Following their actions in The Golden Girl, Marguerite and Céleste must deal with the repercussions of their recent behaviors.
*****
Marguerite has landed herself in quite the shameful predicament, but she needs to make priorities; to somehow mainta...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The crowd's chatter rang in Céleste's ears. Each word elongated, morphed, on repeat. Clémentine's snide speech, the clinking glasses, the muted swearing, the muffled laughter, the mocking of Marguerite—
No, that wasn't her name anymore. It never was. She wasn't Totresian—she was from the one place Céleste's father always warned her against.
With a glimpse at the woman who'd attempted to run off, intercepted by Romain, yanked off to the side, and who now drank cup after cup of wine to drown her sorrows, Céleste had a hard time remaining upright.
She covered her mouth as she hiccuped, and the motion sent her flying a few inches backwards. Sébastien caught her before she fell into his throne again.
"Are you all right?" He slipped his fingers between hers, squeezing their palms together. "I mean, no, of course you are not. I can have someone fetch you some pastries?"
He'd watched the scene unravel, too. The Duke's declaration, his manhandling of Marguerite, his howl when she broke free from him on the dance-floor, his growl when King Romain blocked her.
"Food?" She shook her head. "After all this? I could not eat even if... oh!" Her legs wobbled, and she was thankful he held her. "What can we do? What should we do?" She had her back to Marguerite and the buffet, but imagined her there, emptying the wine fountain. "We have to help her, right? Get her out of the crowd and somewhere safe?"
"Céleste—"
She swerved around, bracing to jump from the dais and rescue her now Giromian friend from the curious and crude onlookers.
"This cannot be happening, someone must do something—"
Sébastien was faster; he thrust his arm in front of her, barring her from hopping off. "No. You... we cannot interfere."
She swirled to him, finding his eyes stern, his jaw clenched, a hardness to him she didn't recognize. "But why? It is Maggie! I do not care what her real name is, she did not ask for this, she—"
"—belongs to Giroma." His gaze had softened, but his cheeks lost their usual plumpness and color. "To Terter. It would not be wise for us to become wrapped up in their affairs. Not without consulting Antoine, first."
"But she—"
He yanked her close enough for their noses to press together. "You must leave her be, for now."
She'd never witnessed him so defeated. He'd lost hope.
Grunting, she folded her arms. Pain prattled up to her temples and she flinched. "But how is this possible? Is it even true?" She twisted sideways, sparing another glance at her depressed friend by the buffet. "Did you know?"
Sébastien followed her gaze. "Of course I did not!" He snuck his arm around her waist. "And is it true? Well..." He pinched his lips. "I am afraid it could be. Father and Mother said they were never able to clarify her identity. All traces of insignia or sigils had been burned or torn in the carriage wreck where they found her. But it would not shock me if Mother lied. If she investigated and concealed the truth from us all."
