• E I G H T E E N • part two: Bonus Chapter

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"I cannot believe it!"

Antoine's voice boomed from one navy-painted wall to the other, resonating within his massive room with an echo that gave him a migraine. The steady thumping in his brain now matched the rhythm of his erratic heartbeats, and he prayed for nothing but sleep, peace, quiet. And Marguerite.

"Can you not? Seriously?" Lying on his back on Antoine's four-poster bed, Sébastien sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. His ebony mane of hair had slithered out of its ribbon and spread about his head like a crown of raven's feathers. He'd shrugged on a pair of pants, but his nightshirt remained half-tucked into the waistband, with several buttons undone. "You picked Adelaide, brother. The least liked of all your contenders. Ah, wait—" he lurched up to a sitting position and glowered at Antoine. "Let me correct myself. You picked Adelaide instead of Maggie, without warning, without reason. Does it truly surprise you that Maggie left because of it?"

Antoine groaned as he paced before the hearth. The thick fabric of his Masquerade trousers was hot, burning his skin. Yet his upper body was wracked with glacial shivers that he was unable to stop, no matter how much he moved. Every breath squeezed in and out of his lungs, every thought shot through him like lightning.

She was gone. Marguerite, his Maggie, his Duchess, his beloved, his everything. She'd grabbed her gorgeous golden skirts and ran out of the Ballroom the instant he'd announced the Lady of Avignon as his future bride.

Could he blame her for being so upset? No, he couldn't. He'd be outraged if Maggie were to choose someone other than him to wed. It would destroy him if she were to change her mind at the last second, like he had.

But her decision to flee did surprise him, contrary to what Sébastien thought. Antoine had expected her to stick around, to confront him outside, on the Patio, the place where they'd exchanged their first kiss. He'd expected her to jab a finger to his chest, to grab him by the lapels and stuff her nose into his face. Hell, he'd even expected her to smack him; but not for her to run away.

Marguerite didn't run away, ever. Not from her fears, not from her troubles, not from a challenge. This—him choosing Adelaide over her—was nothing if not a mountain of a challenge, was it not? Was she too afraid to tackle it? Did she not love him enough to try? Why didn't she linger to understand why he'd done it? Why didn't she give him a chance to explain?

He would have explained, had she stayed. His mother would have done all she could to separate them before he could do so—she'd stop at nothing, since she'd instigated this messy move, this ill-timed twist of fate—but he'd get one last word with Maggie if it cost him his last breath.

He'd tell her he still loved her, always would. That choosing Adelaide was strategic, and his mother—and to some extent, his ailing father—had begged him to reconsider his options. It didn't change his love for her; it never would.

"Marrying Marguerite brings no alliances, son," Clémentine mentioned to him when she convened with him late that afternoon.

He'd cloistered in his quarters, sick of the gatherings where advisors asked his opinion, where they all called him the new King when his father still lived, still breathed. He'd chosen against going to the Masquerade at all—if Edouard wasn't there, if they wouldn't update him on his condition, he wouldn't make an appearance.

Clémentine had barged in and convinced him otherwise. "Your father has kept me quiet for too long. You love her, but she is not who you think she is," she'd said, in her signature sordid tone laced with cold, devoid of emotion. The tone she reserved for speaking about or to Marguerite.

"I am to marry her, Father decreed it," Antoine had replied, while he reluctantly allowed his attendant to remove his daywear and start layering on his unfinished outfit—the one he hadn't had time to have perfected to match Marguerite's, as planned.

Well, nothing was going according to their plans, anyway. Edouard was deathly ill, Clémentine was running around ordering squires to block Marguerite from having access to any news—against Antoine's wishes—and he and his siblings were in isolation, "in case His Majesty is contagious." He himself hadn't been permitted to visit the King until much later in the evening, minutes before the Masquerade was to begin. Only when the physicians had ruled out a plague-like illness had they allowed Antoine to see his father, for what he hoped wasn't the last time. By then, King Edouard was so frail, so sick, that Antoine wasn't sure what would happen once the King's doors closed behind him. What state his father would be in when Antoine walked into the Masquerade to make a selection he'd regret for the rest of his days.

