The city facades were like nothing he had ever placed his eyes upon. The rough, stone ramparts stood high before the carriage, weathered in ways that suggested they'd seen many wars. Many struggles. Many attempts to penetrate the hidden location—most of them by fellow Frenchmen. The indents from bullets, the spikes at the top, the patrolling French army in their signature Napoleonic suits; it was all so foreign and violent, fueling him with the desire to go home.

Avignon.

King Antoine peered under the window flap of his transport as it trotted past the gate, waved in by the men in blue coats with distinct large black hats on their heads.

So lovely in appearance, Avignon had such a harsh, war-ridden history. So different from the sweet-natured Totresia Antoine grew up in. The long, slick fusils* the soldiers held at their sides caused a slight shiver to race down his spine, but Antoine wouldn't falter. He had no reason to fear them—this wasn't enemy territory. It was her home.

He winced.

Her.

The woman sitting across from him in her heaps of red silk skirts that invaded the space separating them, taking up almost the entire carriage to herself. Always in red, the color of violence, like her home city that they now entered. Her hair, also red—a shiny, sleek crimson that her ladies had teased into bouffant bunches, engulfing her ruby and gold crown.

All the red made him dizzy.

She smiled as she pivoted from the window and caught him watching her. Her bright azure eyes glowed in delight at the attention. "It feels marvelous to be back." Her honeyed tone created lumps in Antoine's throat.

She was beautiful, no doubt about it. Exquisite, eloquent, elusive—any European man's dream. With her creamy skin and perfect cheekbones and a figure to make one shake in pleasure, she was an impeccable French lady, with impeccable manners to match. At least in public.

Antoine's heart didn't flutter at the sight of her; it sank. She was a handful; tantrum-prone, an avid critic of everything, and a tad too wild in the bedroom for his taste. Most men wouldn't complain, but Antoine was crushed by the weight of her vanity.

My choice. I must live with it.

Seated there, under her scrutiny, feeling more alone than ever, was not how he hoped to spend his first summer as a married man.

He chose to keep his window flap open, allowing hot rays of sun to blaze in. They didn't blind him; he loved basking in them, sensing their warmth on his skin. His cheeks heated, his bones relaxed, his long limbs stretched out and tension melted.

The golden glow shining down on the vast French landscape reminded him of her. The other her; not his wife, but the one who should have been. Her corn-colored hair, cascading down her spine and spilling over her shoulders as she ran. Her uneven paces as she rushed down the pebbled garden pathways, one hand clutching her dress, the other waving about for balance. Not to forget her eyes, shimmering as rare emeralds, speckled with blues, yellows, browns, widening as she approached him.

Her smile was the only thing that did blind him, and he would never look at it again.

She would have loved Avignon.

The royal carriage crossed the cobbled streets, and the scent of fresh bread reached his nostrils. Metals clanged and banged in Blacksmith shops. Children ran beside the horses, yelling "bienvenue, bienvenue!**"

He glimpsed a few anxious women in aprons who hurried after them, yelping "Arrête ça, tout-de-suite!***" begging their little ones to slow down and not excite the horses. Farther off, Frenchmen exited their sturdy three-level homes, chests puffed as they sighted the Totresian proceeding passing through.

Antoine's heart sank as he gulped down the sorrow he'd been yearning to erase for months. The pain he'd endured knowing she wouldn't bear his children; she wouldn't scamper after them and giggle at their noises and clap at their first steps.

The children's laughter weakened as the vehicle carried onward, then turned left. The atmosphere changed at once; merchants howled, wailing at customers or screaming at competitors, beckoning them forward to buy fresh fish, bags of apples, precious gems and brooches guaranteed to please any lady.

Bells rang from a nearby cathedral and chimed inside the freight, alarming Antoine, who wasn't used to such animation in the streets. He rarely ventured out into Torrinni City. As the King, he sat atop his throne and held court. He signed treaties and argued about alliances and downed copious goblets of wine to ease his mind.

Nothing worked. Which was why, when Adelaide mentioned a quick stint to Avignon to meet her father, he accepted, glad for the reprieve, the vacation. Though he wasn't sure if leaving his mother in charge of Totresia had been one of his best ideas.

Did the French folk recognize the Totresian royal sigil on his coach? His father had dealt with the French often, but it had been years since he'd traveled into southern France.

Do they have any clue who I am?

Perilous as its reputation made it, he couldn't deny the city's beauty. Its myriad of colorful houses, the verdant gardens, the luxurious window-sills overflowing with flowers.

Then there was the splendid, sparkling white cathedral, hard to miss as the convoy moved by it. A horde of villagers gathered in front of it, and clergymen stood before the entrance, sun blaring over them as if God Himself peeked down at that very moment. The crowd cheered, echoing whatever sermon the anointed men uttered, and Antoine smiled, wondering what they said.

