The Golden Girl (#2 in the GOLDEN series)

•F I F T Y - F I V E•

Céleste didn't know how many days, months, years had passed before she pried herself from her pillow. Her cheeks were sticky with tears, her eyes burned, and for a few moments she wasn't sure where she was.

A tray of food rested on her bedside table—a long-gone-cold potage, a dinner roll, and a platter of croissants.

The day was setting, and a flimsy light slithered in to illuminate the area where she'd crumbled and cried. The smudges and smears were gone. No glass debris or ink stains remained on the floors; no remnants of her mental crisis, of her horrid outbreak of sobs.

Johanna, I presume?

A knot tightened in her stomach. Did she deserve such kindness? No; but she appreciated it.

Groaning, her lips chapped and her breath sour, she slid into a seated position. Thank the Heavens she had no social events until the next night—she was in no shape to be seen in public.

"Social events..." Tears threatened her eyes again, but she threw her pillow across the room and kicked her covers off. "I am done crying for today."

On her dinner tray, she found a cloth napkin and blew her nose.

What was she to do? Show herself in front of all after losing her courtship with Sébastien? She had enough shame as it was, as an un-presented and underage pretender. And as the rejected contender who couldn't even convince her own brother to escort her to her Presentation, she had no right to attend frivolous parties, no right to carry the Richel name.

Limbs stiff, aching from her curled up position, she forced herself up and stretched. Her throat was dry and scratchy, and her steps uneasy as she wandered to her small wash basin. She splashed her face with tepid water, and winced as she spotted her reflection in her vanity mirror.

Her eyes had turned so bloodshot, their shade was scarlet instead of their usual gray-blue. They were swollen, as if someone had punched them repeatedly. Ink stained her skin in faded navy splotches. More ink dirtied her waist and thighs, where the substance had bled through her petticoat. Her blonde locks were messy threads dangling over her shoulders like worn-down ropes.

And she was in her under-garments!

Prying from the nightmarish vision of herself, she dried her face and slipped on her night-wear, then sat at her vanity to brush through her tangles. Each bristle pricked her skin and scarred her scalp.

She envisioned Sébastien reading her farewell. How would he react? Would he trouble to answer her? Maybe forgive her? Or write to tell her she was correct, and they didn't belong together because she hadn't secured an escort, as requested?

Her shoulders stooped and she pulled her brush harder through her strands.

All her dreams had come to fruition. She was at court, exploring royal life, dancing in a Ballroom filled with frilly fabrics and delicious delicacies. She'd discovered romances like those she read about in books—and she'd gotten the opportunity to live one, but her brother had destroyed it. She had destroyed. She'd found a man accepting of her, but fate decided she wouldn't go down that path. His offer came with a price: limited time. She guessed there was no way to bargain for more. The King had made too many exceptions already; and ward of his once beloved Duchess or not, he wouldn't make any more for Céleste.

Clumps of her dirty wheat-colored hair fell from her scalp and landed in her lap. She plucked a few and wove them around her fingers, imagining they were Sébastien's strings of shiny ebony, swishing against his high cheek-bones, swaying near his plump lips, dipping down his strong neck.

Why was she so distraught? He was an unattainable Prince and would forget all about her in mere minutes. He was a man she'd met a week ago and found dashing, but that she knew better to hope for.

She recalled when she'd first greeted him, calling him Majesty.

He must have thought me an idiot.

Then the night in the Winter Garden; how his eyes had glittered, flecks of yellow blending into the brown. His dark and demure frock coat fitting over his broad shoulders, his soft and silk-like hands holding hers. His dazzling yet discrete smile, charming and friendly.

She wrinkled her nose.

The mattress' softness cried out to her, willing to soothe the soreness of her muscles, to muffle the pain in her chest.

Word would soon break out that she wouldn't be presenting herself to the King and Queen the next day. Rumors would roll down the halls and glaze the walls and linger on viperous tongues. Céleste Richel, the unloved. Céleste the reject.

She'd gotten wrapped up in royal gossip and sordid schemes and had to suffer the consequences—she'd have to confine to her rooms until some other rumor came about and the stories about her were yesterday's news.

As the skies outside swirled with blood-red orange and dotted with aubergine, she dragged herself back to bed.

Her fire had extinguished hours ago, but even when it had been alive, she'd been cold, her heart a block of ice, her blood a glacial river. But she would mend. As Marguerite had said—someday, she'd discover the right man for her. One she might not love, who might not be handsome, who might not be a gallant Prince or a mysterious knight; but who'd put the pieces of her soul back together.

She didn't need Sébastien, and he didn't need her.

Something caught her eye inside her opened closet; something shining from between two pairs of shoes.

The Golden Girl.

She sniffled as she crawled to the armoire and picked up her favorite novel.

"I solved the mystery I came to solve. That was my goal—not finding a husband, like the other contenders. I am not a contender."

Yawning, she cradled the book under her chin as she ambled to bed.

She didn't bother to reanimate the flames in her hearth and didn't require light, anyway. She didn't intend to read; only to cajole the novel, as it comforted her, helped her sleep.

As she fell into a fitful slumber, she went over her options to ensure she could remain cloistered in her suite for a few days. She'd need Johanna's help to bring her food; and perhaps Esther and Harriet could spread the word that she was ill, and that was why she couldn't attend the ball.

Gazing at her window, she realized she'd forgotten to draw the curtains. But she was too snug under the blankets to move.

Esther's proclivity for gossip would be of much assistance, for sure. And Céleste imagined Harriet would know a few tricks—she'd stayed locked up in her room at the Academy more than once. She'd even been punished to stay in there for a few weeks, she remembered.

She inhaled and exhaled into her blankets. Soon, the drama would subside. The Princes would find fiancées—she choked up, but inhaled and exhaled again to calm her thoughts—and she'd be able to return to the Academy, to get back to her routine.

No more fantasies of royalty and luxury. Not for her. 

•••