As her roots stretched into the Totresian soil she felt so foreign in, Marguerite's petals grew, her wings spread. Timid though she had once been, she was now armed with knowledge—and her King's trust. She no longer feared the future as much.

A few noblemen still whispered when she walked by, but they didn't pester her with cruelty. Many bowed to her, a few smiled, several offered her their arm to guide her to whichever area of the castle she meandered to.

She had King Edouard to thank for the new treatment.

She wasn't alone in blooming into the role set aside for her; her best friend, her closest ally, also made a name for himself at the Totresian Royal Court.

Crown Prince Antoine, who sent girls to their knees wherever he arrived, who had hordes of men of all ages flapping about him, who spoke with kindness and poise to anyone in his presence—aristocrats and peasants alike.

Dashing, they called him. Elderly noblewomen admired his wit, flamboyant ladies in their twenties wished he were older, or they were younger, and those of Marguerite's age had no idea how to express their emotions, but blushed when he saluted them.

Marguerite guffawed at the behaviors he caused in his wake, because he was always unaware what he'd done to cause them.

"They think you are handsome," she told him, during one of their after-lunch rituals—marching through the orchards.

He climbed up a tree and seized two plump oranges for them to feast on as a dessert. "Me? Handsome? I am thirteen." He cringed. "They are all older crones who have misguided expectations. It is distasteful to lust after a young Prince."

"Is it?" She peeled the skin from her favorite fruit and sniffed the delectable smell.

He plunged his teeth into his orange, sending juices onto her cheek; and when he reached over to wipe her off, she shoved him into a tomato bush and giggled.

"Will they find you handsome covered in stains?"

After their separate afternoon lessons, they met in the Library for reading time, seated on either side of the roaring hearth. A brief respite before supper, where they had to sit up straight and be quiet, to avoid Clémentine's scrutiny towards their indiscreet friendship.

"Men and women cannot be friends, Marguerite."

Marguerite curled into her navy-cushioned seat, nestling her book in her lap, clutching a cup of strong black tea in one hand as the other dangled off the chair-arm. The heat brushed against her fingertips, and ashes from the fire covered her gloves on the floor.

Up ahead, the main Library doors screeched open. She perked up, and her novel slid off, landing with a thump.

Antoine, to her right, also sat up. They both leaned left, to gaze past the rows and rows of bookshelves and see who had arrived. Sometimes Sébastien would come in and sit between them on the rug, laying on his back and admiring the enormous painting over the fireplace—the revered family portrait in all its splendor.

The one I am not in.

A few times, Jules had run in to scare them, or Cordelia to complain about this or that etiquette lesson she'd endured.

But not that day; that day Lady Alice showed up, heels clicking with her quick paces, her raven-and-crimson gown billowing about her—the one she wore when Queen Clémentine asked her to watch over the Prince and the Duchess.

"There you are," said the sapphire-eyed woman, squinting. In the years since she'd arrived at court, she gained a few wrinkles on her forehead, several pounds in the waist area, and a list of abilities that included hiding in bushes and spying on children. But her most esteemed prize, her favorite gift—the Queen's trust. "Your Highness," she curtsied, breathless from her running, "your royal father awaits you in his Study."

Antoine didn't stand but closed his book. "I have not finished my chapter."

The Crown Prince detested Alice from day one; she treated him with a sugary sweetness, and was rude towards Marguerite, which he didn't tolerate.

"He insisted, Highness." Alice set her fists onto her hips. "Would you send me back to him alone? Would you have me report to His Majesty, King Edouard of Totresia, that his eldest son refuses to come when beckoned?"

Marguerite turned to him as he rolled his eyes and got up. "Fine." He handed her his book. "Put it away, would you? I will have to resume tomorrow." He bowed but didn't kiss her knuckles as he often did when leaving. "See you at supper."

She watched him leave, trying not to sulk as she huddled his novel against her chest.

Alice swished around, walking backwards, and pointed at her while mouthing, "Sit up! The Queen will know!"

