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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December thirty-first, seventeen-ninety-four. The night of the Masquerade Ball—her third one. An event she'd yearned to attend for years, the one she planned her attire for months in advance. An evening of thrills and laughter and overflowing alcohol, where she expected to receive the best news of her existence, the biggest honors since the King blessed her as Duchess.
Antoine as my official fiancé.
Titles meant little to her; Duchess or pauper, swimming in gold or milking cows, Marguerite had only one desire—to be with Antoine. After years of battling with the Queen, not knowing what the thumping in her chest signified, suppressing her joy in the public eye, she was ready. Ready to hold the hand of the man she loved without fear or consequences.
As days passed and the opportune moment approached, the celebration announced itself as dire. Antoine was often unavailable, swamped with meetings, caught up on dates with the contenders. On the day of the event, when Marguerite sought him out for last-minute reassurance, she couldn't find him anywhere.
Then came the rumors; the murmurs claiming the King had taken to his bed, sick to his stomach, and wouldn't be at the Ball.
Edouard is never ill.
He, like her, rarely succumbed to sickness; when everyone else coughed or caught chills, they remained immune, unstoppable. She liked to think it was a secret she and the King shared: the mystery to long-lasting health.
As she eavesdropped on a squire and a serving-girl in the royal hall close to her bedroom, the morning of the Ball, she bit her lip. Her King, ill? Too frail to leave his quarters? Under surveillance and quarantined?
Her worries intensified when Antoine missed their final outfit alterations, in the late afternoon. They were to wear matching gold-and-ice, with snowflakes peppering their hair and daring diamonds in place of buttons and lining their masks.
"When I stand up there, and you join me, we will bedazzle them all," he'd said a few weeks prior, excitement in his tone as he kissed her.
Today, he sent no letter, no explanation of where he was. She suspected he attended to his father, but why would he not warn her?
Before changing into her refined gown, she scurried after his squire hammering him with questions; but he avoided her. Upon sneaking over to the King and Queen section of the royal floor, she bumped into Clémentine, whose eyes were puffy and red, and who grumbled some snide salutation as she whirled into her suite.
"What in the Heavens is happening?" Not that Marguerite didn't appreciate Clémentine's lack of criticism; but her silence was troubling, her disheveled state a concern.
Is Edouard all right?
When the festivities commenced, Marguerite swept into the Ballroom surrounded by the other ladies vying for her Prince's hand. They bickered and brayed and barreled up to the empty dais, glancing up with stars in their eyes, hopeful to be the one.
