Page 36 of A Treachery of Swans

To my relief, he nods. “I suppose you’re right.” He pushes up from the table. “I think I am going to speak to the guards, have them keep an eye out for any strange animals. In case whatever did this is still out there somewhere.”

“Be careful not to—” I begin, but he puts up a hand.

“I know, I know, I won’t tell them too much, I promise. Mothers, Marie, do you trustanyone?”

“Trust is for fools,” I say flatly. “Just look at the tarasque. After it was tamed, it trusted the Little Saint with its life. And she led it to slaughter.” I wave a hand at him. “Go. I’m going to stay longer. I will see you for dinner.”

The Dauphin gives me an exaggerated salute before exiting. As soon as he is gone, I turn back by the little chest, running my fingers over the worn wood. I wrench it from its entourage of old books, then blow a cloud of dust and debris away. The dry corpse of a spider goes flying off the lid, and I shudder.

The box is locked, but that’s rarely a problem for me. One of the first things my father ever taught me was how to pick locks. I take two pins from my hair and shove them into the keyhole, fiddling with the mechanism. It takes me some time—even for someone experienced, the lock is tricky—but eventually it capitulates to me. The lid comes free with a muted click.

The scent of magic strikes me first. It has an unfamiliar edge to it—the earthen scent of decay. I bring a candelabra closer and peer inside.

Within lies a journal, bound in red leather, its pages seeming uneven, loose, either from poor binding or frequent use. The whole is encased in a cage-like contraption of golden filigree.

My pulse surges. I reach for the little book eagerly, too excited to be cautious. Some of the crisp pages bend under my fingers, butI don’t pay any attention as I lay the book out in front of me. I trace the golden casing and feel a faint, barely-there hum—it’s old magic, but not so old that it’s reverted back into its raw form. A tug on the spell within reveals old, faded spell-threads in an incoherent cobweb. I drift a hand over them quickly and find a tangle ofhideandconcealandlockandturn, and more and more and more until I pull away again, blinking. I don’t dare to try and undo this spell, not here. Not after how disastrously it went with Marie.

I press on the cage with my thumb and realize that the pattern can move—it’s broken into thousands of tiny pieces, each one capable of rotating. When I turn one, it makes a strange click, and another piece on the opposite side of the journal turns beneath my fingers.

“Ah,merde,” I groan. “Morgane, you must hate me.”

The journal’s cage is a puzzle.

I shove the journal into the pockets of my dress and squirrel it back to my rooms. I spend the rest of the day wrestling with the strange cage, flicking pieces left and right until I want to throw it out the window in irritation. When the time for dinner comes, I excuse myself, claiming a headache, and have food brought to my room. I remain in my chambers to curse and fidget with the journal.

By nightfall, I have accomplished nothing.

I throw the journal onto my bed. “Fine, then,” I say to it. “If you’re going to be so stubborn, then I’m taking you to my father.”

Vibrating with frustration, I throw on my cloak and head for the balcony, clambering quickly down to the ground.

Following the day’s discoveries, the Château grounds have taken on an eerie quality. The usual restless mist lies over the garden, turning the rose hedges into no more than snarled, crawling silhouettes. Something creaks in the distance. A light swings over to myleft and I jump, only to see the shape of a masked servant heading into the palace. He vanishes into the fog like a specter.

I exhale through the pounding of my heart and pick up the pace determinedly.

I take off the owl-face pendant once I am in the shelter of the trees, trying not to jump at every scrape of pine needles against my skirts. I wish I had brought a lantern—the moon is not bright enough tonight to light the way.

And anything could be in these trees.I shudder at the thought.

Wind whistles. I curse, nearly tripping over a log. I am not far from the little dock where I last met Marie, and I stop to catch my breath, surprised to feel a pang of longing. The noble girl might be infuriating, but there’s something about her restrained energy, her calculating eyes, that sends a thrill through me when I think of her. She’s a challenge—I want to tear her walls down, one brick at a time, and expose all the little secrets cowering behind them.

It’s that curiosity that has me gravitating back toward the dock by the lakeside. I wonder if she is here tonight as a swan. I wonder what she will do if she sees me.

I step through the trees and pause in shock.

There is a girl sitting on the end of the dock, a wraithlike figure against a midnight lake, her pale skirts pooling around slender ankles and cloak discarded beside her. She has taken off her shoes. Her toes are dipped into the water, eddying the surface.

“Marie?” I can’t help my exclamation at seeing her human again.

She doesn’t even startle. She cants her face up toward me, and for reasons I hate to examine, the sight of her steals the breath from my throat.

“Sorciere,” she greets me with mild distaste. “I wondered if I would see you again. It appears you kept half your bargain, at least.Did you mean for this to happen? For me to become human again when the sun set?”

“Of course I did,” I say too fast, and wince internally. “It’s all part of my nefarious plot. I’ve trapped you to become human only when it is convenient to me.”

But I can tell that there’s no fooling her. “I see.” There’s an edge of amusement to it. “How very conniving of you.”

Mothers, she’sannoying. “You make a better swan,” I growl, unable to think of a better retort. “Perhaps I’ll turn you back into one.”

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