Page 20 of A Treachery of Swans

Let me tell you, there is nothing more terrifying then being attacked by the scorned equivalent of a glorified goose.

I nearly trip as I stumble backward, away from the lake’s edge and out of the reach of the furious swan’s wings. Swan-Marie is not discouraged—she advances on me frantically, water erupting around her as she flaps again and again. I begin to turn on my heel, ready to abandon my fledged opponent and flee back to the palace, but the look in her eyes makes me falter. In those piercing black depths is something desperate and urgent. Somethinghaunted.My breath hitches in realization.

“Marie.” I take one more step back, just in case I have misread her intentions. My foot sinks into the blood-soaked soil. “Have you been by the lake all night?”

Swan-Marie pauses in her attack, her wings still flared inthreat. I don’t speak swan, but something about her posture makes me think I’m right. Hope swells in my chest.

“Did you see what happened?” I ask quietly. “Did you see what killed the King?”

The swan makes a low, keening sound. Then, she tucks her wings tightly against her body and dips her head in confirmation. Water ripples delicately around her.

“Who was it?” I can’t help my eagerness. I approach the lakeside and crouch, murky water lapping at the toes of my boots. “Who killed him? Was it a boy with black hair? He—he would have been about my age. Dressed like a royal guard. Did—did he stab the King?”

Swan-Marie stares at me. There’s an edge of annoyance to her glower as she opens her beak, then snaps it shut again.

“Oh.” I bare my teeth. “Right. You can’t speak. My apologies. Can you tell me at least if he matched that description?”

The swan shakes her head decisively, and I’m surprised by the surge of relief I feel. Not Damien, then. Ofcourseit wasn’t Damien.

“Did you see him? Was he there when the King was killed? Or… or after?”

Swan-Marie contemplates my question carefully. Her eyes are pained. After a moment, she dips her head in a sinuous nod.

“He was?” I exclaim. “How? Why? What was he doing there? He’s the Dauphin’s guard. Why would he be with the King?”

Marie spears me with a derisive look and shrugs her wings exaggeratedly. The meaning is clear:How am I supposed to tell you?

I rub my face, dragging down the cold skin under my eyes. So close and yet so far from answers. And my only source of information is stuck in the body of a swan. Unless… I drum my fingers on my knees. Unless I can convince Papa to turn Marie back into ahuman, even for a moment. Long enough for her to tell us what she knows.

“Marie,” I begin, pressing my fingertips together and leaning my chin on them. “I don’t suppose you can momentarily set aside any grievances you might harbor toward me for, ah… identity theft, and help me find who did this?”

The swan hisses.

“Noted,” I say dryly. “What if I told you the Dauphin might be in danger?”

This seems to get her interest. She stills, her head tilting ever so slightly.

“There’s a chance that whoever did this might be targeting him,” I explain. Quickly, I tell her what I realized about Damien’s involvement. “So you see why this changes things.”

Her eyes are intent on me, no longer furious but still mistrustful.

“Naturally, I’ll have to turn you back into a human.”Temporarily,I add in my thoughts. “You help me, I help you, see?”

The skepticism in her expression does not lessen. I sigh.

“The man accused is my brother,” I admit. “I don’t like him very much, but I can’t let him rot in prison.” There. Honesty. Mothers, Ihatehonesty. It feels like losing blood, like too much will leave me weak and defenseless.

Thankfully, it seems to work. Swan-Marie inclines her head, though the motion still looks reluctant. She drifts forward, then climbs onto the bank in front of me. Even as a swan, she has an untouchable, archaic sort of beauty—powerful and refined, scraps of sunlight slipping off her feathers, water dripping from her underbelly.

Slowly she extends a wing toward me.

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

She huffs in annoyance.

“Fine. Very well.”

And so, on a dreary Aurélian midday on the grounds of the Château Front-du-Lac, I, Odile Regnault, shake hands with a bird.

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