Page 11 of A Treachery of Swans

Inside sits a simple gown of thick satin, black as ink or death or an owl’s wings at midnight.

I arrive at the palace ballroom theatrically late.

I pause in front of the doors, listening to the tumbling of music and susurration of a mingling crowd. Instinctively I touch the owl-face pendant at my neck, and then smooth out the full, darklyiridescent skirts of my gown. Floor-length, it fits like a glove—before having it delivered to the palace, Regnault had enchanted it to adjust to the wearer’s shape, saving me the hassle of hunting down Marie’s measurements. It’s done in the most recent of fashions, elegantly simple, the front adorned only with a strip of metallic black lace. The neckline is low, exposing my shoulders and collarbones, and the sleeves end at my elbows in lacy pleats. It’s a striking design, guaranteed to make an impression.

I raise my chin. I’m eager, not nervous. I don’t get nervous before a performance.

One of the footmen by the entrance grunts meaningfully, his eyes glinting with impatience. I give him a curt nod. At my signal the doors are pushed open, and the footman announces Marie’s name in full: “Mademoiselle Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny!”

The ballroom grows suddenly hushed and still. All eyes turn to me, and my pulse rises in wicked delight. It worked. My planworked.

It is as though the ballroom has been covered in feather down. There is nothing like the power of a rumor, it seems, because nearly every courtier and foreign noblewoman has somehow managed to procure themselves a gown that is white, or at least as pale as possible. I pity the poor seamstresses who must have scrambled to put them together.

The ballroom itself makes me think of a yawning mouth, the parquet a stretch of crimson and as glossy as a wet tongue. Carnelian columns flank arched windows, and crystals drip from the chandeliers like beads of saliva. The red and white roses painted across the vaulted ceiling are enchanted, blooming and wilting and blooming overhead, their thorns a cage of teeth.

The sight dizzies me as I step into the room, my skirts pooling around my feet. I meet the gazes of the noblesse around me, watch their expressions flicker between affront, dismay, and fury as theyrealize they’ve been tricked. Princess Charlotte, wearing a puffy cream disaster, looks like she is deciding whether to burst into tears or flames.

From the opposite side of the ballroom, the Dauphin is staring at me in utter disbelief. He’s wearing the Augier colors of red and gold; at his side is the Step-Queen in her signature sapphire, her raven hair bound up so tightly, it looks painful. A little black-haired boy dressed identically to Aimé is clinging to her skirts.

Then I notice the man standing behind them and freeze.

For a moment King Honoré of Auréal does not notice my arrival, caught in a heated discussion with a nobleman at his side. He may be a monster, but he hides his malice well—he is unremarkable in appearance, with the same shorter stature as his son but graceless, a golden peruke unspooling over broad shoulders. He shares the Dauphin’s freckles, but on him they look like sickly splotches. When his discussion partner breaks off at my arrival, the King follows suit. His gaze, when it lands on me, is as twitchy and dark as a blackfly.

I wish I could swat it away. Looking into those cruel black depths, I can almost feel the cold, sticky filth of Verroux’s streets squelching under my bare feet, the bony hands of beggars snagging on my skirt. My hand grips Regnault’s as he leads me out of the city slums, my brother trailing behind us.You were not meant to be this,Regnault tells me quietly.You have no idea what they took from you.

What d-do you mean?I’d hardly been able to pronounce the words, my teeth chattering.

He’d clutched my hand tighter, looked down on me kindly.Magic, little owl. They stole your magic.

Magic.My father’s voice lends me strength as my heels strike the crimson parquet, reminding me who I am, what I am capable of.Magic.The noble girls in their fluttering white dresses part before me like fresh snow meeting a flame.Magic.The Dauphin steps towardme as though entranced, shrugging off the Step-Queen’s hand as she tries to hold him back, ignoring the King as he growls a low command.

Magic.Aimé claps, killing any lingering murmurs and music. He spreads his hands wide, a benevolent grin splitting his face. “Beloved guests, I do believe it’s time for me to choose my first dance partner of the night.”

He whirls on his heel with a flourish, throws his head like an unruly stallion. When his eyes find mine, they’re the eyes of a rebellious child reaching for a rose, willfully ignoring the thorns poised to draw blood.

“Marie d’Odette, would you do me this honor?”

SCENE VIThe Château

The Ballroom

I could insult a thousand things about Aimé-Victor Augier, the Dauphin of Auréal. I could insult his clothing, garishly gaudy and fitted too tight, stuffed with enough lace that I think we might both drown in it. I could insult his perfume, saccharine and cloyingly floral, sharp enough that it gives me a headache. I could even insult his demeanor—the way his confidence is obviously a mask worn with mutinous stubbornness, fraying around the edges. But there is one thing I could not insult.

The Dauphin of Auréal is a breathtaking dancer.

The musicians play a slow, elegant minuet, and I’m surprised by the fluid way he moves, losing the gangly awkwardness he’d had about himself moments previously. Regrettably, the Dauphin seems all too aware of his talent, because he grins pridefully at me. When I return the smile, he takes it as an invitation to move closer. “Ma chèreMarie,” he murmurs, “I must admit you’ve shocked me.”

His breath is hot, his sugared voice sticking to my skin. I want to lean away, but I cannot—I must play this game until the end. So I mirror the teasing tilt of his head, even as my innards crawl with revulsion. A sorcier flirting with an Augier… my ancestors must be rolling in their graves.

“How so?” I inquire of the Dauphin as we switch sides, taking each other’s hands once more.

“I’d heard stories about how you’d become such a polite, well-mannered lady,” he responds. “One of my stepmother’s friends couldn’t stop praising how your mother had managed totame you.” The corners of his mouth tilt up, but there is a strange, conflicted edge to that smile. “That didn’t sound anything like the Marie I knew, and I was worried I wouldn’t recognize you anymore. I’m rather glad to be wrong.”

“And I am glad to prove you wrong,” I reply. I focus for a moment on the dance and find myself wishing that I did not have to play this charade—that I could simply procure a dagger, press it to the Dauphin’s throat, and demand he give me the Couronne. Unfortunately, that would probably earn me some sort of creatively horrid execution. Theatrical, but inconvenient.

“And the white dresses?” the Dauphin inquires, interrupting my thoughts. “Where did that come from, I wonder? I certainly did not mandate it.”

I shrug innocently. “I think it’s meant to make you think of wedding dresses. I’m not sure where the rumor started.”

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