Page 41 of A Treachery of Swans

I wish, once more, for my father. He has always held a wealth of knowledge about magic. He might know a way of tracking down another sorcier if one is present.

If only I could bring my father here…

A sudden idea springs to me, and I’m leaping to my feet beforeI can think it through. “What if we moved up the wedding?”

The Regent’s head snaps toward me.

“What did she say?” asks the sallow-faced courtier at his side.

“Nothing of importance,” says the Regent immediately, turning back to him. “You know how women are.”

I grind my teeth together, understanding suddenly why the Step-Queen remains silent. I want to push over my wineglass, shatter a plate: whatever it takes to gain their attention. But—You are Marie d’Odette,I remind myself.Be diplomatic.

“My apologies.” I address both the Regent and the elderly courtier. “I see I should speak more loudly to accommodate those of more… mature hearing.” I suppress a smile as the Regent purples. “I was thinking we could move the wedding up. Say, by two weeks.”

Beside me, Aimé nearly chokes on his wine. “What?”

“You say that the people doubt Aimé’s strength?” I say. “What better way to show them that the crown is as united as ever than by a grand celebration? Perhaps you could even put some magic into the event, bring out the Couronne for—”

“No.” The Step-Queen’s voice breaks through my words like a well-aimed arrow. “That is not how the Couronne works. It should only be used in dire need, not for frivolous party tricks. The late king understood that.”

“Yes, so he let the kingdom languish instead,” Aimé mutters.

“And thus avoided becoming a second Spider King,” the Step-Queen points out.

Aimé’s eyes blaze suddenly. “I would gladly go mad if it meant keeping my people from starving!”

There is a snap of silence, and the old courtier sidles into it awkwardly. “This is a good idea,” he says, wiping his lips with a napkin. “The wedding, I mean. It would be an excellent way to put the court’s mind off the recent tragedy.”

“But the magnitude of planning such an event,” Aimé interjects, his hands still clenched together under the table, “of organizing food and décor and sending out invitations on such short notice… it would be impossible.”

“Not impossible,” I say. I have to maneuver this discussion carefully now, to make sure the outcome is as I want it. Overhead, a bolt of lightning flashes across the ceiling, and for a heartbeat every noble at the table is turned into a brightly lit ghoul. “Surely there must be someone at the palace who is adept at managing such events. Someone with knowledge of decoration, of coordinating. Someone who can make an impression.”

Silence falls as all present seem to try to think of such a person. I sit back, worrying my bottom lip, wondering if I should have been more pointed with my words.

To my relief, Aimé gives a soft “oh” of realization. “Uncle, Stepmother, what about the theater director?”

It takes all my self-control not to smirk with satisfaction.

“Monsieur Regnault always puts on the grandest spectacles. Even Papa used to praise him, and we know how he hated frivolity. Surely we have all had our breaths taken away many times by the Théâtre du Roi’s plays. And what is a wedding, really, if not a grand performance?” He adds the last words with a touch of irony.

Another courtier speaks up. “I think the girl has a point,” he says. “It would be a good way to reassure the noblesse that the King’s death was a regrettable anomaly and that there is nothing to fear at the Château. All myths are just that: myths.”

“Very well,” the Regent says, rubbing his temples. There is an edge of vitriol to his words, the sound of a man who may have admitted defeat but is already plotting revenge. “We will send for this theater master and let him manage the preparations.”

“We can hire staff from the city too,” Aimé pipes in. “And somemore guards as well. We need to be prepared. And perhaps we can keep the new servants on afterward. Bring some life back to this place.”

And so it is settled. Dinner ends, the company dispersing to attend to their individual duties, and I am left filled with conflicting emotions as thick as the storm clouds painted overhead. I am eager to see Regnault again. Once he is here, everything will be easier. Once he is here, we can plan the rest of this heist together.

I stand, smoothing out Marie’s skirts, and make to leave the room. But a sudden suspicion has me pausing at the threshold, tucking myself behind the wall to eavesdrop.

At the end of the table, Aimé is approaching the Step-Queen, a teacup in hand. They exchange quiet words, and she once again reaches into her pocket, taking out the vial of strange yellow liquid. Just as in the previous day, she pours it into Aimé’s drink, watching intently as the golden-haired prince raises the cup to his lips. Her gaze does not leave him until he swallows every last drop.

If anyone nearby is surprised by the sight, they make no indication. Nor does the Step-Queen try to hide her actions. And yet a sense of wrongness overcomes me. There’s something too intense, too urgent, in the Step-Queen’s eyes.Just what,I wonder,is in that vial?

I detach myself from the wall and head back down the gloomy corridor, my mind churning. Ridiculously, a part of me wishes for Marie, for her steadying attentiveness. I wish I had not burned that bridge. I wish I could sit beside her again, tell her of my discoveries in a way I could not even tell my father, because he would tell me to focus on the Couronne and only the Couronne.

I want to speak to Aimé about the mysterious vial, but he’s already been ushered away. I am left in the corridor, utterly alone.

---