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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Shivering, Céleste opened her eyes to see her candles had burned out, but a soft glow flickered in the hearth. Her curtains were closed.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand; it was damp with sweat. Another nightmare about her mother—they didn't happen often, but when they did, they were intense. Swirls of color and foreign objects and coughs of blood—she trembled at the memory.
Chest rising and falling in heavy motions, she forced away the deadly images as nausea bubbled in her belly. She stood and approached the fire, rubbing her hands together, seeking comfort. The chills scrambling down her back caused goosebumps to pop up on her arms.
Her usual tactic to get rid of the haunting flashes of her mother's death was to take a walk.
She gaped at the adjoining door, unsure of the time or if Marguerite had returned. "No one said I could not take a nightly stroll, correct?"
Yawning, she grabbed her thick night-robe off the edge of the bed and fastened around herself. She slid into a pair of flat slippers and tiptoed to her door. It opened without a creak, and she snuck into the hallway.
Tipping her head left, then right, she scanned the corridor. Only a few sconces were lit, and absolute silence met her ears.
She crept to the service stairs, her footfalls muffled by the carpets. At the top of the staircase, she peered down and saw nothing but darkness, engulfing and never-ending. It prompted her to rethink her decision.
But her body had other plans, and before she knew it, she'd placed a foot on the first step. It didn't crack beneath her weight, so she continued downward.
At the bottom, a few candles illuminated the dreary service corridor. No noise came from behind any of the doors, so she slithered to the one leading to the East Wing.
Holding her breath, she glided out and closed the door behind her, ensuring it didn't click and draw attention from any guards.
Lights were sparse here, too. And with the closest windows farther down and in the West Wing, it was difficult to tell how late it was.
She sighted two soldiers in front of the Ballroom doors, and two others patrolling at the end of the Queen's Corridor, their backs turned.
Where do I go?
She couldn't exit to the gardens; judging by the cool breeze wafting through the hall, the outdoors would be freezing.
She recalled another area that would have almost the same effect as fresh air—the Winter Garden. Its glossy door across from her seemed to whisper her name.
She swished inside, and latched the door behind her, praying no one had caught her.
A pale glimmer coated the walls, turning them to a frosty blue instead of their usual canary-yellow. She tilted her head to gape at the glass ceiling. Stars bedecked the skies, big and brilliant, peeking I; curious, like her.
