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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Sir Wells, professor of History and Geography at the Academy for Noble Girls, had a reputation. He claimed he once lived so close to the border that he spoke better French than English, yet he hated teaching about anything other than Totresia.
"Our founders named the Totresian territories, regions, and counties after their chief cities," he said, in his thick French accent—that many stated he fakedfor attention. He dragged Céleste from her daydreams as he paced at the front of the room. "Can anyone tell me why that is?"
Three of the Juniors drew their eyes up from their notes, confusion smearing across their delicate features. They'd spent their time gossipinginstead of studying; but the question didn't surprise Céleste. She'd done her homework.
Staring at the creamy curtains framing one of the imposing windows, she sighed.
To better define who their leading noble overseer is.
How she wished to jump out, beyond the drapes. To enjoy the autumn weather before the crisp air turned too cold, before the sky threatened to release icy drizzles of rage. It was uncommonly cool for Totresia, this year. Céleste's Junior year; and it was the last she'd have to endure with the leeches like Charlotte Geitz and Julia Espinar and Hermione Nicholls. These were her ultimate moments among the vultures who roamed the Academy's halls in search of someone to mock.
"Have none of you read the chapter on Totresian territories?" Sir Wells' tone turned sharper as he tapped a foot to the floor. "Your assignment?"
Two of the girls peered into their laps. Constance, a ditzy student who daydreamed more than Céleste, gaped at the wall, stuck in some reverie about who knew what.
Sir Wells crossed his arms. "This will notdo."
Céleste also stared into her lap. Her face didn't scrunch in shame, as she'd completed the requested task; but she'd read otherbooks the night prior. Others who held her focus more. Others like the one she was hiding under the bulky Totresian History tome she'd placed on her thighs.
The Golden Girl.
She never separated from it. It had become an extension of her arm, a dictionary, a good-luck charm. She didn't wantto bring it into class with her, but today she hadto. She'd uncovered information she longed to ask her professor. Geography questions about certain places described in her novel. She had to know if they were real, if they existed, and whereto find them if they did.
She'd stopped her patterns of eavesdropping and disobeying; but now, knowing her favorite—and prohibited—book was within reach, concealed from her teacher, roused a renewed sense of adrenaline to spike her blood. She hated to admit it, but she'd missed it.
Sir Wells pivoted, finger in the air as he spoke, dictating a new paragraph for the ladies to copy. Céleste didn't move, and her quill remained dry, as if she'd never dipped it in ink. Whatever he mumbled on about drowned in her ears, and her eyelids grew heavy as she imagined herself dancing.