Avignon wasn't Paris and its wild roads and impressive buildings; it wasn't Lyon with its delicious food and delectable wines. But it had its charm.

He slid his head out the window and visualized a large cobblestone Plaza with trees lining its sides. A soft breeze filtered through, and he could have sworn it almost smelled like the sea—though he knew the Mediterranean was far behind them.

Are we closer to the Rhône than I thought?

He considered throwing the transport door open and jumping out to explore, glimpse Avignon for himself. Not as the King of Totresia, but as a tourist, a commoner. To escape, run, like she had all those years ago when visiting Valeville, when they were eight and nine and careless. When she scampered off, scrambling among the villagers, getting lost in the bakeries and artisan shops. When royal guards pursued her all over town, grimacing as she cackled, diving to her feet as she slipped away.

Antoine yearned to do the same now. He longed for the French breezes to flow through his hair, to tingle his skin. For the salespeople to yell at him, beg him to buy their wares, to try their dishes, to wear their creations. To kick off his boots and rest under the clouds, munching on oranges.

He snorted—his new wife would disapprove. So would the nobles traveling with him. He was no longer a child Prince; he was nineteen, and a King.

Again, he dared a peep at his Queen. She skimmed out the other window, a grin plastered on her pale face. Avignon was her home, her father's town; he raised her here, taught her here, groomed her to be a girl with lavish tastes and eccentric desires.

Antoine remembered, almost a year ago, when she arrived at court. Her French accent was heavy yet enchanting, her hair pulled back, frightening to all who weren't used to such a daring shade of vivid red. Yes, she caught his eye; but her father's alliances, her city's backing of Napoléon... he didn't agree with those.

Edouard disliked her the second she'd curtsied for him. Clémentine, though having been the one who summoned her, snickered at her every word. His brothers mocked her and his sister refused to speak to her. The other debutantes had viewed her as an enemy.

Only one of Antoine's contenders befriended her, accepted her, listened to her. The one who was Antoine's original betrothed; the one he betrayed. The one he never stopped dreaming of though he would never see her again.

It is all my fault.

"Marguerite..."

"Dearest?" Adelaide's sultry tone swept into his bubble and blasted it. "What is it? What did you say?"

"Ah, uh... marvelous indeed, I said." He cringed and fixed his lips into a weak smile. "It pleases me that you invited me to your hometown. It is charming."

She beamed at him, lashes fluttering. "Oui, and I cannot wait for you to gaze at the Palais des Papes." The carriage came to a halt. "Ah, speaking of which—we must be arriving!"

Antoine stared out the window, brows furrowing. He saw it. Le Palais des Papes—the palace that turned Avignon into a papal territory. A holy, blessed place, a massive building with walls of old, worn-down stone, sprinkled with grand windows and towers of all shapes and sizes, and a soaring rooftop that would hurt one's neck to gape up at.

The coach door opened, and when the soles of his boots touched the pavement, he inhaled, whispering a silent prayer of thanks. Fixed on the immense structure, he held out his hand to help Adelaide down. She whispered a similar prayer to his.

"Home. Enfin.****" She dropped his hand and scurried a few strides forward, arms outstretched.

He observed her figure as she ambled farther, wondering if he would ever love her. If he would cherish her like she cherished her country, and he cherished his. Would her captivating looks be enough? Would her cheery disposition and seductive susurrations keep him anchored to her?

The entire escort of guards struggled to stop ogling her well-formed curves and pearly complexion. She caused a certain degree of chaos wherever she went—noblemen fantasized, ladies murmured in envy, rumors flitted up and down the halls of every building they visited together. What was he to do? Reprimand them all, hang them? She was a delight on the outside; but had peeled away her lustrous layers to see the rotting, blackened heart beneath, like Antoine had after their wedding ceremony. No one mentioned the foul ways she treated her entourage, the cruel manner in which she tortured her staff. He pretended not to see, not to care, reminiscent of his father and his mother.

Therein was his answer; no, he would never love her. Because she would never be Marguerite.

Her skirts swayed against the pavement as her heels clicked, sashaying to him and snapping him from his stupor. "Come! Hurry!" She seized his forearm and squeezed, hauling him to the chunky steps that would bring them close to the palace.

Antoine's crown almost fell off as she tugged, eager, excited. Guards flew off after them, but kept their distance, giving them privacy.

"I must show you my favorite view of the Rhône, behind the palace," she said, her tone girlish, full of life. As if she were a teenage contender again, a sweet-natured child with admiration for her home.

Antoine cowered before such a soaring edifice. His castle had its splendors and stretched on for what felt like miles; but the Palais des Papes seemed bigger, scarier, more intimidating than any place he'd ever visited.

A few citizens on the Plaza bustled about and ignored them, their words a mixed form of French he wasn't familiar with. A slight southern twang to them, exotic; but as he attempted to repeat them in his head, he failed.

