Page 13 of A Treachery of Swans

“And if you are injured?” he growls. “It’s not normal for people to change the color of theirbloodas they get older.”

I eye him steadily. “Is that a threat? Because you and I both know you could never bring yourself to hurt me.”

I see the flash of anger across his face, followed by wounded petulance. I’ve won this round as well. Damien’s last words to our mother were a promise: to care for me, to protect me at all costs. For someone as foolishly sentimental as my brother, such a vow is not to be broken. Even five years after abandoning me, it seems he hasn’t been able to sever that bond, though I’m sure he wishes he could.

Damien opens his mouth to argue again, but before he can, someone breaks into bright, chiming laughter, so loud that it carries across the ballroom. Damien’s whole body tilts toward the noise. When I look over my shoulder and find the source, I nearly burst out laughing.

“Nothing ever changes with you, does it?” I mock as my brother stares longingly after the Dauphin of Auréal. “Oh, Damien, youidiot.”

I see his fists clench out of the corner of my eye. “Tell me what he sent you here for, Dilou.”

“I can’t,” I say, Regnault’s warning still stark in my mind. “But I’m doing this for us, for our family, so do yourself a favor andstay out of it.And if it makes you feel better, I have no intention of harming your precious Dauphin.”

Damien’s chest swells in an irritated breath. “Swear it. Swear you won’t hurt him.”

I give my brother my sweetest, most innocent smile, and reach across the table to grab a brioche shaped like a mallard. “You’ll just have to trust me,” I sing, and bite off the duck’s head before skipping back into the crowd.

After that, the ball does its best imitation of my chocolate parakeet—it melts, abandoning all semblance of propriety, devolvinginto a mangled caricature that barely resembles its former shape. The musicians play air after air, the music becoming frenzied, distorted. The dancing fades into a blur of silken skirts and tapping feet. Bottles and bottles of various liquors are brought out, first expensive champagnes and then wines of cheaper and cheaper quality, until I swear I’m handed a flute of red-dyed water. The Dauphin reigns over it all, flitting from group to group, patting red-faced, swaying lords on their backs and winking at their wives before whirling away with their daughters. A cake is brought out, tiered and hideous. Someone knocks it over. Laughter roars.

Swept up in the crowd, I do not stop dancing, even as blisters bloom on my feet. If there’s anything I understand, it’s this—pure, exhilarating, dazzling chaos. And chaos, I’ve learned, is the best place to hide secrets.

As I whirl alongside partner after partner, I keep my eye on the Dauphin and the King and Charlotte. Though I keep a sweet smile plastered on my face, I don’t like what I see. First the King is approached by Charlotte and another man—a tall, long-faced lord who must be her chaperone, perhaps an uncle or an ambassador. They drift to the edges of the ballroom, deep in heated conversation. Eventually the King and the lord shake hands. Charlotte curtsies to the King, and as she does, her eyes sweep the crowd, searching for someone.

Me. They land on me. She bares her teeth in a triumphant smile.

Not good, I think, but I can do nothing, only take my partner’s hand again as the song refuses to end. I watch helplessly as moments later the King seizes the Dauphin from the crowd, drags him away from a group of young noblemen to whisper in his ear. The Dauphin’s face falls, and he opens his mouth to argue, only to be silenced by a dangerous look from his father.

Oh, this is not good at all.

The song ends, mercifully, and I move quickly away fromthe dancers, heading to the back of the room where the more important-looking noblemen have gathered. The Dauphin. I need to speak with the Dauphin to find out exactly what bargain the Princess of Lore has struck with the King. My position, so certain merely an hour ago, now seems precarious, shifting under my feet like sand. I cannot fail here. Icannot.If I do not secure this proposal, I lose any chance of ever laying eyes on the—

Crack.I throw up my hands in alarm. A bolt of pain sears through my palm, and lukewarm liquid pours down my sleeve. It takes me a moment to realize what happened—in my urgency, I hadn’t seen the girl headed directly toward me. I jump back in alarm, as does the other girl, who shrieks shrilly and drops her now-shattered glass, along with its contents of bloodred wine.

I begin to rebuke her, but she is faster. “Oh, Mothers, I’m so sorry!” she cries. There are tears in her eyes and flecks of wine on her poorly fitting white bodice.

Some of my anger ebbs. “It’s all right,” I say quickly, wiping my wet, stinging palm on my dress. At least the fabric is dark enough to conceal any stains.

“Mademoiselle, you…” The girl’s brows furrow in confusion, and she gestures with her wine-dripping fingers to the spot where I just pressed my hand. “You smudged some of your maquillage.”

I look down, and my stomach plummets.

There is a small gold streak spotting the smooth obsidian of my bodice, bright as paint. The same liquid stains my palm, where the shattering wineglass cut my skin open.

Only it isn’t paint at all.

It’s my blood.

SCENE VIIThe Château

The Ballroom

Remember, Odile, they must never see you bleed.

For the first time since my arrival at the palace, I feel true panic. My pulse surges; I clasp my uninjured hand over the wounded one and barely manage to keep my composure.

“Mademoiselle?” the young girl squeaks.

“Excuse me.” I whirl away, cursing the gown’s heavy skirts as I nearly trip over them. I force myself to remain calm, dignified, walking at a steady pace even while my every instinct screams at me to run, to hide, because they will seethey will see.

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