Page 18 of A Treachery of Swans

“Still, I should like to hear it. Please.”

The guard regards me through narrowed eyes, as though my insistence is an annoyance. “If you must know, his name is Damien.”

SCENE VIIIThe Dauphine’s Apartments

Dawn Breaks

The world blurs at the edges, unreal, mocking. I take a step back, my hands falling uselessly to my sides. The guard’s masked face is a slash of silver against the dawn-soaked surroundings.

“Mademoiselle,” he says gruffly, “do you know him?”

I shake my head. “No.”Yes,I want to scream.Yes, by the Mothers, that’s my brother.

But he’s not, I remind myself.He betrayed you, remember?

I take a breath, gathering myself. “Let me through,” I say.

“I already told you—”

My temper shatters in its entirety. I pretend to see something terrifying over his shoulder and clap my hands over my mouth. “Good Mothers, he’shere,” I say dramatically.

The guard starts in alarm and turns on his heel. I use the distraction to shove past him and into the corridor.

“Mademoiselle!” He reaches for me, but even in Marie’s taller body, I’m still nimble. I duck under his outstretched arm and take off toward the stairs, my footfalls echoing behind me, my pulse pounding in my ears.

By the time I reach the entrance hall, I’m breathless. I have to pause halfway down the stairs, leaning on the balustrade and taking in the chaos of the dark hall.

The space vibrates with anxious voices. A group of stately noblemen stand in a small cluster in the middle, clad in nightclothes and hastily thrown-over cloaks. Half the candles of the room’s chandelier have gone out, and darkness reaches eagerly to fill the hollows of their cheeks and the bags beneath their eyes. In the center of it all is the Step-Queen, wearing a silk robe of deep blue. Pressed against her is the Dauphin, his golden hair loose, violent sobs wracking his body. The same word bubbles from his lips over and over again.

“No, no, no, it can’t be, he wouldnever, no, please.”

I watch, surprised, as the Dauphin attempts to jerk out of the Step-Queen’s arms. She pulls him to herself and shushes him, but there is no tenderness in her eyes. Her mouth is tight, cold.

“Please,” the boy repeats, and struggles once more. This time he breaks free from the Step-Queen’s grasp and turns toward the gathered courtiers. “Please, you must listen to me. It doesn’t make sense, he—he would not do this, he’s the most loyal of my men, he—”

I frown. He’s not talking about the King—he’s talking about Damien.

One of the lords runs his hand exasperatedly over his face. I recognize him from the ball—it’s the man with the scarred nose. In the faint light, his skin looks paper-thin, his eyes glittering shrewdly. “I understand that is what you think, nephew, but you are blinded by your affection for the man.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” the Dauphin argues feebly. “Whatreason could he possibly have…” He trails off, tries to gather himself. “Please. Listen to me. I’m the King now.”

“You are not king until you are crowned,” says the scar-nosed man. “Until then,Iam regent, and I will take care of this matter.”

I wonder if I should interfere, but something in me thinks it’s better simply to watch this unfold. There’s a jagged tension in the room, every word a blade rusted by resentment. I would prefer not to get impaled.

“At least let me see him,” the Dauphin pleads. “Let me hear him out.”

“I do not think it is a good idea for you to be speaking with a murderer, Aimé,” says the scar-nosed man—the Regent. “Not in this state.”

The Dauphin’s eyes hold the same wild, watery desperation as those of a trapped animal. “Uncle, please,” he begs. When the Regent doesn’t reply, he turns to the Step-Queen, clutching her robe. “Stepmother?” The Step-Queen shakes her head, and he sobs. “Please, this isn’tfair.”

The Regent lays a hand on his shoulder with cruel gentleness. “All these tears. Do you see? This is precisely why you cannot be trusted with decisions right now.”

I take a step back, my mind buzzing from all I’ve heard. I realize there’s nothing I can do here, no way I can twist this to my advantage. There are too many people present—too manyvariables, asRegnault would say, for me to attempt to manipulate the situation.

The Regent turns his attention to the Step-Queen. “I think the Dauphin should be returned to his bedchambers. He clearly needs time to grieve. Laujon, please escort him.” He addresses the last words to one of the tallest guards in the hall, a bearlike man with an ugly, stretched face. The guard stomps toward the Step-Queen and the Dauphin, and the Dauphin flinches farther into his stepmother’s arms.

I watch as the Step-Queen guides the Dauphin away, even as he continues to whisper small, pathetic pleas under his breath. Frustration surges through me at the sight. This is the future king, the man who will one day rule Auréal, and here he is tossed around like a rag doll by his own uncle. He is making the same mistake the Golden-Blooded Girl made—all this power within his grasp, and he is letting it be torn away from him.

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