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.
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When Marguerite is forced to return to Torrinni cour...
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At the sight of a weeping, distraught Marguerite, Céleste shot up from her crouched position. She cursed under her breath; the King would see her now, no matter the semi-darkness concealing her.
Sure enough, his gaze snapped in her direction. "Who is there?" He took a few tentative steps.
It was no use hiding or praying to be invisible. She had no escape and had to pay for her eavesdropping.
"Apologies," she said, her tongue twisting. She clutched the sides of her gown and emerged from her spot, taking a few steps towards the ground. Holding her head low, she dipped into a curtsy, a flush spreading all over her face and chest. "Your Majesty, I beg your forgiveness."
"Miss Richel?" His footsteps halted a few feet from her. She dared to look up; he'd crossed his arms and was squinting in confusion.
She chewed on her lip. How would he punish her? She shrank farther into her curtsy, tucking her chin in. "I am sorry, I am so sorry—"
"Sorry for what?" He came closer, seemingly unthreatened; but in a panic, she dashed back up the stairs.
Adrenaline spiked her blood with each step, but somehow, she didn't lose her footing. She didn't turn around until she'd arrived at the top, breathless.
The King hadn't followed, but for all she knew, he'd gone through a different door in search of guards to detain her for her attitude.
She scanned the area she'd landed in—a service hall, its walls a plain gray, a stale odor permeating the air.
A few serving girls showed up from a doorway ahead of her, carrying silver platters of dirty dishes.
Céleste brisked over to them, adjusting a few curls that had tumbled over her forehead. "Where am I?"
Two of them panicked and scurried off without an answer. But the third one pivoted half-way to point at the door she'd come through. "That is the Dining Room, Miss. And that," she pointed at a door to Céleste's left, "is the Queen's Corridor." She hastened off after her fellow servants before Céleste could thank her.
If she wanted to confuse the King, Céleste couldn't take the service staircase up—she'd have shuffle up the main steps or find an alternative means to escape.
She slipped into the hallway, inhaling several gulps of air as she sealed the door behind her.
She recognized one of the glass Winter Garden entrances before her. To her right, she sighted the hall with the queenly rooms she wasn't allowed to go in; the Solar and the Music Room. To her left was the East Wing.
She pivoted to the right. "Down the Queen's Corridor and a left down the Long?"
As she prepared to hurdle to her destination, a distinct voice full of disdain echoed from the junction between the three corridors, straight ahead from her.