Marguerite puffed out a breath of annoyance but didn't fix her posture.

How she missed Lila, her governess from earlier years. So sweet, so calm, so quiet. Because Alice was a handful; she marched between them, smacked their hands away if they got too close, chided their vocabulary when it got too playful.

Marguerite and Antoine never wandered off alone, but Alice wasn't always able to look after them. So when members of Clémentine's staff weren't available, she'd concoct other ways to ensure they never got too close. Sometimes, a serving girl would follow them on their strolls, to report what they did or said. Once, a young squire-in-training climbed the tree by their favorite spot in the garden patch, but when Antoine mimicked shooting a gun at a squirrel near him, he panicked and fell, injuring himself. Clémentine never used him again.

And I bet she fired him for it.

When in the Library, Marguerite knew the Librarian, an elderly man whose name she never remembered, glanced their way more than he should. Clémentine employed him, too; Clémentine employed everyone.

Worst of all were the days when the Queen herself chaperoned. She huffed, complained she had better things to do, ladies-in-waiting to train, games to organize, piano lessons to give Cordelia. But instead, she scrutinized her eldest son and his best friend, barked at them to maintain their distances, to walk farther apart, to not address each other with such ease.

"Do not bow to her, Antoine!" she'd yell, whenever he met up with Marguerite.

Or, "Do not kiss her hand!" if the Prince attempted to be friendly.

Antoine never understood it—was he not to smooch a woman's palm in greeting?

Nothing in her attitude ever surprised Marguerite; she'd grown used to it. In the past, the Queen never paid her any mind, isolated her, ignored her. As she entered her teenage years, she found the smoldering chocolate-eyed royal wouldn't leave her alone. She allowed her into the Queen's Solar, invited her to tea, glared at her as she spoke with other ladies. She took special care in reprimanding her out in the Queen's Corridor if she did anything displeasing—which turned out to be everything.

That evening's supper was dreary; neither Antoine nor Edouard joined them, leaving Marguerite to listen to Cordelia sucking up to her mother, and Sébastien and Jules bickering about a hunting lesson they had earlier that day.

Where is Antoine? Why does he not eat with us tonight?

She never found out.

***

The Masquerade Ball, at last.

It was a December thirty-first custom that started centuries ago and had become the event of the season in Totresia. Nobles and upper-class citizens flocked to the castle to attend it. Middle-class ladies aspired for higher-placed men to invite them. Paupers spoke of the famed party on the streets lining the ramparts. A time-honored tradition where all clad in their best suits, their most elegant dresses, and sported wild masks—but Marguerite and Antoine were experts at deciphering who hid beneath.

They'd started their ritual of spying on the Masquerade at nine, when they returned from their travels with King Edouard. One winter evening, scrambling across the first-floor landing to hide from a butler, they went too far and found themselves trapped on the balustrade overlooking the Ballroom. Unwilling to let the man catch them—they'd stolen a batch of pastries reserved for the party—they panicked, running farther down the balcony-lined hallway before finding a narrow opening in the stone fencing that concealed them.

The opening was a circular stone and glass view-point over the Ballroom, pushing out from the main balcony—and allowing a perfect overlook of the dance-floor, buffet, and thrones below. How had they never seen it?

"We should come here when the Masquerade happens in December!" Antoine had said, and Marguerite could only agree.

In the passing years, they continued to stop by the area on the last day of each year and developed various games—including the name and status-guessing one. They taught Sébastien and Jules to find snacks to bring along; but they hadn't initiated Cordelia yet—she struggled to keep secrets from her ever-prying mother.

In seventeen-ninety-one, they realized it would be their last time watching the event—because the following year, after turning sixteen, they would attend it. At sixteen, one was old enough to frequent Balls, and the Masquerade would be no exception. Antoine complained about it, and Marguerite fought to contain her excitement.

Tonight, whatever anticipation she once had buried beneath piles of dread. Clémentine spent the day ordering her to assist her in dressing for the festivities, sending her up and down stairs for precious materials and to summon seamstresses to re-do stitches she didn't approve of. She'd made Marguerite sew diamonds—real ones—to her mask and to the hem of her heavy gemstone gown, and Marguerite missed lunch and supper because of it.

