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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Céleste waited. And waited. And waited.
She stood by the herald as commanded, but a few in the crowd had noticed her. They examined her outfit choice, whispered about her hair-do, pulled apart the accessories she wore.
And yet all she could think of was the man who'd clapped at Marguerite's encouragements. Who washe? She'd sighted his blond hair as she shuffled into the Ballroom, but had no time to visualize anything else.
The doors burst open to her left—the individual she'd seen in the corridor now towered in the threshold. All turned to him, and though he wasn't as tall as the Princes or the Totresian King, there was a certain flair about his posture, a flamboyant confidence and energy from how he carried himself.
He removed his hands from the pockets of his silky brown suit, and the badges and insignia plastered on his sash glittered in the chandelier light. Atop his tresses was a gold and silver crown decked with sapphires.
That was King Romain?
His eyes the shade of evergreen trees skimmed the room, wide and curious as the attendees lowered into curtsies and bows.
Céleste did the same, and the herald tapped his staff to the ground. "His Majesty, King Romain of Giroma, revered guest of our Royal Court!"
He marched onto the carpet with pride, as if it belonged to him, taking stable strides towards the dais. The noble folk rose as he passed them, some silent, some muttering mixed comments at the sight of him up close.
He arrived at the podium, and Céleste couldn't see, but she imagined he bowed. She cravedto see it; him inclining before King Antoine, his most fervent enemy.
Too curious, she sidestepped, ignoring the herald's grunts about waiting for her escort. On the podium, in a blinding silver coat flapping over black breeches, a crown of ruby jewels resting on his tamed mane, Antoine glared at the Giromian King. Adelaide beamed beside him, engulfed in vivid crimson and gold. Sébastien and Jules stood on either side and peered down at the foreign monarch with obvious disdain.
King Antoine waved him up the steps. "King Romain, we honor your presence in Torrinni," he said, his voice stiff.
Céleste tried to glimpse the Dowager, who lingered in the background; but the Ballroom doors creaked open again, and the herald shoved her aside.
Marguerite emerged, and hurried to Céleste, snatching her arm.
"Ready?" Her eyes were alert, flecks of yellow and blue swirling in them like a magical fire. Her lips looked like she'd dug her teeth into them, and she fidgeted as she fixed a stray strand of hair.
"Are you?" Céleste's toes bunched in her shoes.
"Not like we have a choice," Marguerite snapped, tugging her to the edge of the rug.
