed over the most—the Duchess—would marry the beloved Crown Prince. a royal wedding for the ages. They hadn't had such a celebration since King Edouard wed Clémentine.
The rumors started when Marguerite and Antoine danced at their first Masquerade. After their exchange of feelings out on the patio, he guided her inside and straight to the dance-floor, to sway to a slow rhythm. As they twirled and laughed and basked in the chandelier's glow, she caught him glancing towards Edouard, atop the dais; and the King winked at them.
Dancing close together, they never let go, never lost sight of one another; and whispers buzzed about them.
"The Prince and the Duchess? Who would have thought?"
"Are they engaged?"
"Have we missed something?"
If Antoine heard, he paid them no mind, too enraptured to care. Marguerite, her heart swelling, bursting with joy, tuned them out also, snug and soothed in her Crown Prince's arms. All her suffering, all her questions and confusions... all led to that night. Her first Masquerade Ball—and her first and only love.
The following days and months stretched on forever, and neither would complain. Frivolous and full of life, Marguerite and Antoine were no longer restricted from seeing each other; but Clémentine still kept watch.
"She disagrees with the match," said Antoine, one bright afternoon before their seventeenth birthday. They holed up in the orchards, huddled close as the wintry wind still whipped something fierce. Their only way to exchange chaste kisses and promises of love was to sneak out between lessons and meet in a new place each day; thatday was among awakening crops and faded flowers still in their winter slumber.
"She alwayshas," said Marguerite, nibbling at Antoine's lip. She'd become obsessed with kissing him, sniffing his scent, rubbing her cheek on his upper chest, holding him tight. With each passing moment, she held him tighter, wary of losing him. King Edouard promised they'd marry after their eighteenth birthdays, but she worried; Clémentine lurked, looming like a bad omen, and she didn't doubt the woman had plans to divide them.
While Clémentine and her ladies played cards in the Solar, they sheltered behind the Gardener's cottage. When the Queen ate lunch, they hurried to the Reading Room for a few moments of respite. In the evenings, they feigned forgetting things in the Library or Ballroom to sneak out and meet in the basement landing, where they'd take swigs of stolen wine or amber-hued liquor.
Mid-spring brought warmer temperatures, and more options to escape. "Look at us—instead of pastries, we now steal alcohol," Antoine said, as they hid in the forest lining the castle, behind a thick bush of roses. A few guards patrolled to locate them, but Marguerite and Antoine knew the woods with their eyes closed and dodged their pursuers at every turn.
