The Golden Princess (#4 in the GOLDEN series) ✔

•F I F T Y - S I X•

An odd mix of early morning dew and burnt leather enveloped Céleste as they exited the Inn. The streets were deserted, sprinkled with remnants of snow and packed with panicked footsteps from the night before. The thicker coats of white had melted, signifying a warmer day ahead. The cloudless sky had turned to a grapefruit shade with yellows and oranges—and no overwhelming smoke.

Guards escorted her and her group to the castle. They trod lightly, on alert for any lingering threats, climbing the bridge steps with their balance and coordination tested.

They all were exhausted from the recent events. Prudence was still in a frail state, though her face showed nothing but determination and rage.

But the castle was secure. Any enemies had escaped or died in the commotion. According to one guard, the captain was holding on to Pauline's note, for further analysis, and physicians were still pulling apart the components of Pauline's cup and examining her corpse. Most servants had taken refuge in the basement, but a few assisted wounded nobles and helped explore the building to determine which areas took the most damage.

Despite the chipped wood and burns bruising the once pristine white walls, especially on the second floor, the structure remained magnificent. Shattered glass littered the grass on either part of the courtyard, plants had been scorched, and the balcony had taken several bad hits—but Westten Castle stood tall, salvaged and imposing as ever.

Whoever tried to burn it did not count on Princess Prudence surviving to save the city from destruction.

As they wandered through the courtyard, Céleste paid close attention to the Princess. She kept her chin up, but her fingers twitched at her sides, and she trembled under her skirts, showing with her hesitant strides. Once within the castle, her fragile composure was on the brink of shattering

Inside, the air was haunted. Like an abandoned ruin, a formerly majestic palace left to rot. A misty haze lingered, and the floors were dusty, covered in ashes, dirt, and blood. Guards and staff passed through, running from corridor to corridor, carrying cleaning supplies, inspecting facades, inventorying paintings and sculptures, and keeping watch for potential traitors.

Céleste's heart stopped when she fixed her gaze on the right staircase—on the frayed cerulean carpeting and the dark stains near the bottom, where they'd found the Dowager.

Prudence approached said spot and crumbled to her knees. Everyone quieted—the soldiers, the servants, Antoine, and Sébastien—as she removed her gloves and rubbed her bare fingers over the smears, reminiscing. She didn't cry, didn't speak, and barely moved anything but her fingertips.

A few moments later, she rose so quickly all in attendance jumped.

"We have to split up," she said, putting her borrowed mittens back on. She'd refused the fresh clothes Céleste had offered, preferring to sport her tattered olive and cream gown, its edges caked in soot and mud and blood. She'd even put the cloak on—it belonged to a guard—ignoring its holes and missing laces. Her cold demeanor and near unemotional features proved how much sorrow wallowed in her gut, and how resolved she was to hide it all beneath her rags.