Marguerite, the former Duchess of Torrinni, receives two letters that will change the course of her life forever; and that will impact young Céleste Richel's life too, in more ways than one.
*****
When Marguerite is forced to return to Torrinni cour...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
A disaster.
The Director of the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls snickered at the two letters she'd received in the morning's paperwork. The two messages her ever-loyal handmaiden Johanna had slipped in and warned her to read before any others.
As soft light from a flickering candle illuminated her dry, stressed hands, she glared at the parchments. At the precise, sharp, well-chosen remarks on the first; and the second, with its wavy, elongated calligraphy and its simple beckoning.
Nothing about it was simple. Nothing ever was.
A slither of golden hair fell over Marguerite's eyes as she stared at the two requests, hesitant to study them again. The day's date decorated their headers, though she assumed their authors had written them the day before, if not weeks ago. After all, it took time to plot such cruel japes, to plant such foul seeds.
The night before, she'd paced in her bedroom, desperate to figure out why she'd had such a bad hunch about this year's Graduation Ceremony. Now she regretted not figuring it all out. She regretted not barging into the festivities and delaying them until she comprehended the eerie sensations swelling in her gut.
It was too late—the girls had graduated, and the courier who'd delivered these messages had returned to the castle, to report to the senders.
They'd be aware Marguerite received their notes and they awaited confirmation.
She placed one hand on each letter as haunting memories sizzled under her scalp, simmered in her abdomen. Memories she wished to forget, but that always caught up to her, no matter how hard she tried to erase them.
Torrinni Castle. The velvety walls of corridors she used to run down. The scents wafting up from the kitchens, beckoning her downstairs to steal pastries and leftover bread from dinner. And the Ballroom, where the dancing and the flirting took place, where she'd once listened to heavenly tunes while sneaking a peek from the balcony.
Ruined memories. Destroyed, trampled, terrifying moments put to the torch by the women who'd written the two letters resting beneath her palms.
She closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled. "These are not requests; they are orders." Her voice shook, and her wrists and forearms ached from how she clenched her fists, dreading the words and what they meant. "If I deny them..."
She picked up the first report, gaze narrowing on the slanted handwriting. Her back stiffened at the sight of the royal insignia at the bottom.
December the first, Seventeen-ninety-seven
To the Director of the Totresian Royal Academy for Noble Girls,
I write to inform you that, as discussed, the title of Duchess of Serese will soon be yours to inherit. Frédéric Marchand, current Duke of Serese, is confined to his Palace, his sickness having spread to his lungs. When he succumbs to his illness, our royal decree will come to be. You will receive his honor and title, as well as his lands, until you choose to wed.
I must ask a favor before I offer this precious gift. Sébastien has returned from his travels, and though he is no longer second in line to the throne, he and Jules have expressed their desire to find brides by the end of this year. Our gracious King has prepared court for eligible ladies to arrive from around Totresia, and we urge you, for the third year in a row, to send your Senior graduates to participate as contenders to not one, but two crowns.
In your near three years as Leader of our Academy, you have advised none of your noble graduates to join us at the castle. My disappointment grows. Another revolt on your part could cost you the thing you want most; your freedom.
I joined to this summons a list of ladies I suggest you hand over to us. Reminder: our Presentation Ceremony is on December eleventh.
Regards,
Her Grace Clémentine, Dowager Queen of Totresia
Marguerite grunted in a most unladylike fashion as she replaced the note on the desk. The comments that bubbled in her mind made her recoil, and more so when she heard them out loud, in Clémentine's voice.
Clémentine.
She bit the insides of her cheeks. The plush cushion of the chair didn't soften her heart, the roaring fire didn't warm it. The heavy ink smell in the air only reminded her that her harsh feelings would neverleave. She'd stuffed them down three years, but in truth they'd started a long while ago. In a time where she only saw happiness and positivity; but Clémentine's shadow crept in and clouded every pure aspect of her life.
"She summons my girls to the place I ran from?" She snarled. "Why? To tauntme? The nerve."
She glanced at the next note, her insides burning up at the feminine, precise, yet rushed handwriting.
December the first, Seventeen-ninety-seven
My dearest Marguerite,
Almost three years of praying and it turns out you were alive, living at the Academy! I am relieved. I hope you are well, and I have missed you, ma chérie!
I must express my deepest regrets at your rebellion towards the Totresian Court. I understand why you left—how could I not?—but others will judge you for hiding for so long.
I may still find forgiveness in my heart. I beg you to return to court! The Dowager plans to have you send graduates to us, and you should come with them. I am serious. You may hesitate, but I am the Queen, so declining would be perilous.
Are we not old friends, still? Would you not do me this favor? Consider my invitation. I assure you, you will receive all the comforts you deserve and the anonymity you need.
I await your reply with excitement.
Her Majesty Adelaide, Queen of Totresia
"Old friends?" She was about to spit on the paper, but held in her irritation; she had to control her temper. "Anonymity? How dare she assume that? That black-hearted bitch—"
She tossed the note aside before she tore it to shreds.
Conflict raged in her skull. She wasn't sure which letter provoked the most anguish within her; that of the woman who raised her but never cared for her well-being, or her archenemy, the contender-turned-Queen who'd stolen all she'd ever loved.
What a pair they make!
Looking at the notes, comprehending what meaning loomed under the fancy lettering and seals and sentences, she was aware she had little choice. If she refused to allow her recent graduates to go to court, she'd lose her only chance at freedom. To avoid a death sentence from the Queen, she'd have to travel withthe girls—though Clémentine wouldn't approve.
The candlelight created shadows that danced across the desk, swirling around the words. The ivory wax dripped, making its way onto the hard, wooden surface, imprinting on it as the intertwined crown and olive branch had imprinted on Marguerite's soul.
"Torrinni Castle; it looks like I will see you soon, whether or not I like it."
