Living in royalty can't be so bad, right? But... what if you're not technically royal?
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In late eighteenth century Europe, nestled in eastern France, is a peaceful kingdom called Totresia. A carriage wreck disturbs that peace when found by Totr...
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That ungrateful brat.
How dare that spoiled child run from court and abandon those she called family? Those she claimed to care for, including the sickened, now dead, King?
It didn't surprise Clémentine to see the Duchess turn tail and flee, but not thatnight. Not after all the arrangements she'd made and the meetings she'd attended to secure her a decent match following Antoine's rejection.
She'd expected her to sneak out later, after encountering her intended, after realizing how serious the situation was.
Clémentine's eyes burned, filling with sticky, spicy tears that chunked at her lash-line. She'd been so composed, so put-together at the Ball, but upon finding her husband deceased, all her resolve and strength filtered out.
Once the lead physician uttered the official declaration—the King of Totresia is dead—it became real, tooreal. As lumps bulged in her throat, she ordered soldiers to Torrinni Chapel to rise the clergy, ring the bells. She dismissed her maids and ladies, assuring them she would be fine, and needed isolation.
So, lower lip quivering, stomach churning, she whisked into her chambers, where lavender and floral perfumes still permeated the air from earlier. A gentle glow emanated from the hearth before which she'd stood hours before Edouard's death, before the Ball, pondering her options, evaluating her words.
To interfere and break their engagement? Or to leave it alone?
When Edouard's condition worsened, she had to act in haste.
She drew her curtains, halting moonlight from pouring in. With a trembling sigh, she sank into the chaise before the fireplace to wait; wait to wake from the nightmare she'd been living in. Wait to throw aside the toxic layers weighing her down. To accept her plot taking form, and all her schemes amounting to the final climax; one that wounded her more than anticipated.
Edouard wasn't supposed to die. Not him—not her pillar, her core, her stability. Yes, they argued more than they made love, and yes, they disagreed on everything; but she loved him. With every fiber of her being and every ounce of her soul, she loved him. But amidst her designs, while she scurried about planning, operating in secret to conduct her deals for Totresian peace, she lost him.
She hiccuped, recalling the fragile shell of a man he'd transformed into, defeated by the strange sickness that ailed him. In less than twenty-four hours, he went from his regal, respected self, to a tiny, frail thing wriggling about in sweat-drenched sheets. And the lead physician's hushed accusations—foul-play from someone in Edouard's staff—never left the confines of her mind.
It couldn'tbe. His subjects revered him, his men traveled across Europe at his behest, his squires and pages would die for him. Who, if anyone, would poison her departed husband's food or wine? Who would dare?
