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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Seated at her vanity, half-dressed, half-prepared, half-there, Céleste sighed.
The memory of her meeting with Sébastien that morning ruminated in her mind. How they'd sat in semi-silence, sipping their tea, exchanging worried glances without explaining them. She'd said nothing of Marguerite's return the day before—as he had no clue she'd left—and he'd mentioned little of Antoine's conclusions after his isolation. They didn't even bother to share pleasantries or have their usual animated debates.
It was December thirty-first, the moment they'd both dreaded for ten days. The night they'd have to feign surprise when the Duke of Terter proposed to the Duchess of Torrinni and seal their mouths shut to let it happen. Neither had any means to save Marguerite from her fate. And from what Céleste gathered from Sébastien's gloomy attitude, Antoine had had no more luck than them.
The dread overshadowed what should have been an exciting event for Céleste. Her first Masquerade, and as a contender, no less; the youngest official Season contender in recent Totresian history. She should have been smiling, celebrating, tugging on her undergarments while singing and skipping; but instead she frowned at her reflection. The white powder sprinkled across her face, the rosy dots on her cheeks, the pearls around her neck, the diamonds dangling from her earlobes—none brought her joy.
She stood to finish fastening the laces of her bodice, wincing as the silky fabric pressed over her stays and dug into her ribs. She'd worn the same dress not that long ago, yet tonight it was more uncomfortable than she recalled.
She twirled to inspect her work. Then she snatched the dark blonde wig—wigs were a Masquerade tradition—and lowered it over her pinned-up curls. A chill ran up her arms as she set a few strands over her shoulders and flipped others away, to let them trail down her upper back. She secured everything with pins, so she could dance without fear of embarrassment.
"But I will not wantto dance, will I?"
She angled closer to the mirror and dabbed a light pomade over her lips.
Though she was a contender, her last-minute addition to the roster meant she had no one to help her prepare. The groggy and grumpy Marguerite had requested to dress alone, promising Céleste she'd swing by and verify her outfit before they left.
The Duchess had spent most of the day cloistered in her quarters, though Johanna claimed she'd once snuck out hoping to meet with the King. Johanna was sad to report that she hadn't succeeded.
He avoids her, which does not bode well.
There had to be somethingto do. A loophole in some ancient book in the rear section of the Library. A bargain they could strike to give them more time to thwart the deal. Or a treaty Antoine could create with another country, to guarantee protection for a runaway Duchess.
