Page 19 of A Treachery of Swans

I shake my head sharply and begin to turn away. As I do, my neck begins to prickle. I pause and turn, slowly, to catch the pale eyes of the Regent, the scar across his nose seeming to stretch and warp. My chest tightens in sudden, painful warning.Look away, look away,it screams. For a moment I can’t, as though all my willpower has been stripped from me, my gaze sucked into the mire that is the Regent’s attention. Then, at last, I manage to tear away. Heart thudding, I touch the owl-face pendant and hurry back the way I came.

I know from the crawling, greasy feeling on my skin that the Regent watches me until I’m out of sight.

Any formalities I might have been expected to handle as the soon-to-be Dauphine are forgotten as the Château reels from news of the murder. I have breakfast in my chambers—after all, I’m meant to bemourning—and restlessly pick at a plate of syrupy viennoiseries.

My mind churns. According to the maid who brought me my breakfast—who heard it from the cook, who heard it from a footman, who overheard it from a guard—Damien has been taken to the Château prisons. “Apparently,” the maid tells me in a gleeful whisper, “he was covered in blood when the guards found him, leaning over the King’s body. He had a knife in his hand.”

I squeeze my eyes tight, rubbing my temples. What a fine mess my brother has gotten himself into. I might resent him, but Damien has always firmly believed in justice. He’s not a killer. And if hewereto killsomeone, it would be in a fair duel, not with a knife in the dark.

Then again,a voice in my mind whispers,you haven’t seen him in five years. People change.

Frustrated, I shove my chair back and stand. There’s too much I don’t know—I cannot decide on my next course of action until I learn more about what happened last night.

“I believe I will go for a walk in the gardens,” I declare to the maid who has been waiting on me.

The girl nods and fetches my jacket, helping me into it. “Shall I summon some of the court ladies for company?”

I wave my hand. “No, I’m going alone. I must clear my head.” Before she can protest, I rush out the door. To my relief, Armand is not there to stop me—it seems most guards have been summoned away to deal with the post-murder chaos.

It did not take long for the tidings of the King’s death to spread across the Château. One might as well have announced an epidemic—ever since the news broke, the palace has emptied out like an overturned bucket, spilling nobles from its bowels and into glittering carriages. Some are still awaiting their turn to escape, milling about restlessly in the entrance hall and shuffling into the main courtyard. I avoid them and head for the gardens instead.

I draw in a breath when I step outside, the frost-sharp air pricking my lungs. Ahead stretch the Château grounds, occupied by a hedge maze of jagged rosebushes nearly as tall as my head, obscuring most of Lac des Cygnes from sight. The hedges, though lifelike, are made entirely of iron, peppered with large, shining roses of solid gold.

The rosebushes are a brutal reminder of all the kingdom has lost. Once, Morgane had blessed Auréal, ensuring it was fertile and plentiful. Hers was the domain of transformation: winter becoming spring, seeds turning to crops, butterflies bursting from chrysalises.

After her curse, flowers refused to bloom. Crops failed. Foalsand calves were born sickly. When all his beloved roses withered, the Spider King, in a fit of fury, placed the Couronne du Roi upon his head for the first time. With its magic he grew new roses of metal, deathless imitations of former beauty. Then he traveled the kingdom and used the crown’s powers to force the failing crops to grow, to rekindle some little life within his dying kingdom.

Picking up my skirts, I step between the hedges, relishing in the silence, a welcome change to the noisiness of the Château. The garden’s treasures peek over the tangles of metal, offering glimpses of dilapidated secrets—the forehead of a crumbling statue, the tip of a trellis, the occasional stunted fruit tree.

I made my way through this maze more than once as a maid, so I know where to go. I reach my goal soon enough—Lac des Cygnes, a sleepy, rippling entity, the Théâtre du Roi a fog-veiled speck on the opposite bank, a scattering of swans drifting nearby. I wonder which one of them is Marie—I wonder if I would even be able to tell.

I pull my jacket tighter around myself and begin my slow trek around the lake.

It doesn’t take me long to find the place where the King died. It’s obvious even from a distance: dried blood darkens the earth between forest and lake, and the bank is littered with crushed leaves and footprints. The bodies are gone, but I can see indents in the soil where they had lain, still stained the color of rust.

Before drawing closer, I check my surroundings carefully. Once I’m certain that I’m alone, I take off the owl-face pendant and turn back into myself. It would be rather odd if Marie d’Odette returned to the Château with her skirts stained with blood. I’m not entirely sure how I would explain that one.Oh dear, I went for a stroll and stumbled upon the scene of a grisly murder. Silly me!

My chest loosens now that I’m no longer in disguise. I walk slowly up to the imprints in the earth before crouching by the onenearest to me. I can make out the silhouette of splayed legs, grooves carved out by clawing human hands. The grass around them is sticky with gore, with bits of flesh tucked between bristly blades. Whatever happened here, it was violent.

And Damien is not a violent man. So what was he doing over the corpses? I chew on my thumb, considering. Damien is Aimé’s closest confidant, his valiant protector. Without him Aimé would be exposed, left almost entirely alone. First the King, then the Dauphin’s closest guard? This seems too convenient.

Could Damien have been framed? And does this mean the Dauphin might be in danger?

“This will not do,” I mutter to the trees rustling overhead. “No one is allowed to kill the Dauphin until after the wedding. I need that crown.”

As if in response to my words, splashing erupts from the lake ahead. I look up, startled, then realize that it’s just one of the swans, beating its wings against the water as it draws closer.

I begin to relax… until I meet the creature’s eyes, and its gaze brightens with furious, frighteningly human recognition. It stretches its neck forward and hisses, slamming its wings against the lake’s surface in threat. I leap to my feet, scrambling back from the bank.

“M-Marie?” I stammer.

The swan seems to puff itself up in righteous anger, wings spread wide and menacing.

Then it charges.

SCENE IXThe Lake

A Dreary Day

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