It was all so surreal; he'd spent the day at the head of meetings his father would usually preside over. The nobles all looked to him for the wisdom Edouard imparted, but Antoine didn't have that wisdom yet. But this was custom—if the King was ill, out of commission, then they had to prepare the next in line to the throne by throwing him into his role at once. Antoine had read about such measures, but he'd never expected them to be so daunting, so intimidating, so real. He'd never expected his father to be ill, and not so soon.

As Crown Prince of Totresia, Antoine was to be protected at all costs. Which also meant protecting his legacy by reversing the decisions he'd made in agreement with King Edouard.

"He decreed it, but new issues are at stake. Your father has reconsidered," Clémentine had said, as Antoine hid behind his changing shift, slipping on the crisp shirt he was to wear under his heavy jacket. That same shirt clung to his skin now, drenched in sweat and doused with Adelaide's obnoxious fumes of perfume. "In his sickness he has become more lucid and realized that marrying Marguerite is a mistake. You need someone to bring something to your reign; she brings nothing but mystery and misery."

He'd considered slapping Clémentine then. One time too many had she insulted Marguerite—and in his presence, too, without masking her words—and he'd had enough of it.

Yet what she said made sense, as much as he refused to admit it out loud. Her methods were unkind and brutal, but she was ultimately right.

So caught up in his feelings for Marguerite, in their fairy-tale love, in their kisses exchanged in dark corridors, their fingertips twitching with passion, he hadn't allowed doubt to fester in his mind. But it was always there, looming, waiting for the moment to manifest. He'd promised Marguerite all would be well, but deep down he knew something was amiss. He knew his mother would never quit working against them and sooner or later, his father would see reason in her schemes.

Was this a scheme? Or was Clémentine looking out for her son, for her kingdom?

In his devotion for Marguerite, he'd been careless. Foolish. He'd allowed himself to hope he could be happy, that they could be happy together. But how many nobles had he seen marry for riches, not for love? How many were miserable in marriage, by no one's fault but their own, because of their ambition, their goals? Marrying for love wasn't so common in Totresia. Edouard and Clémentine had been lucky. But Edouard's union with Clémentine had brought nothing, had it? She was a runaway from France, her lesser-noble family unwilling to link themselves with her, to acknowledge her marriage to a foreign King. Now, Antoine was about to commit the same mistake: to wed for love, to bypass customs, to risk his reign, his family.

It had taken his father's illness and his mother's insistence to shake him out of his dreams of grandeur.

He hadn't thought of the repercussions of marrying the woman he loved, who was a woman of unknown origins, who had no family members to speak of, no dowry—that would be of use to the depleting coffers of the royal household—no lands, no family name. He loved her with all his heart and would never cease to do so, but having her at his side wouldn't strengthen him; if anything, it'd weaken him.

He hated to appear weak. Weakness was a childish sensation, and he was no longer a child. He had showed himself weak earlier that day, when confronted with questions he couldn't answer and requests he didn't know how to handle. He'd looked flimsy, fragile, too young for the responsibilities his father's potential death would put on his shoulders. By listening to his mother, just this once, he'd appear firm, strong.

He never should have asked Clémentine who she suggested he propose to, in place of Marguerite. He should have known she'd pick the one woman who terrified him. The one who had francais in her veins and whose temperament was as fiery, if not fiercer, than Clémentine's. The one who opted to wear red on any occasion, provoking Antoine as if he were a maddened bull seeking to plunge his horns into his prey.

"I would advise that you select the Lady of Avignon, son." Clémentine had winced, scrunched her nose, gulped. Her hesitation should have rang bells in Antoine's head. "She provides an alliance with France. A small one, sure; a royal or higher-placed noble would have been preferable, but none attended your Season. We must take what we have in front of us. Time runs out, son. Your father..."

