Page 30 of A Treachery of Swans

She shakes her head. “You’re asking the wrong questions, sorciere.”

Frustration turns my words into a growl. “What do you mean?”

“Notwho,” says Marie d’Odette, her eyes dark. “Butwhat.”

A shiver runs up my spine. I draw back, assessing Marie’s expression, looking for the flicker of a lie or jest in those earnest silver irises. I find none. “What… what did you see?”

Behind Marie the sky lightens, the first glow of day cowering behind the trees, as though even the sun is frightened by her revelation. “Some sort of… creature.” She presses her lips together, her eyes far away. “I hardly saw it, it was so fast. It was so late into the night, and dark, horribly dark. But I know it was a ghoulish thing. Tall as a horse, with gray skin that looked nearly like stone. Mothers, it’s all a blur. And all I could do waswatch.” She shudders. “One moment I was watching the King and his guards riding through the night; the next they were lying on the ground, blood gushing from their bodies, and that… thatcreatureripping into them.”

I suck in a breath, my mind spinning as it conjures images of bloodied maws and screaming men, a lakeside slick with blood and offal.

“Is that all?” I prompt.

Marie shakes her head.

“No. I remember…” She frowns. “The guard was dead in an instant. But the King… he fought. And he managed to wound it. But… but its blood, it wasn’t red.” She meets my eyes with fierce intensity. “It was gold.”

My breath hitches. Marie watches me knowingly, her expression grave. I open my mouth, formulating my next question, hoping toprompt her to dig through her memories. Did she see the creature’s eyes? Where was the King going? When did Damien arrive?

But in the same moment, the first ray of dawn stumbles through the trees, ripping itself apart on the sharp needles of pines. It falls on Marie first, a scrap of rusty light bleeding bronze over her silvered curls.

Suddenly, her face twists. Her eyes go wide, her mouth parting in a gasp of surprise. Before I can react, she leaps to her feet. It happens in the blink of an eye, so fast it is almost beautiful, in the way of a comet streaking across the sky.

Glowing white feathers erupt across her body. They burst from her cheeks and brow, spread down her limbs, spring from her hands, and lengthen and lengthen until she spreads magnificent wings. The light flares until it is blinding, forcing me to put up a hand over my eyes.

I hear her voice once more, shaky and resigned.

“You lied to me.”

And then I am standing before a swan with a pale beak and paler feathers, a look of betrayal in her pitch-black eyes.

I stare at Swan-Marie, barely concealing my shock.Thiscertainly wasn’t supposed to happen. I must not have picked the right thread after all—or perhaps my jumble of thoughts had affected the spell when I was modifying it. But I can’t let Marie know that, can’t let her see that I’m just as confused as she is.

So instead, I simply give the Swan Princess a smirk. “Of course I did.”

SCENE XIIIThe Dauphine’s Apartments

Dawn Breaks

Climbing back up to a window is certainly less simple than jumping out of it, and by the time I crawl back to my chambers I’m breathless, my fingertips scraped where I clung to the rough stone of the Château walls. Dawn spills in after me in a wash of crimson light, turning my chambers the red of a ruby’s bowels.

Exhausted, I put the owl-face pendant back on and ring for breakfast, collapsing face down on the bed.

Golden blood. The King was killed by a monster, and it had golden blood. Which means that there must be a sorcier involved in all this. Either they conjured the beast, or theyarethe beast—I don’t know enough about magic to tell, and not for the first time, I find myself frustrated by my father’s secrecy, his adamant refusal to teach me anything about my powers.

Still, the fact remains: If there is a sorcier involved, then theycould still be in the Château. And if Damien could see through my disguise, then a sorcier will be able to do so easily.

My mission could be in danger.

I want to sleep, but there’s no time for rest. I need to know more, to move faster. What I have done isn’t enough. It won’t be enough until I know the truth.

Which is why my next act, after scarfing down my breakfast, is marching all the way to the Dauphin’s apartments and barging in unceremoniously.

“Aimé, we need to ta—Oh.”

I freeze, startled by the sight before me. The Dauphin’s chambers, much like the prince himself, seem to be rebelling against the somber gravitas of the rest of the Château. Here, bright tapestries cover dark walls, and gilt chairs upholstered in pastel blue silks stand amid plush floral carpets. A painting of two turtledoves hangs over the mantelpiece, the dainty birds ruffling their feathers against a cerulean sky.

In the middle of the room stands the Dauphin, wearing a black-and-gold jacket, teacup in hand.

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