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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Turning sixteen in Totresia—zealous girls and eager boys called it "a big deal". It allowed access to the coveted, once-a-year, once-in-a-lifetime Masquerade Ball. Established political arrangements, serious offers, marriage proposals and lengthy engagements. It served as a pre-Presentation; a glimpse at what the future carried, an introduction before the realSeasons started.
As the most revered Duchess in Totresia, Marguerite attracted many interested nobles from around the kingdom for her sixteenth birthday. Girls of the same age, thrilled to take her as their example; dashing men planning to propose to her; and curious onlookers who heard of her grace and wanted nothing more than to set their gazes upon her.
The turn-out would be astronomical, Edouard said; many aristocrats promised to be there, and foreigners begged to visit, to view this famous Duchess.
Edouard's staff expanded alcohol reserves and added extra buffet tables; and Clémentine prattled on and on about how massive Marguerite's Season would be, when she turned eighteen.
"With such a guest-list, I guarantee we will have men from around the world lining up in our courtyard in two years," she said, a week before the event. When she beamed, Marguerite knew it had nothing to do with joy at her popularity. No, more proposals meant bigger chances of sending Margueriteaway in record time.
So, while everyone busied about organizing the party, setting up beverage fountains, lining the windows and door-frames with wild daisies, sprinkling flower petals over tables and rehearsing melodies, Marguerite sulked. Not that she wasn't grateful; she thanked Edouard any time they met, and she showed none of her true emotions in public.
But the instant she was in her chamber, or in the Library with her nose in a book, she pouted. She grimaced. She cursed at the skies, because among all the invited folk, one person was missing and wouldn't be in the Ballroom to toast her. Nor would she be able to toast him. The only person she cared about, and the one whose crusade would expand weeks past their shared birthday.
Daydreaming seemed to smother her sadness. During tea-time, while she lunched with the Princes, and through her lessons, to Master Martel's dismay, she hid in her imagination. Hope animated inside as she envisioned him, her Crown Prince. Barging into the Ballroom on his horse, whisking her away from the awed attendees. Or swooping onto the terrace to carry her through secret service passages and up to her room, where she'd be far from the courtiers desperate to greet her. Or ambushing her in the hallway and tugging her out into the night, a carriage ride through Torrinni City.
"Miss Marguerite!" Master Martel's frustrated tone always interrupted, but it anchored her in reality, which she couldn't fault him for.
She had to wake up; Antoine would not come home yet. Edouard made it clear the day she returned from her pilgrimage, after she pleaded and kicked and threw tantrum after tantrum, demanding answers.
