Page 21 of A Treachery of Swans

As I leave Marie behind and head toward the Théâtre, some of the jittery energy finally eases from my limbs.

Now that I’m moving, now that I’macting,I can finally think straight. Even as a child, I could never sit still for very long—if I was not given a task by my father, I became destructive, prying apart theater props, sticking my thick fingers into the jars of face paint and smearing colors over myself, the walls, the carpets. I loved being onstage, but I hated rehearsals—hated watching the older actors fumble through their lines, miss their cues, make foolish mistakes and giggle about them carelessly.

I would always correct them with annoyance, but that only ever seemed to amuse them, to be scolded by the little raven-haired girl with a sharp tongue who seemed to haunt the Théâtre. They would coo, pinch my cheeks, and I would gnash my teeth at their fingers in retaliation, hating that they did not take me seriously. Their affection meant nothing to me—all that mattered was Regnault’s praise. It frustrated me that they could not see it, that they did not take their roles as seriously as I did. Did they not understand that they would face Regnault’s ire if they failed? Did they not fear the thunderous rebuke of his eyes when they displeased him?

I was eleven years old when I first disappointed Regnault. He’d tasked me with picking the pockets of a nobleman who had been particularly cruel to one of the dancers the previous week, and I’d done so, tracking him through the streets of upper Verroux. He’d caught me midway through cutting his purse, seized my wrist and thrown me to the hard ground. My knees had split brutally, spilling gold all over the city cobbles.Sorcier!he’d cried after me as I hadscurried away in a panic, carrying off a handful of his coins.

I had received no proud smile, no kind words from my father that day. Instead, he’d looked down at me without expression, his gaze so dark and heavy, I felt it like a physical blow. “What did I tell you about bleeding?” he’d demanded. “Now there will be rumors of a sorcier child running about the city. This could come back to you. Tous.”

I’d stared at my feet, trying to keep my bottom lip from wobbling.

“Perhaps I was wrong, and you are not destined to free magic after all,” Regnault had said softly, musingly, but with such venom that I could nearly see it oozing between his teeth. “Perhaps I ought to take you back to the gutter where I found you.”

“No,” I’d gasped, tears in my eyes. “No, Papa, please! Don’t take me back.”

I’d grabbed the hem of his cloak, sobbing, begging. He’d seized my collar and hauled me off himself emotionlessly. “Enough of your weeping,” he had said. “I will give you one more chance, but I do not want to see such tears again. Show your pain, and it will be exploited.”

That was when Damien had come running in.

Damien was only thirteen at the time, but he was tall and broad for his age. He’d never been much of an actor, but he handled much of the heavy stage décor and the ropes used to change backdrops. “Put her down,” he had snarled at Regnault. “Put her down right now.”

Regnault had loosened his hold on me, enough that I could inhale a sharp breath. “Ah,” said my father, “and here is the other street rat. Aren’t you both ungrateful? I, who give you shelter, who feed you and provide a roof over your heads. Who promised yougreatness.”

“We don’t need you, or any of that!” my brother had seethed.“We can survive on our own, and we’ll be better for it. Come on, Dilou. He’s a monster.”

My heart had sunk. I’d looked between my brother and my father, my rib cage mercilessly tight.

“Odile,” Damien had urged. “Comeon.”

Regnault had chuckled. He’d lowered himself to one knee, sliding a knuckle under my chin so that I had to look into the merciless depths of his eyes. “You can go,” he said, terrifyingly calm. “If you think I’m a monster, as your brother says, then you may go. But remember that you and I share the same golden blood.Hisblood runs red. If I’m a monster, then what does that make you?”

The Théâtre’s doors give a baritone hum as I push them open. During the day, the backstage hallways have a satiated sort of laziness, shadows sprawled languidly in corners and spiders ambling across the windowless walls. Laughter blossoms from inside a practice room as I pass; the troupe is rehearsing rowdily, seemingly unaffected by last night’s tragedy.

A surge of fondness fills me at the sound of their banter. I think of stepping in to greet them but think better of it. I never truly allowed myself to grow close to the troupe. Once I’d outgrown my childhood skittishness, I’d become friendly with them, but never too close, too familiar. Regnault always reminded me they could not be trusted. They might seem kind, but one look at the color of my blood and they would turn on me as the doctors had on my mother, as the mob of villagers had on Regnault’s family.

I keep walking until I reach Regnault’s office. Somehow the sight of the familiar door makes an inexplicable dread bubble up inside me. I pause momentarily to rehearse my words, turning each phrase over and carefully wiping any doubt from my expression. I clench and unclench my fists once. Then I knock. “Papa?”

The door opens with a snap, and it takes all my willpower not toflinch. Regnault is staring at me through the feathered slits of his owl mask, his brows slashed down in a surprised scowl.

“Odile? What are you doing here?” He looks me up and down, eyes narrowing. “Why are you not in disguise?”

“Nothing has gone wrong!” I burst out immediately, scared he’ll come to the wrong conclusion. “Well,somethinghas, but it has nothing to do with the plan.” I twine my hands together, pressing my thumbs against my knuckles to steady myself. “May I come in?”

Regnault ushers me in quickly and closes the door behind me. “Does this have to do with the King’s death?” he asks. “I already know. It’s irrelevant to our goals, regardless.”

“So you’ve heard about Damien’s arrest, then?” I say quickly. “I think he’s been framed.”

“Odile,” Regnault says flatly. “What did I tell you about that traitor?”

“Yes, I know. But I think the Dauphin might be next, or at least someone is trying to isolate him, and…” I hesitate.

“And?” Regnault prompts, looking impatient.

“And Marie saw,” I say. “Marie, as a swan. She saw the whole thing.”

His eyes darken. “You’ve spoken to her?”

I give him a look. “She’s a bird.” That, at least, draws a spark of amusement from him. I forge onward. “Which is inconvenient. If you could turn her back, only for a moment, or if you had some way for her to speak—”

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