Page 23 of A Treachery of Swans

“Once you have the Couronne, yes.”

I slump my shoulders, doing my best impression of a kicked puppy, as I used to do with him when I was a girl and was begging him to buy me pastries. “Well, I sort of succeeded. Partially.”

That manages to break through his severe demeanor. “Very well,” he says, chuckling, and a tiny part of me dances at the victory. “Yes. Every thread is like a… a word. And together they form sentences.”

“Is that why you told me not to touch them?” I ask, thinking of when he handed me the pendant for the first time.

He inclines his head. “When you touch a thread, your will becomes tied to it. Even a stray thought can change its meaning or render it incoherent. Modify the wrong spell-thread, and the whole enchantment will unravel.” He takes the button out of my hand again, causing the threads to vanish. “Best-case scenario, it transforms into something you did not intend. Worst-case scenario, the spell implodes. That could kill you, or leave you disfigured, or Morgane knows what else.”

“Oh,” I say faintly.

He hands the button back to me and squeezes my shoulder. “Be patient, little owl. Once we have true magic back, I will show you how to weave spells like this yourself. Until then, no more questions. Yes?”

“Of course,” I say, though my thoughts are already churning with what I have learned. I can’t do what he asks, not while Damien is involved.

If Regnault isn’t going to give me the answers I seek, I simply have to find them another way.

SCENE XThe Château

I am accosted by the Dauphin the moment I step back in the Château.

“Marie!” His voice echoes through the high-ceilinged hall. I stare at him, part of me forgetting I am back in Marie’s body after my brief time without the owl-face pendant. I realize I’m still holding the enchanted button from Regnault—I’ve elected to call the weapon Buttons—and quickly slip it into the pocket of my skirts.

Thankfully, the Dauphin doesn’t seem to notice. He sprints up to me and snatches my hands, pulling me to a stop in front of one of the windows. He’s wearing a damask jacket in mourning black, and it does no favors to his complexion. His breaths come short and urgent, and the beam of wan light cast by the window highlights the bags under his eyes.

“Where have you been?” he gasps. “I have been looking for you everywhere.”

“I was in the gardens,” I say, feigning confusion.

He frowns. “I looked in the gardens, but you weren’t there.”

My heart gives a twitchy little thud. It seems I need to be more careful about any future detours. “You must have missed me,” I say. “It isn’t hard, you know, in that maze.”

“You must bring guards with you next time,” the Dauphin says, looking harrowed. I open my mouth to protest, but his clammy grip on me tightens. “You cannot be alone out there, not after everything. It’s too dangerous.”

I blink innocently. “But why? They caught the killer, did they not?”

The Dauphin releases my hands to rub his arms, as though to dispel a chill. “Y-yes,” he says, and the lie is so painfully obvious, I nearly laugh.

“You don’t sound very convinced, monseigneur.”

“Aimé,” he says, staring at his feet. “Please, call me Aimé.”

“Aimé,” I prompt. “Was he caught?”

“That’s what everyone seems to think,” the Dauphin admits unsteadily, running his hands through his hair. “But I’m not sure. The man they arrested… he’s my personal guard. The one you met yesterday. I don’t think he would… but what does it matter? No one will tell me anything. No one will evenlistento me.”

He takes a shuddering breath. Runs his hands through his hair again, and I can see him draw on a mask with the movement, collecting every distraught, misplaced piece of himself and slitting it back into place. When he meets my eyes again, he smiles crookedly.

“We ought to have been celebrating,” he says, and then extends an arm. “Walk with me, my darling intended?”

I smile genially and oblige, placing my hand with a flourish on his arm. The marble floor is polished to mirror-smoothness, and our reflections accompany us as we stroll—wavering, distorted silhouettes. Against the Château’s seemingly unconquerable shadows, we both look like phantoms.

“Are you doing all right?” the Dauphin asks suddenly. “After last night. I dragged you into a horror. If I had known how bad it would be… and for my father to… And now he’s dead.”

His voice shakes. I glance sideways at him and realize I can make out the red mark of a handprint on his cheek, buried under the fine layer of powder coating his face. I don’t understand it. How can he grieve a monster?

“I don’t regret our engagement, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. “I’m exactly where I need to be.” I know I should follow up with something along the lines of,And how are you doing a day after your father’s murder,because that is the exact sort of ridiculously sentimental thing Marie would know to say. But before I can muster up a convincing amount of concern, we are interrupted by the appearance of a maid at the end of the hallway. At the sight of her, the Dauphin’s face brightens. He pats my hand. “Do excuse me,” he says, and walks briskly up to meet her.

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