Page 42 of A Treachery of Swans

The Château walls seem to lean in toward me, a jeering mass of dark wood. I scowl at them.

“I will solve your secrets,” I declare. “I will take everything back. My brother, the crown, magic… I will reclaim it all, and I will win this ridiculous game.”

Later, a maid tells me that the Dauphin has finally retired to his rooms. As I climb the stairs to his apartments, the shrill scream of a violin comes tearing down the stairwell in a violent crescendo. The melody is haunting and fierce, tugging at my skin, wanting to strip it from my bones. Beneath my feet, the stairs seem to pulse to the rhythm, and in a nearby alcove an enchanted statue twitches furiously, drawing on the last dregs of its magic to claw at its ears.

I finish climbing the stairs, and the music grows louder. I don’t bother knocking—I simply shove the door open and step inside.

I am greeted by a flare of light, the candles on every surface of the room lit and brightly burning. They chase away shadows, reflecting in gilt accents, making the room swirl with dizzying streaks of fire. In the midst of this strange, flaming miasma, Aimé is the image of languorous glamour, wearing only a loose white shirt and breeches, his fingers dancing across the strings of a violin the color of a midday sky.

He breaks off when he sees me enter, his smile that of an entertainer, all pomp and teeth.

“Marie! Perfect timing, as usual.” He lowers the violin and takes a sip from a nearby wine bottle. “I’ve just had a visit from my wonderful secretary of finance. Apparently, our coffers can barely support the wedding. I certainlyhopethat theater director can work miracles on a pitiful budget.”

“Are you drunk?” I ask, squinting at him.

“I’m wallowing.” He holds out the bottle. I take it and sniff cautiously. I don’t have a refined taste for wines—I’ve never liked how drinking dulls my reflexes—but the scent is sweetly luxurious, and Ihave nothing better to be doing. I take a swig and return the bottle to Aimé.

“You know,” I say, the wine’s sour tang on my tongue, “you might gain more respect from your courtiers if you weren’t constantly trying to send your liver into an existential crisis.”

He sighs, staring mournfully at the bottle. “You’re probably right.” He sets it aside, then looks down at the violin in his hand. “Oh, how far I’ve fallen.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes dark. Feeling irreverent, I cross the room and flop down on his bed. He glances at me, surprised, and a part of me is suddenly terrified I’ve made a horrible mistake. I’ve just lain on the bed of my intended—I might have indicated I want something that I certainly do not. Then again, I’ve seen the way he looks at my brother. It’s possible that his interests lie entirely elsewhere.

My suspicions are furthered when Aimé merely smiles at me fondly. “Make yourself at home, I suppose.”

“Thank you.” I turn over on my side, propping up my head on my hand. “It’s beautiful, by the way. The music. I mean, it’s absolutely horrifying, but that only makes me like it more.”

“My, how very gracious of you,” he says wryly, putting aside the violin.

“Did you compose it yourself?”

“Indeed.” He sketches a dramatic bow. “I call itHelp, Who Decided It Was a Good Idea to Make Me Kingin E Minor.”

“You’re not king yet,” I remind him, though his antics bring a laugh out of me. It feels strange. A sorcier laughing with an Augier—forget rolling, my ancestors must be performing whole acrobatic routines in their graves.

You are here for a reason,I remind myself. I sit up on the bed, crossing my legs beneath Marie’s overabundant skirts. “Aimé,” I say carefully. “Can I ask you something?”

“Whatever you wish,ma chérie,” he replies, clambering onto the bed beside me, limber as a cat. To my absolute shock, he rests his head on my knee, staring up at me through heavy lashes as though we are longtime friends. And to him, we are. I imagine this is how he might have looked at Marie when they were both young and careless, trading gossip in the Château gardens.

But we’re not young royals beneath a kind blue sky. I have a mission to complete, a brother to rescue. I can’t let myself forget that.

“That drink your stepmother gives you,” I ask the Dauphin. “What is it?”

His smile dissipates. He turns over onto his side, his head still on my knee. “I suppose I ought to tell you,” he says morosely. “Since we are to bemarried.”

I take a page from Marie d’Odette’s book and remain quiet, allowing him to fill the silence.

“It’s… it’s medicine,” Aimé says at last, wearily. “For my nerves.”

“Yournerves?”

He nods, his hair rustling against the silk of my dress. “I… I’m not very good with… busy places. Pressure. I get… My hands begin to shake. Sometimes it gets hard to breathe. The medicine helps. Most of the time it’s enough. It keeps me from truly panicking.” He closes his eyes tightly. “It’s the real reason I stopped… trying. At court. I’ve dealt with it since I was a boy, but every meeting, every humiliation, would make it worse. Stepmother has had to increase the doses.”

I narrow my eyes at that but say nothing.

“I should have told you earlier,” he says, sighing. “That I’m mad. Hysterical. Melancholic. Call it what you want.”

“Is that what your father called it?”

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