Page 16 of A Treachery of Swans

And my teeth are just as sharp as theirs.

The Dauphin does not release my hand until he has pulled me out of the ballroom, through the gallery, and into the empty entrance hall. Only then does he let me go, his hands shaking minutely, urgency replacing his previous dignified façade. He beckons forth one of his musketeers, a short, square-jawed man.

“Armand will take you to the Dauphine’s apartments—they were prepared this morning in anticipation of my new betrothed.” He cringes as he says the word. “Go with him now, before my father is no longer occupied by formalities. I will have to calm his ire.”

Am I wrong, or is there fear in his voice? “How badly have we upset him?”

I wonder just how many enemies I’ve made myself today, how many people will try to get between me and the Couronne.

He shrugs. “It hardly matters—he’s always upset. It only gets worse as the years pass, really, even without the… Never mind.” He shakes his head, sending disheveled locks bouncing around his face.“Regardless, thank you for giving me courage. It felt good to finally make a decision he could not reject. I—”

“Where is thatidiot boy?” The King’s growl reaches us from the gallery. Over the Dauphin’s shoulder, I can see King Honoré storming toward us. Behind him, music continues to thrum through the ballroom, the celebrations unceasing even now.

“Go,” Aimé mouths at me, and I don’t need to be told twice. I turn and follow the guard up the left staircase, in a direction that I remember leads to the royal chambers. I hold up my skirts as we go up the stairs, then wait as the guard pulls a sconce from the wall to light the way.

Even from this distance, I can hear the fury in the King’s hushed voice. “Aimé, what is the meaning of this?”

I can hardly make out Aimé’s trembling response. “I thought—I—”

“Speak up, boy,” his father snarls. “Explain this ridiculous prank.”

“It’s not a… I only—I thought a Lorish queen, now, would be the equivalent of letting in a spy. If they learned just how precarious—”

The sound of a slap echoes through the hall. Beside me, the guard flinches. “We should go,” he murmurs.

I can’t move. The King’s voice shakes with anger. “Precarious. What do you know about any of this? About Lore? AboutAuréal?” He scoffs when the Dauphin doesn’t reply. “That’s right. Nothing. Yet somehow you are arrogant enough to interfere with my plans. You will go back in there, and you will tell them all that you’ve changed your mind.”

“If it weren’t for Lore,” Aimé argues, “you would have been perfectly content with my choice. I know how long you’ve wanted to strengthen our bond with Auvigny—”

“Oh, you know what I want, do you?” the King cuts in. “Then why aren’t youdoing as I say?”

“He cannot.” Another voice joins the fray—I recognize the stern tone of Anne de Malezieu, the Step-Queen. Her heels echo as she approaches the men. “My King, you know he cannot. As unwise as this decision may be, to rescind it would only make us seem irresolute.”

The Dauphin speaks up again, bolstered by the Step-Queen’s defense. “Besides, this ensures Auvigny’s support, and with the rumors—”

“Quiet, Aimé.” This time it’s the Step-Queen who silences him.

But his words have already added fuel to the King’s fire. “Do not pretend you did this for any other reason than childish fancy,” he growls. “You’re still infatuated with that girl.”

“I’m not infatuated with any girl!”

There’s a beat of silence, and I realize I’m bracing myself for the sound of another strike. It doesn’t come. Instead, the King makes a sound more animal than man. “Out of my sight, both of you. And pray to the Mothers that I can soothe the King of Lore before he declares war on us for this slight.”

The guard’s hand brushes my shoulder, breaking my concentration. “Mademoiselle,” he urges. “Come.”

This time I follow.

The Dauphine’s apartments are a gaudy, bloated place. The furniture shines greasily in the low light; the bed is swollen with pillows, and the lace lain over the table and vanity looks more like trimmings of animal fat. The lancet windows show a glimpse of the gardens and lake, wreathed in heavy emerald curtains with a pattern that is probably flower bouquets but looks more like heads of broccoli.

I stare at them as a maid peels away heavy layers of ball gown and pries apart coils of pale hair. Once she is gone, I sit on—orrather, sinkinto—the overstuffed bed. “I win,” I tell the ugly chandelier. “Iwin,” I repeat, then rub my eyes in frustration.

I can’t find satisfaction in my victory, not when my mind reverberates with sounds: the slap of the King’s palm striking the Dauphin, the crack of the shattering wineglass, my brother’s pleading voice. I’m not used to feeling uncertain, and it unsettles me. I’ve spent my life under Regnault’s guidance, every move dictated by his plans, every choice made in search of his approval. Even now I want to run back to the Théâtre and tell him everything, ask him how to untangle the threads of intrigue that seem to be drawing tighter and tighter around me.

But I can’t, not yet. Not until I have the Couronne in my hands.

When this is over, we will never have to scavenge again. We will have all the magic we desire, and I will teach you all I know.

My father’s promise rings in my ears, bringing me a spark of much-needed hope. When I crawl into bed, I’m bone-tired but keen for the morning, for the next step of my plot, the next step closer tomagic.

---