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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Marguerite's hood slid down her forehead, shielding her curls from view.
A crack of metal on metal echoed in the background, clashing with the sound of hooves beating on the pavement. Hooves of the horse she rode on, racing through Torrinni City, billowing towards the town limits.
She'd had no trouble squirming out of the castle, mingling into a group of servants heading out for their daily chores. No one had questioned her, and she thanked the Heavens for it.
The structures she passed were blurs of stone and wood and marble. She saw windows shaded by curtains, blobs of shopkeepers setting up displays; but she galloped onward, faster and faster, far from her fears. Far from Torrinni Castle.
The essentials she gathered in haste dangled in bags on either side of her horse, slapping against the animal's sides as she urged it through the awakening city. At least she'd grabbed spare clothes; three years ago, almost to the day, she hadn't been as prepared.
A few drops of rain plopped onto her shroud, furthering the memory of her first escape from Torrinni. This one would be her last; or so, she wished.
As she zoomed by smaller buildings, nearing the steep stone fortifications of Torrinni City, she remembered Johanna's blubbered words and trembling lower lip and cloudy eyes as she listened to Marguerite's decision.
"I am leaving. And I do not know when, or if, I will be back."
It had taken every ounce of her already failing strength to not pull Johanna into an embrace and inform her everything would resolve in time. It had pinched her insides to not tell her where she was going.
They will interrogate her if my absence is noticed.
As Marguerite prepped her things, Johanna had tried to protest. But Marguerite wouldn't relent. She'd shoved three light dresses into bags, threw in snacks, a skin of water, warm stockings, and a hairbrush.
"I am sorry. I must do this, and I do not want you involved. Speak of my departure to no one. I trust you."
She'd wrapped the cloak over a borrowed serving-girl dress, pulled up the hood, hauled her bags over her shoulders, and ran.
As she neared the town gates, she spotted guards patrolling, some alert, some yawning as they changed shifts. Their burgundy suits stood out against the faded light gray stone, and their rifles shone in the early morning gloom as they spun to her.
One of them eyed her garb from head to toe and stepped aside to let her through. "Be wary; a storm approaches," he hollered at her as she barreled through.
No, a storm leaves—me.
She prayed they'd believed her ruse, that she was some servant on her way to a nearby village for this or that errand. To her relief, none came after her once she hobbled past the gates and out into the open Torrinni region.
