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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"It will be better for you there, daughter dearest. I was reluctant at first, but it is best if you are far from the issues I handle at home. Far from opportunities for spying on my conversations with nobles—"
Céleste giggled. "To think Father expected my habits to change whilst being here." She checked the corridor—the coast was clear, all the Juniors were in class. Hunched, eyes pinched, she snuck down the hall towards Miss M.'s office. "Does he not know this school is fullof gossiping ladies to listen in on?"
On instinct, she hopped over the floorboard that creaked a few inches from the Director's door—they caught her because of it, a few months prior. The hem of her velvet sea-foam gown swished over the spot instead, soft and muffled. Upon landing she winced and braced for Sir Knowles to come running—but nothing happened.
She smiled. One thing she loved to do when no one was looking? Snoop. She and Emeric had done it so often in Valeville; trying to overhear their father's discussions with his staff, jotting down the fancy words they employed, then using them later while reenacting scenes in their cherry-tree backyard.
But Emeric grew up and left. Father no longer found amusement in her childish games, and wanted herto grow up, too.
Here, at the Academy, far from Father's sharp hearing and his uncanny ways of finding her hiding spots, Céleste got away with near anything—when Miss M. wasn't on alert, that was.
On two occasions, Sir Knowles had called her into his office for eavesdropping, creeping about, smart-mouthing teachers. Once, she had met with Miss M.
But today, someoneelse was in the woman's Study. Someone Céleste craved to see embarrassed and chastened.
She had been minding her own business—for once—while sipping tea in the Parlor and reviewing her French notes, when she heard Sir Knowles in the Entryway.
He ushered someoneupstairs, "Go on, then; you know what you did. Miss M. awaits you in her Study," using his do not test me voice.
Odd.
A few grumbles answered him, but Céleste couldn't decipher them. Which irked her, as she'd become quite skilled in matching a grumble to its issuer.
"I care little for your excuses, Miss. This attitude is unworthy of someone of your status, and—" he huffed, and loud thumps came from the stairwell, "—we will notdiscuss this in the hallway for eager ears to listen to."
Céleste chuckled, muffling the noise with a gloved palm.
He speaks of me! He must know I am nearby.
Too curious for her own good, she set her notes onto the coffee table, took a swig of her drink, and inched up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She tiptoed to the open Parlor doors and crept to one side, craning her neck to catch the conclusion of the argument.
