♦YOU MUST HAVE READ THE PREQUEL, THE GOLDEN PRINCESS, TO READ THIS BOOK!♦
BEWARE--spoilers in this blurb, for those who have not read previous books! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Kings. Queens. Princes & Princesses. Duchesses and Dukes. And... regents?
Eve...
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The sharp, frosted breeze lapped over Marguerite's cheeks, tracing flakes of ice over her skin. With every whip of wind, she shuddered, cursed, and cried; but no amount of release would ease her guilt.
On the terrace overlooking her city, her country, her home, Marguerite peeked at the fading lights on the East Side, and at the animation on the West Side. She rubbed her upper arms, viewing the carriages traveling down the bridge, leaving town or seeking refuge in Inns and guest houses.
Though she'd apprehended most of the evil in her midst, she couldn't bear another moment in the ballroom, where memories of lace and frills and exotic perfumes still danced about. After asking Sébastien to oversee guest security, and Antoine to check on the prisoners, she ordered Henry's body to be taken to the Chapel until she could organize a proper funeral, and meandered outside.
Agony tore into her insides as if she'd swallowed a snake. As if a spider climbed up her intestines and sought to eat her lungs. The cold didn't affect her as much; if anything, she embraced it, hoping it would freeze her emotions, too.
She rested her ungloved hands on the railing, and ice shot up her arms, fusing into her veins. She almost smiled as the pain lessened, and the dull, throbbing, stabbing sensations that shattered her insides slowed down.
Recalling the apologies and prayers issued by her departing attendees, she grimaced. Some had dared to ask if, amidst the chaos, she'd settled on a husband. Though she'd dismissed them with a growl, she did send a brief glance at Antoine... and realized that no, she hadn't settled. She doubted she ever would.
To Sébastien, who also asked her—if only to give the people some gossip to diffuse the situation—she said she needed to think. In truth, she had worse matters to ponder, like how her first time throwing a ball ended with half her country's nobles in chains, and the other doubtful of her abilities.
As she sighed, a puffy cloud erupted from her mouth, fizzling out and disappearing as soon as it had appeared. She hugged herself, wondering if she'd ever experience true warmth again.
Two hands topped hers, prompting her to jump around and face who'd interrupted her quiet, albeit frozen, peace.
Antoine stood before her, his eyebrows slithering upwards. "Calm down, Maggie. The threats to your life have been thwarted, remember?" His spicy musk washed into her nose, and the wine on his breath collided with her cheeks.
She instantly melted into his arms. "Can you blame me for being on the alert?"
He squeezed her close and set his chin atop her undone curls. "Of course not." Her ear rested against his heart, and she relaxed at its steady thumping. "I figured you wanted to be alone, but," he pulled away and placed a hand over her stomach, "I wanted you to remember I am here. Not for long, but if you need me, need anything, I am yours."