More soldiers like those posted at the city ramparts marched around the Palais. Shining rifles rested on their shoulders as they walked in rhythm. Once more Antoine suppressed shivers, reminding himself France was an ally. Though Avignon rallied behind Napoléon, he had not yet shown Totresia any ill-will, and Adelaide's father was a reasonable man.

"It belongs to Général Napoléon now," said Adelaide, her vanilla and spice perfume washing over Antoine's cheeks. "A military barracks. How it has changed since I last visited it. It used to be a veritable place of reverence and worship." She slowed her pace as they reached the top of the stairs.

From afar, Antoine noticed the red stains near the bottom of the windows, the cannons on the tower tops. A lingering stench of gunpowder permeated the area. No tourists or inhabitants wandered here, too afraid to approach a spot that gave off such a haunted sensation. Better to view at a distance, and he didn't blame them.

Their pathway slithered past the highest, gloomiest spire. A mid-sized rock wall separated them from it, with a handful of men patrolling to shut out curious sightseers.

Adelaide yanked him along, clenching her majestic gown in her other hand to avoid walking on it. Her fiery hair gleamed in the summer sunlight, bouncing as she hurried to the edge of the Palais where she stopped, released him, and motioned before her. "Look!"

He followed her slender fingertips, and his jaw dropped. A rocky fence loomed between them and a steep drop into the wide river. The Rhône—its active, savage, flowing waters coursed beneath the Palais. Though threatening to eat each boat that dared traverse it, the movement of its waves soothed Antoine. Lapping against the walls and ramparts below, it swished and swayed, inspiring calm.

Off in the distance, and down the way, he recognized the famed torn-apart bridge, the Pont d'Avignon. Its broken boulders dissolved into the river, disappearing under the surface. He imagined himself plunging into the rushing river from that bridge, diving in to swim to the other side and see it up close. Cupping a hand over his eyes, he spotted a riverbank of lush grass, populated with trees, small cottages and farms, fields of crops surrounding them.

That was the France that always intrigued him.

He craved to mount a horse from his royal carriage, send it galloping up the steps and down the bridge, to jump across and topple onto the vast land on the other side.

Lost in his imagination, he pictured his favorite blonde, this time running beside him through the grassy patches. She stopped at the water's edge, removed her shoes, and sank her feet into the powerful French river, not fearing for her balance, unafraid of being swept away.

Her laughter resonated in his ears, as if real. "Antoine! Come! The water is so refreshing!"

He grinned as the warmth her voice brought to his soul expanded in his chest, allowing him to breathe, for the first time in months. Closing his eyes, he continued to hear her giggles and wafted into a pleasurable trance. He swayed on the spot, palms curling over the railing. Wanting to fall, fall, fall until he caught up with her.

"Antoine? Antoine!" This timbre was different, and someone snagged his arm, pulling him from the river's viewpoint. The image in his mind faded like a painting melting, its colors dripping into the water below. "Dearest, can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes to find Adelaide. She snapped her fingers as she thrust herself between him and the railing.

"Ah, I... yes, darling. Sorry, I drifted off again."

Her brows lifted and one hand flew to her hip, her skirts billowing about in the wind. "Drifted off? Have you lost your mind? If it were not for that barrier, you would have—"

He gripped her upper arms as he smirked. "I was fine. All is well."

Something pinched inside his rib-cage.

No, nothing is fine.

She wasn't the golden-haired woman he dreamed of every night, every day. Wasn't the one whose name he called upon waking, heart pounding, temples throbbing. The one whose dulcet tones he'd recognize at once, if he were ever lucky enough to hear them again.

Marguerite was gone forever. It was this woman's whining wails he had to listen to; her scarlet-hued lips he had to press against. Her body he had to get used to, her touch he had to pretend to enjoy.

His Queen sighed as she walked around him. "If you say so." She shimmied off, waving at him to follow. "We must hasten to the carriage. Father expects us, and I do not wish to keep him waiting."

Reluctant, stuck somewhere in his dreamlike state with Marguerite, he swerved to face the rocky palace overlooking the moving waters. How he wished to swim, refresh, get away from responsibility—but reality bellowed his name, drew him from his desires.

He weaved a hand through his longer-than-usual tresses and inhaled, readying himself for a stiff and awkward meeting with the father of the wife he hated himself for choosing.

His Maggie would always be with him, in his heart. His Duchess, his best friend, the only woman he'd ever love.

Gut filling with dread, he trudged after his red-headed Queen as she led the way to the transport.

For a moment, minuscule and precious, she spoke in his head. "I love you, Antoine."

With one last fleetingglance at the crashing waves, his soul crashed with them, and a single teardrizzled down to his jaw. "I love you too, Maggie. Always and forever."

*fusils: rifle

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