"Why did she make you help?" Antoine pried his gaze from the arrivals below to peek at her.

At fifteen, he already stood almost as tall as his six-foot-and-change father, and much taller than Marguerite. Even hunched behind the stone portions of the glass-lined patio, one could tell how colossal he'd become. His hair had grown messier and darker, though peppered with tiny streaks of wheat that gobbled sunlight and captivated every lady at court. Yes, they still called him dashing; but now hunger swelled in their gazes when they gawked at him, and it unsettled Marguerite more than she wished.

"That is not your responsibility."

"She did it to keep me occupied," said Marguerite, looking elsewhere. Holding his gaze would give him access to her thoughts; he always figured out when she was distressed.

The giant floor-to-ceiling windows loomed across the way, pouring moonlight into the Ballroom. On their other side, the candlelit terrace revealed lovers canoodling and men stepping out to smoke cigars while women gossiped inside. The sparkling chandelier hanging from above towered over attendees, sprinkling their dazzling outfits in prismatic dots.

"Occupied?" Antoine nudged her for attention, but she focused on a group of ladies loitering near the dance-floor, observing an elegant man as he pondered who to invite to dance. "You mean away from me, yes?"

They were no fools; Clémentine's emphasis on keeping them apart only worsened with time. It angered Antoine most of all.

Marguerite's spine tingled when she sighted Sir Richel—the Marquess who hated her when she was a child. He never came to court anymore, but when he did, he remained polite, no longer twitching when in her presence. "Perhaps."

The man marched to the far-right corner—the dais. With its six ruby-encrusted thrones, and the decorated chaise off to the left, meant for Marguerite, it seemed to give impeccable visibility over the entire Ballroom. The Marquess bowed before it, and Clémentine, obvious boredom in her lackluster eyes, acquiesced his arrival. Edouard conversed with other men a few feet away.

"Why can she not accept that we are best friends? One does not separate best friends." Antoine sighed, an air of innocence in his shrinking posture. Some days, Marguerite wished she could be as oblivious as he, as unaware of what his mother did behind the scenes. But as a lady of the court, she had direct access to all the Queen did, and Antoine, sheltered inside his father's Meeting Room walls, or locked in the Cigar Room, had no clue.

If you only knew, my friend.

She noticed Clémentine leap from her seat to snatch a champagne flute from a passing waiter, and the abrupt movement, the way her heavy-set skirts drizzled down her waist, and her too-tight bun pulled her cheek-bones up high, reminded the Duchess of how she'd intercepted her a few days prior.

After one of their usual strolls, Marguerite left Antoine at the stables, where he was to meet another friend. As she admired his perfect riding pose and he waved at her, she beamed; and that's when Clémentine arrived from behind and snatched her by the elbow.

The Queen's nails dug through layers of cloaks and long sleeves and pressed hard into Marguerite's skin. "What are you doing?" Her voice croaked and sent frozen shivers up and down Marguerite's arms—shivers that had nothing to do with the low temperatures.

She battled her shaky legs to curtsy as Clémentine swept in front of her, one brow arching, nostrils flaring. "I-I was... wishing His Highness good luck on the hunt, Majesty."

"No," hissed the Queen, inching as close as her giant skirts would allow, "I mean what are you doing? Presuming to ogle my son like so? He is the Crown Prince, and you are but a girl of unknown origins that my husband took under his wing and blessed as a Duchess. Which does not give you the right to entertain any ideas. Remember your place—you are his advisor, not his friend, not his future wife."

Marguerite's tongue turned to ice in her mouth and she fumbled with her words. "Majesty, I—"

She never imagined pursuing Antoine in such a manner. Never pictured herself vying for his hand, marrying him, becoming royalty. So why would the Queen make such assumptions?

"Your inappropriate proximity and intimate friendship disturb me. Watch yourself. Because I will be watching you."

