Seleste, Then

AUTUMN,

ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTY NINE YEARS AGO

T he streets of Merveille were drenched. Sodden and frightfully chilled. Seleste ducked out of the rain and into the inviting golden warmth of the inn off Mer Row she called home while on a case.

She'd been working the same case for nearly a fortnight, but almost cracked it. All Seleste needed was to find proof that Roberta Kingsley had faked her own death, and she could return to her isle.

Magdalene, the inn's owner, came out of the kitchen at the sound of the bell above the door, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hallo, Lady Beetle. You'll be wantin' supper in the dinin' room or up in your room?"

The Calla Lily Inn had a lovely dining room. So lovely that it made Seleste doubly angry the aristocrats felt the need to separate the classes as they did. Mer Row's patrons were just as wonderful as Gemme Road's, even if they wore patched clothing and had dining rooms made up of a hodgepodge of beau monde cast-me-outs.

Alas, Seleste wanted to continue working on her case in peace.

"My room please, Magdalene. You're a gem."

The portly woman nodded, and Seleste tiptoed quickly up the first few stairs, but Magdelene called after her.

"Oy, Lady Beetle!"

She peeked back down, brows raised. "Yes?"

"Did you hear the news, then?"

"Pardon?" She'd been completely consumed by her case, paying little mind to anything else for days.

"About the prince."

Seleste's stomach dropped to her toes. "What about the prince?" But she already knew what Madelene would say.

"He died today. Poor little fellow, always so sick since birth. Succumbed to the fevers. he did. Terrible, terrible shame. King doesn't have another son, you know. Too old to have another, I'd reckon."

Seleste's heart was pounding, loud in her ears. She knew those facts far, far too well.

Magdalene turned back toward the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder. "You had a delivery today, too! Already put it in your room."

This time, with all the slowness of a frightened girl in a haunted graveyard, Seleste ascended the rest of the steps. The door to her room loomed before her, the hallway stretching out wide like in the warped mirrors of the cirque .

The prince was dead.

It meant the entirety of Seagovia was about to flip on its head.

For the better , she told herself. For the better . It had to be.

It still didn't make sense—the why of it all.

Slowly, she raised her hand and put it on the doorknob, twisting, not bothering with a key and letting her magic open the door.

She let it swing wide, her gaze going directly to the large box on her bed, tied with a yellow bow, a lone sunflower tucked into the ribbon. She almost sobbed at the sight of it.

Leaving the door open, more out of the sheer addled state of her mind than anything else, Seleste approached the box and ran her fingers down it, tears gathering in her eyes. There was a small, rolled parchment hidden beneath the sunflower, and she unfurled it with trembling fingers.

You never said goodbye.

No, she had snuck out in the middle of the night like a coward and stole the spellbook like a thief.

Carefully, Seleste opened the lid to find a golden gown fit for a queen. Burying her face in her hands, she wept. He knew her mind too well. He knew exactly what message this gown would bring.

She didn't know how long she cried, but eventually, Seleste managed to dry her eyes. Gingerly, she lifted the beautiful gown out of the box. Beneath it lay three things.

A gold filigree mask, the kind worn by the beau monde for theatre performances.

A stunning invitation, the calligraphy a work of art, to Ballet de Merveille .

An article, the first announcement of the young Prince of Seagovia's death.

Closing her eyes against the onslaught of emotion, Seleste hugged the dress to her chest. It was very likely a mistake to go, but the time had come to say goodbye.

Shifting to see how the candlelight caught her dress in the looking glass, Seleste contemplated her reflection. The coach arriving to take her to the theatre wasn't due for some time, but she was nothing if not punctual—overly so, most of the time. For this event in particular, she was glad she'd gotten ready early because something wasn't quite right, and she couldn't put her finger on it.

Unbidden, thoughts of the last time she'd worn a gold dress with Cal slipped into her mind, followed swiftly by all their Summer nights together. His lips trailing a line down her neck, her stomach. His fingers tugging at her braids until they were lost in her untamed hair.

Ah, that was it.

He would prefer her hair down, free. Methodically, Seleste unwound every braid in her hair until her buoyant corkscrew curls splayed free, framing her face. Perhaps she should let her hair be free more often. Its wildness reminded her of Aggie's lush and savage locks.

She smiled at her reflection, allowing one more moment to collect her nerve before descending the inn's stairs to go out and meet her awaiting carriage. Her awaiting goodbye.

Tucked in the shadows of the carriage, Seleste tried to focus on the sound of the wheels on cobblestones. How the stones on Mer Row were cracked and jarring to go over. How the closer they came to Gemme Road and the theatre, the smoother the ride became.

