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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Chill-inducing eyes stared at Marguerite; the same she'd looked into for sixteen years. Still drenched in disapproval, veiled by a screen of false airs of caring and a faint glimmer of empathy.
Very faint.
"Nothing surprises me anymore." The Dowager's tone was as glacial as the icy blue dress that fanned out around her. Its wide sleeves swayed as she moved to adjust her seating, and her mahogany mane shimmered beneath heaps of cerulean flowers. "But sneaking is improper."
Lifting her gold encrusted teacup to her mouth, she sipped. Marguerite smelled the jasmine and vanilla flavor drowning in liquor.
Typical.
Shuffling in her hardback chair, Marguerite regretted sitting so close. There were manyplush chaises in the Reading Room, yet she'd lowered into this uncomfortable one. Its proximity to the wood-burning fire was nice, but that did little to warm the frigid atmosphere.
"Marguerite." Clémentine snapped as the flames crackled. "I need your full attention when I speak."
A corner of Marguerite's lips twitched as she refrained from snarling. "Apologies, Your Grace."
Clémentine's nostrils flared and she flexed her fingers. "Since your arrival, your attitude has displeased me. You are lucky only I have caught it."
Marguerite gritted her teeth. "Again, I apologize, but I do not understand what you refer to, Your Grace."
Clémentine stiffened. "Sneaking around. Did you not hear me say that seconds ago?"
Screams echoed inside Marguerite's skull, urging her to tell the woman off, to stand up and leave the room.
"I expected rebellious behaviors from the contenders. They are young. But you?" The Dowager let out a slight snort. "If you still want your freedom, I require more tact from you. You are here as a guest, do not forget that."
It felt like her childhood all over again—though back then, she never got caught. When she met with Antoine in secret those days, someone stood watch for them in case Clémentine was near. But today, she'd been so emotional from the argument, so distraught, that she'd ventured to the wrong staircase to escape the basement. She knew better—in the late afternoon, Clémentine alwayslingered by the Solar or the Music Room.
She reached for her teacup on the coffee-table separating her from the Dowager. With each sip, silent and solemn, her plaguing worries amplified.
What will she do? Confine me to my rooms? Dismiss me? Shame me?
She was no longer a member of their family, no longer a resident of the castle; but Marguerite was a royal subject. A lesser-noble, an Academy Director, and a fraud. Unfortunately, the Dowager had every right to inflict punishment.
