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.
Céleste woke to a grayish light pooling through her open curtains.
She tossed her pillow across the room and grumbled as she stood up. After hours of frightening images of Charlotte suffocating her and Julia setting her bedroom on fire, she'd struggled to sleep, as predicted.
She stretched and yawned as she snatched the teacup on her breakfast tray and sipped as she wandered to her door. She nearly choked on a gulp as she found a folded letter on the floor—one sporting a shiny royal emblem.
She bent down to pick it up, fingers grazing the silk-like stamp on the crisp paper. "What is this?"
She read the words scribbled in tight, slanted handwriting.
Céleste,
Would you please join me at the stables a little before noon? I wish to take you riding, so dress accordingly.
See you soon,
Sébastien
The hand holding the mug shook. "So that part of the evening was not a dream, then." She held the message to her breastbone, swooning as she heard his voice resonate in her mind.
After depositing her teacup on her vanity, she perused her closet for her riding outfit. Its maroon hues stood out amidst her pale and pastel dresses.
She fished for her undergarments, draped the garb over her figure, and pulled on her boots. Tugging her hair into a few pins, she twirled in front of her vanity mirror, inspecting herself.
Before she could hasten off to meet with the man of her dreams, she needed to warn Marguerite of the summons.
She would need to be our chaperone, no?
She tried the adjoining door, happy to detect it was unlocked. Breaking through the threshold, she plastered a massive grin on her face.
"Marguerite, guess what—"
Her heart sank to find the room deserted, like the night before. The clock showed ten; was Marguerite out and about, checking on the girls? The bed was untouched, the drapes pulled aside, and an empty cup sat on the nightstand.
Céleste marched to said cup—one whiff told her it had once contained Marguerite's signature strong coffee.
"I will ask the girls." She cringed at the notion of confronting the ladies after the events of the evening.
Esther answered her door at once, a powder poof in one hand, a brush in the other. "Yes?" She blinked at Céleste's silence. "What is it? I am in a hurry. Meeting with your brother," her cheeks flushed, "so what do you want?"