It was not a new threat; Clémentine always reminded Marguerite how she never let her out of her vision. Always singled her out and made it clear she'd never harbor secrets while under Torrinni Castle's roof. But this warning rang different from the others. This one anchored deep into Marguerite's heart and wounded her.

"Maggie?" Antoine tapped her shoulder, and she jolted out of her recollection to find his hazel eyes awash with concern. "Are you all right?"

She hadn't realized, so lost in her memories of the cruel woman who raised her, that she'd stopped gaping through the glass barrier and curled into a ball, her knees against her rib-cage, exposing the tips of her slippers. "Ah, well... the pastry smells became a bit overwhelming, sorry." She lowered her legs and crawled closer to their view-point but craned her neck to the Prince.

"Right." He brushed his fingertips through his tresses, shaking them out, releasing a pleasing citrus scent that mingled with his pine musk. "I was saying Mother is out of line."

"She is the Queen." She gave a quick shake of her head, and in the Ballroom, the King had risen, prepared to start his annual speech. Marguerite pulled from the glass as Edouard clinked his flute of champagne, silencing all in the room. "If she deems our friendship inappropriate..."

"But I am the Crown Prince!" His voice pierced through the silence below, and he realized all too late his father must have heard him. He winced, lowered behind the facade—yet something told Marguerite Edouard always knew they were there.

"Careful," she said, jutting her chin towards the hallway, indicating they should take their leave before Clémentine caught them.

They waited for the opportune moment—Edouard made his audience erupt into fits of laughter—and dashed from the balcony, running up the service stairs at the end of the hall, and arrived on the royal floor, doors away from the Queen's empty room.

Half-giggling and half-panicked, they hurried to the other edge of the castle, where they would separate into their quarters.

Before Marguerite had a chance to bid him goodnight, Antoine seized her chin between his index finger and thumb—an Edouard trademark that never ceased to halt her in her tracks.

"Why would she think our friendship to be inappropriate?" His gaze dug into hers as they panted, waiting for their heartbeats to steady. "What about us makes her so wary? You are like family to me."

For reasons misunderstood to her, the way he said the word family stung, squeezed her lungs, rendered her unsteady. Antoine's grip was iron clad, and she wouldn't dare run from him now.

"We are not family, remember? Not by blood."

"And?" He shifted his weight; holding her chin caused him to hunch over, as he stood a head or two taller than her.

"And she sees me as a threat."

He blinked, his grasp lessening, his shoulders drooping. "A threat? What are you talking about?"

His naïve behavior was endearing, most days; but tonight, with his calloused fingers rough on her skin, Marguerite didn't enjoy it.

He proves how much he needs an advisor. Someone who overhears the whispers in the Solar.

"I am a threat to the other ladies at court. To those who will present to you as future fiancées."

Lightning flashed over his features, bright and painful, paling his cheeks. One eye twitched, a corner of his lips slid downward, and he let go of her as he marched backwards. "Fiancées?" He ran his hand down his face and closed his eyes before he pivoted towards the wall—and roared with laughter. "Fiancées? Stop."

"Yes, fiancées." Her stance widened as she crossed her arms. "You find this funny?"

The edges of his mahogany frock coat whistled as he swirled around, tears gathering at his lash-line. "I do, because you are not a threat! Nor will you ever be! She should know better. Mother is insane. You are my best friend, my advisor, the most important person in my life. She is jealous, that is her issue—jealous I would love you as much as I love her."

He hadn't convinced her, but she said nothing to disagree. Later, after they parted ways, she slid down her closed bedroom door and blew out her cheeks. His words, Clémentine's words—all echoed in her skull until her vision blurred and her temples pounded. Over and over, she fought to extinguish her thoughts; but they wouldn't stop, wouldn't die.

She wondered if she agreed with Antoine or with Clémentine. If she'd never be more than a friend to the Crown Prince, or if there were feelings growing inside; feelings that Clémentine would find, stomp on, and destroy.

Anything to keep the Duchess from her beloved boy.

•••