"He agreed on this?" Antoine's throat had constricted. "Adelaide as my wife?"

Clémentine's silent nod should have also alarmed him, yet he was too distressed to pay attention to the details. Too exhausted to debate, argue, deflect.

He would have told Marguerite all this. She would have listened, screamed, stormed up and down the castle's halls, kicked at her bed-frame until her toes were blue. In the long run, she would have understood. If it was Edouard's decision, she would have obeyed.

But she left without giving Antoine a chance. Without bothering to give him the benefit of the doubt. She left without saying goodbye to him, to his siblings, without a second thought of the man she'd loved as a father, who was now on the verge of death.

Antoine couldn't explain all this to Sébastien, despite how wise beyond his years he was. The middle Prince was his only confidante but detailing his decision to him would be a waste of breath. He'd take Marguerite's side and insist that Antoine should have spoken up, should have defended her, should have chosen her.

At fifteen, and developing into a handsome, mysterious boy, Sébastien attracted a bit of attention at court. But he didn't quite understand what it meant yet to have a fanfare of women batting their lashes at one's every word, acknowledging every sentence, and basking in one's every movement, strictly because one might place a crown upon their heads. He wouldn't understand having to choose from those women, not based on one's feelings, but based on strategy, power, success.

"It is complicated," said Antoine, leaning over the fire, letting its warmth coat his cheeks and install a semi-sense of comfort in his being.

"Everything is complicated with you," said Sébastien, groaning as he stretched and resumed his lying position on the bed. "You and Father; always so complicated."

The reminder of his resemblance to the King—physically and internally—brought a jolt to Antoine's left temple. It pulsated, throbbed, sending pangs of pain across his forehead before igniting in his other temple.

The only way he'd managed to escape Adelaide's intoxicating presence was to claim he was to visit Edouard to inform him of his choice. She'd been buzzing about him like a bee sniffing out the rarest and most delicious of honeys, which worsened the doubt he'd held on to after agreeing to his mother's demand to propose to her. For someone who'd been so on board with his engagement to Marguerite, Adelaide was quite pleased at the turn of events. She batted her lashes and swung her fan and clinked her glass with anyone who passed her, celebrating her betrothal with Antoine.

Antoine snuck off what felt like hours later, hoping to rush up to his father's quarters, to verify that this was indeed his wish—for him to wed Adelaide—when Sébastien had intercepted him and warned him the King's chambers were barricaded.

"Mother asked me to wait for you, to keep you apprised. He is not getting better and they fear the worst, but they do not want you there when... it happens." The croak in Sébastien's voice betrayed the sadness he likely wished to conceal from his older brother. The tears glittering in his eyes were proof of how serious he was.

Séb does not jest, and Mother would not make him stay up so late for nothing.

They were to keep each other company until they received news which, they prayed, wouldn't be the dire death announcement the advisors seemed to anticipate.

Antoine's father's impending demise and Marguerite's disappearance both weighed heavily on his conscience, taking turns plaguing him with regrets, fears, paranoia.

Annoying as Sébastien could be, Antoine was grateful for his company now.

"Mother would not let me write to her." He shoved his hands through his hair and huffed, his breath blowing through the flames below. "If I had fought harder, managed to get her a letter, something to prepare her—"

"—it would not have mattered." Sébastien was immobile, staring up at the ceiling, the same tears from earlier still brewing in his eyes, waiting to release. He'd controlled his voice—rendering it stern and peeved—but there was no mistaking how his grief shadowed his usually kind features. "She would not want to linger to watch you marry someone else."

Antoine growled—not at Sébastien, but at the world, at the gods, at the shift in the situation he'd been so happy, so comfortable with. "She did not pack! She ran off, without a word! Who does that?"

