Page 2 of A Treachery of Swans

I straighten instinctively as my father swoops into view.

It’s like being mobbed by crows—a descent of darkness, a flurry of a black silk cloak, a glimpse of keen eyes and a face wreathed in feathers. Known only by his stage name, never seen without his ornate, owl-faced mask, Regnault has always been mystery incarnate—not a man, but acharacter, breathed out of the sumptuous stage décor and exuberant melodrama of one of his troupe’s grandest plays. Yet tonight there is no mirth, no elaborate jest, in his glittering eyes.

“Ah, there you are.” His voice is resonant even at a whisper, filled with a performer’s charisma. “Are you ready?”

“Y-yes.” I wince at the tremble in my voice—somehow he always makes me feel like I’m five years old again, begging for scraps in an alleyway. I clear my throat. “Yes, Papa, I’m ready.”

Regnault clasps a talon-like hand on my shoulder. “Good. Remember, I will be waiting by the lake. Should anything change…”

“It will not,” I reassure him, keeping my voice steady. “I will not fail you.”

My father’s thin lips slide up, curling into a too-wide grin that most would find unnerving. I used to try imitating that smile when I was younger, practicing in front of any mirror I could find, though I never quite managed to perfect it.

“You know,” he says, touching his knuckle to my cheek, “I finally believe that.” His gaze softens briefly, and I can’t help but revel in the expression. This is a rare side of my father, a thing to be hoarded and treasured. “There is a reason I took you in, little owl,” he adds. “Do not make me regret it.”

And there it is, that reminder of doubt. Regnault doesn’t yet trust me fully. He is holding back, rightfully so, waiting to see if I accomplish this final mission, the one he raised me for. The task that begins tonight: Gain the trust of Marie d’Odette. Take her place.Seduce the Dauphin of Auréal and fool him long enough to steal the Couronne du Roi.

My stomach squeezes. What couldpossiblygo wrong?

Regnault’s eyes roam over my face. “I can see you are anxious to begin,” he remarks. “Go, then. I can hear the others coming.”

He bends to kiss the crown of my head. As he does, a necklace swings from the collar of his doublet. My eyes are drawn to it: it’s a thing of fine gold, composed of a brittle chain and a pendant molded into the face of an owl. At its appearance, the scent of iron and sage fills my nostrils, a prickle of static scattering across my skin.

Sorcery.I grin at the feeling. I still remember the rush of stealing that pendant, three weeks ago.

Regnault had given me the mission after we finished a performance ofLe Maître de Malvaine.There is a custom, at the Théâtre, for the actors to mingle with the noblesse after every performance, the most popular receiving praise or expensive gifts from wealthy patrons in exchange for… ah,favors.It always pained me to watch as the other actresses simpered for attention, allowing themselves to be dragged into shadowed corners by jewelry-dripping noblemen with greedy mouths. I avoided such encounters—unless, of course, Regnault asked it of me.

That night, he’d come up behind me right as I had stepped off the stage. He’d bent to murmur in my ear: “The Ministre d’État is wearing a pendant of goddess-gold. I want you to get it for me.”

I am never one to refuse a challenge. After the curtain fell, I had allowed the King’s minister to corner me in this very stairwell, his breath stinking of wine and his brocade robes drenched in sweat. I’d endured his wandering hands while I’d draped my arms around his shoulders, easily slipping the pendant from his neck. Then I’d fled, mumbling some excuse, feigning a shy young girl too flustered by the attention of such a great man.

Regnault’s eyes had shone with excitement when I’d placed the pendant in his hand. “This is it,” he’d exclaimed, holding the pendant to the light. “With this, I will finally have enough magic for the spell. And 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.”

Now, Regnault’s eyes find mine, and I wonder if he is remembering the same moment I am. After a second, he tucks the pendant back under his collar. “The tests are over, little owl,” he says quietly. That nickname falls, weighted with burden, between us. “Do this and we will bring magic back.”

With that he turns away, cloak billowing around him. As soon as he is out of sight, I gulp in a deep breath, my pulse pounding.

Do this and we will bring magic back.A reminder of the true stakes of this mission. The Couronne du Roi, the King’s enchanted crown, is the only goddess-gold object that contains enough magic for Regnault to summon back Morgane. To force the kingdom’s once-patron to return and lift her curse from our lands.

A clamor sounds behind me, jerking me from my thoughts. I’ve tarried too long—the rest of the troupe is coming. I turn and hurry up the remaining steps, squaring my shoulders and putting on my signature devil-may-care grin as I emerge into the gallery.

It’s always unsettling to be above the stage and not upon it, looking out onto the echoing vastness of the auditorium. The galleries spill before me like a bloom of fresh blood, every loge sheltering a row of chairs drenched in crimson velvet. Sconces shaped like hands grip ruby-red candles, and gold shines from the balcony railings. It’s a stark contrast to the dark of the parterre below, where the commoners are still filing from the room in a stifling herd.

The noblesse peer down at them from the loges, gossiping shamelessly and sipping from crystalline flutes. In a way, they are no less garish than the troupe in their costumes, faces powderedwhite, heads crowned in perukes and ostrich feathers. Dark fabrics have become popular as of late—deep emeralds and muddy blues and even true blacks dominate, making the crowd appear as if they are gathered for mourning. Mourning what, I couldn’t tell you—probably the death of fashion.

There’s a flurry of activity behind me as the rest of the troupe catches up, spilling out at my heels. Many nobles rise to greet them with delighted cries, as though spotting their favorite animal at a zoo.

I step to the side and pause, casting my gaze around for my prize. It’s not hard to locate Marie d’Odette—she stands out from the crowd in her pale hues, a wash of watercolor against a world of somber oil paint. Anticipation rises within me, and I plunge into the crowd, skirting by actors and dancers and noblesse.

A gaggle of noble girls, chortling over sloshing drinks, momentarily obscures Marie from my sight. They are close to my age, and I guess they are also candidates for future queen, hoping to catch the Dauphin’s eye tomorrow night. As I slip by, one of them snorts loudly, her watery eyes landing on me. “Look, that one’s dressed like a boy. I bet it’s because she makes such an ugly girl.”

I tilt up my chin and throw her a derisive glare. I long to start a fight, but that would risk my mission. And Regnault’s plans are more important than my honor—more important than anything else.

Still, the damage is done. When I look away from the girls, Marie d’Odette has vanished. Muffling a growl of annoyance, I pick up the pace, threading between the crowd until I spot her again: she is stepping through one of the arched exits connecting the loges to the entrance hall, fastening a ribbon-trimmed cloak around her narrow shoulders.

Marie d’Odette has changed. Gone is the girl I remember frommy youth, the troublemaker with a fawn’s exuberant gait, whoboundedmore than walked as she pulled me around the Château. Now she practically glides over the marble, as precise and graceful as a dancer. There is no emotion in her face, no wonder in her eyes. It’s enough to fool nearly anyone into thinking she’s just another noblewoman. Perfectly proper, contemptuously cultured.

But I know better—it’s all a mask. And I’ve seen her take it off.

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