Alas, it all simply reminded her of the ride to Whitehall two Summers ago. On this ride, there was an Autumn breeze, the Reaping Moon instead of the Strawberry Moon, and the heat was coming from within her rather than the stifling Summer air.

How could one Order from the Grimoire have brought so much pleasure and pain? How could she be on her way to say goodbye to this man she still loved? A moment that, by itself, would mean just as much as all their time together and all their time apart combined.

"We've arrived, mademoiselle." The carriage driver's voice drifted in through the window just before he hopped down and opened the door for her.

Before accepting his hand to descend the carriage steps and meet her fate, Seleste took in the damp street, the aristocratic passerby, their boots crunching dried and colourful leaves that had fallen from the trees, and the beautiful theatre jutting into the night sky.

She wanted to paint the scene, to remember it forever, or scream at the stars. She didn't know which. Not yet.

Finally, she took the driver's hand and descended to the cobbles, pulling her fashionable mask down over her eyes and nose. A stray leaf skittered past her slippered feet and Seleste tried to conjure Aggie's resilience. The wind cooled her cheeks and she tried to conjure Winnie's stability. Laughter floated on the breeze to her ears, and Seleste smiled, conjuring Sorscha's vivacity.

She could do this .

Lifting the hem of her gown so it wouldn't drag, Seleste strode into the theatre with her head held high.

The attendant took her cloak and her invitation, a good measure of shock crossing his features when he matched what was presumably her skin tone with one of the most important boxes in the theatre listed on her invitation. To his credit, he said nothing, he merely led the way up the plush, red-carpeted stairs to the grand floor. Her heart stuttered when he pulled back the ornate curtain that granted the box privacy.

It was dark in the box, the theatre's house lanterns already low, prepared for the rise of the curtain.

Was she a masochist for coming?

A hand reached through the dark, finding hers and pulling her into the box until the red and gold curtain closed behind her, shutting them off from the world.

"You came."

His voice sent a shiver snaking down her spine. It had been over a year since she'd last heard him speak, and she swallowed against the dryness of her throat.

"I did."

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Seleste could see Cal's mask was pushed up above his forehead, those searching eyes of his pinned on her. Suddenly feeling like the mask could protect her from what was coming, she wanted to leave hers on.

As if he could sense her trepidation, Cal reached out and gently removed it for her.

"Please, sit," he said, his voice quiet, noble. How many rooms had he been in over the last year, preparing him for this very day?

Seleste sat in one of the two ornate chairs overlooking the stage from their place on the balcony. "I'm surprised the theatre is open, with a royal death having occurred."

Cal hummed his agreement and sat opposite her. "The king didn't wish to blacken the city. He said Charles wouldn't have liked that." He crossed his legs, watching Seleste carefully. "And I agree. Charles was a wonderful boy."

Oh, yes. What rooms Cal had been in… So much had changed for him.

"I can't stay," she breathed before she knew the words were coming, and she watched as his face fell.

"I know. But I have a proposition for you."

Her heart rate was determined to kill her. "I cannot be your paramour , either, Cal."

The slightest of twinges ticked one side of his mouth up, but it was gone in a flash. "I know that, too, and I would not insult you again by asking to be." He turned in his chair to face her as best he could in a seated position. "I only request that we meet here"—he pointed to the space between them—"in this theatre box, once a year on this date, and exchange a letter."

"A letter?" was all she could manage, despite all the warring emotions raging through her.

"A letter," he repeated with a nod. "As friends."

Despair, hope, fury, grief… They all flooded her, impeding her thoughts, her cunning, her sense . "I have to go," she whispered, standing.

His lips parted, a swarm of emotions playing out in his eyes just as deeply as she felt a storm within herself. "Seleste, please?—"

But she strode to the curtain. Pulled it aside. Lamplight from the corridor spilled in, illuminating his anguish as she peered at him over her shoulder. For a long moment, they simply took each other in, memorising. The moment, each other's faces, everything.

"Change this realm, Cal," Seleste finally said around the lump in her throat. "I don't know the why's of this happening, but it was no accident. This was orchestrated . And I can think of no one better to be next in line for the throne." She watched as his eyes began to glisten.

"I love you," he whispered, a tear slipping down his cheek.

"And I you. Until the day I die and thereafter."

He squeezed his eyes shut and she stepped toward the corridor, turning back one last time. "It has a nice ring to it, you know," she said softly. " King Caliban ."

And she slipped out into the corridor, tears streaming down her face.