"You didn't say a word either," said Sébastien, sitting up again. His cheeks were red, chafed from those moments he'd probably spent rubbing the tears from his face. "You froze, you did not move! I was watching, you know." He scoffed. "All three of us were. Jules walked out when he saw her leave, and Cordelia cried. 'Father is about to die, and now we lose her, too?' She could not bear it."

"What would you have had me do, hm?" Antoine threw his arms up and swirled back to the fire, trying his hardest not to yell at his younger brother. And unwilling to show him how deeply he was wounded, and how much he knew it was his own fault. "Father and Mother demanded that I choose someone else. They would not let me inform her, they would not let me—"

"—you will not be able to use that excuse much longer. In a matter of moments, neither will decide for you anymore. Father—" Sébastien choked on the word, prompting Antoine to flip around and watch him. He looked into his lap, his curtain of hair concealing his face. "He will be gone, and Mother will be nothing but a Dowager. You are the Crown Prince."

Antoine scrunched his eyebrows. "So you would have me reverse the decision? After everyone at court has heard it, after all the gossip-hungry dames have already spread the news in the streets of Torrinni? You would have me tell Adelaide, to her face," he shuddered, "that I no longer wish to wed her?"

Sébastien snorted and got to his feet. "I doubt there is time for that."

He stormed up to Antoine, and though he was three years younger and not as muscular, not as built, he stood nearly as tall as him. Their noses touched, and for a moment their eyes—Antoine's light but filled with fire, Sébastien's dark and reproachful—connected. The air particles seemed to freeze, the surrounding world seemed to pause.

"But I would have you stand up for yourself and stop letting Mother walk all over you!" Sébastien raised his hand, pointed his finger, aiming it at Antoine's chest—but his arm suddenly shook and he lowered it, backing away, distancing himself as he dropped his chin. "She orchestrated this and you know it. Yet you allowed her to get her way. You allowed her to win. She never wanted you to marry Marguerite, and now... she has gotten her wish."

It was all too true and too much to bear. His younger, inexperienced brother was telling him he was a coward, warning him their mother was a tyrant, reminding him their father was on his deathbed. Ever the intelligent, sneaky, truth-sniffing Prince, Sébastien said words that slapped across Antoine's face, stinging his skin, seeping underneath to hammer at his jaw-bone.

Yes, it was too late to fix what he'd done; but it was never too late to apologize.

"I must find her." He spun towards his door, intent on hastening out into the downpour of rain and organizing a crew of soldiers to assist him. A few drops wouldn't bar him from going after Marguerite. He had a hunter's mind, nose, instinct—he'd follow her trail and bring her home.

"There is no point," said Sébastien, sticking his shaky arm out to block Antoine from departing. "Mother is already working on that."

"Mother is—" Antoine snarled and jammed into Sébastien's arm, nearly breaking through it as he marched up to his door. He twisted around to stare at Sébastien, as if inviting him to come along, to help him—or daring him to stop him. "All the more reason to look for her myself. If Mother finds her—"

"—I imagine it is too late." Sébastien winced, holding his arm tight to his chest. "If she has set herself on this task, then she will succeed, and there is nothing we can do about it."

"Will she..." Antoine's shoulders slumped, and he dragged a hand down his face. "Will she kill her?"

The notion paralyzed Antoine: would his mother go so far? Would she do something so horrendous?

Something tells me it would not be her first time being so ruthless.

Sébastien flinched. "Whatever her intentions, they will not be good. She never loved Maggie, and she will not let her return here, that much is certain. At this point, we can only wait for—"

A knock on the door paused their discussion, causing both to stand stiffly and at attention. Antoine cleared his throat and opened the door to find his squire, eyes pinched, chin dipped, hands twitching as he bowed.

"Highness—" he hiccuped, "—Majesty. Sire... Sir... Your mother beckons."

From the pallid glistening of the squire's skin, and the multitude of soldiers who'd accompanied him, Antoine deduced the worse. Without another comment to Sébastien, he stomped out of his room, headed to a meeting he'd soon regard with dread and despair.

•••


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