Page 40 of A Treachery of Swans

I close the cover, wedging my quill between the pages to prevent the little book from locking. I do not want to have to seek Marie’s help again.

As I slip the journal beneath the mattress, my thoughts turn,unwillingly, to Marie d’Odette. To a girl trapped on the edge of the lake, cursed to become a swan by day and a maiden by night. Soon the sun will be up, and feathers will once again swallow her. And I will be walking around in her skin, no more than her caricature, an owl wearing a swan’s mask.

I turn the owl-face pendant over in my hand, and for some reason, I can’t bring myself to put it on.

I don’t sleep long before a maid is knocking on my door, reminding me that morning has come, and with it the King’s funeral.

I clip the owl-face pendant back on reluctantly before unlocking the door to my chambers and allowing her inside. I sit numbly as she tuts and fusses about with pale-honey curls, stare at my feet as she cinches me into a dull, unforgiving gown the color of a crow’s corpse. My thoughts feel scattered, as though blown apart by a stray wind.

The maid suddenly clears her throat, the soft sound cutting through the room. “Take care of the young Dauphin,” she bids me gently. “Today will be trying for him.”

I frown, then realize I have seen her before. This is the woman Aimé conferred with secretly in the hallway, the day after King Honoré’s murder. I must look skeptical, because she shakes her head at me. Her graying hair frizzes around her mask.

“They tell lies about that boy,” she says. “Sent the royal family’s doctor to my home, he did, when my little son broke his foot and no city healer could set it right. When he learned Cook’s husband had died and left her with debt, it was suddenly paid off. He told no one, of course, but we knew. There are other stories, too, of kindnesses done quietly. The court may speak ill of him, but you will not find a servant who will, not even the youngest scullion. He is not as grand as his father, perhaps. But when you are grand—well, you don’t seethe little things.” She taps my arm. “Come. I will take you to him.”

The morning passes in a flood of black—black clothes, black casket, black silk stretched over the chapel’s pearl-white pews, and burnt-black clouds smudged over an anemic sky. The King’s body is wrapped in golden damask and borne from the chapel to be displayed in the sprawl of the Verroux cathedral. I sit in a gilt carriage with Aimé as the procession of casket and horses and loudly weeping courtiers rattles through the narrow streets. The Dauphin’s hand flexes where it rests on my arm, his thigh pressed rigidly against mine. I don’t look at him, distracted by my abrupt return to the stink and noise of the city I once called home.

Jaw tense, I watch the crowd clotting around the main street, watch how color seems to melt away from it as we leave the upper sectors of the city—the vibrant gowns of wealthy merchant ladies morphing into dirt-stained workers’ clothes and the filthy rags of pickpockets.

As color vanishes, so does the sorrow and mourning. It is replaced by hunger and bared teeth, and a palpable tension in the air. It all feels strangely foreign to me, more vicious than I remember, more desperate even than when Damien and I haunted these streets. Two hundred years of a dying, cursed land is taking its toll.

I wonder if the mysterious beast is not the only monster Aimé should fear. Verroux is starving, and if things do not change soon, it might begin to devour everything. First itself, then the noblesse, until finally, bloodstained and bristle-haired, it will bury its fangs into its would-be king and bleed him dry.

SCENE XVIThe Château

The Royal Dining Room

“There is unrest at the Château.”

The Dauphin’s voice rings like a bell through the room. Before me, a long, regal dining table seems to stretch into infinity, laden with a gargantuan display of foods—slabs of veal slick with grease, a pheasant with its feathers splayed out, vegetables carved into odd, abstract shapes, and frosted goblets of exotic wine. We are in the royal dining room, a low-ceilinged chamber with walls of dark wood and an odd, earthy scent to it, as though we are trapped in a great coffin. Overhead, arcs of silver lightning flash quietly over a ceiling painted with a roiling storm. Like most of the Château’s enchantments, this magic is fading—the bolts, instead of streaking majestically across the vista, merely meander through it at a leisurely pace.

One such lightning bolt crawls over the Regent’s head as he leans forward, giving his scarred nose an unflattering highlight.

“From whom?” he inquires, his reedy voice seeming to send the wineglasses shaking. “Who dares utter dissent within these walls?”

The post-funeral banquet has turned into an unofficial meeting for the Conseil du Roi. The Step-Queen is present, as are all the most important secretaries of state, and the whole affair is going about as amicably as one might expect.

“Why does it matter who it was?” the Dauphin says faintly, leaning away from his uncle even though a table separates them. “They are not wrong to worry.”

“Gossip about the crown istreason,” the Regent replies sharply. “Any who spread it must be arrested.”

Like you arrested my brother?I want to say, but I keep myself demurely silent, biding my time. I think of the funeral, the gray ocean of commoners with dull, desolate eyes. Apparently the cracks in Auréal’s foundations reach all the way to the Château Front-du-Lac.

Confronted by the Regent, Aimé seems to waver. He opens his mouth, closes it again. The Regent sits back down, seeming to expect the Dauphin to agree and confess. For a moment, it seems that is what Aimé will do, his breath shaky and audible. But then, to my utter shock—

“They’re worried, uncle. And if my own courtiers are expressing concern over the stability of my reign—over the effects of Morgane’s curse—then I can’t imagine what is being said of me in the city below.”

Grimaces and dirtied faces, clothes hanging off thinning frames.

“Anyway, I thought we could—” Aimé continues, but the Regent cuts him off.

“Dear nephew.” The man smiles kindly, but his eyes glitter with unashamed derision. “Should you not be resting? Yesterday must have taken a toll on you—your father, my beloved brother, has onlyjust been buried. Why not allow me to perform my duty as regent while you focus your attention on your future queen?” His gaze plasters onto me, as slimy and stubborn as a leech. I resist the urge to scrub at my skin. The two other Conseil members chuckle, while the Step-Queen presses her lips together.

Aimé’s cheeks have gone red. When he says nothing, the Regent’s smile curls into something jagged and gloating. “So I thought. You agree, then, that it is best I handle this my way. I understand you want to take charge now before your coronation, but you are still grieving, and we all know of your… ah,nerves.” He crosses his arms, the image of thin, looming authority, like a lengthened shadow at sunset. “You have stayed out of royal business for so long, dear nephew. It may be best that you wait a little longer.”

Beside me, Aimé’s shoulders drop in defeat. He pulls his hands under the tablecloth, but before he can fully hide them, I see they’re shaking minutely.

I gnaw on my thumb, shoving down a wave of frustration. The Regent has turned to the courtier on his left, and they’re discussing the unrest within the kingdom. I hear the word “militia” muttered, and beside me Aimé tenses. I remember what the Regent’s friend said about the Dauphin the night of the ball:The little pest is easy to get rid of.I can’t help but wonder: What if there had been unspoken words between them? What if he had wanted to say,The King will be harder?Kill the King, control the prince. But the beast had golden blood—sorcery was involved in its creation, and the Regent is no sorcier. Which means he must be working with one.

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