Page 43 of A Treachery of Swans

He says nothing, but the shine in his eyes is the confirmation Ineed. Somewhere within me, the smallest fragment of my rotten lump of a heart softens itself. “King Honoré was the lesser shadow of a madman,” I tell him. “He will be remembered for doing nothing,changingnothing. He kept the kingdom afloat but did no more than that.”

“Don’t say that,” Aimé says, swallowing. “He sacrificed much for Auréal. As much as he thought he could, at least.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

The Dauphin only shakes his head. “I’ll show you tomorrow. Not… right now.”

“All right,” I say, surprised at my own acceptance. “But listen, Aimé. What I meant to say was… you’re nothing like those men. You have the potential to change things. To make them better.”

He snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do,” I say, and I wish it were a lie, because it would make things so much easier. Because then I wouldn’t have this kindling of a friendship, this newborn warmth of it, to make me feel conflicted,guilty,about my true mission.

Aimé’s gaze drifts toward the far wall, to the painting of the turtledoves, the downy brushstrokes of their feathers and gleaming, candid eyes. “My mother painted that, you know. For me, before I was born. She hoped I would be soft, kind. My father said she cursed me with it—that because of it, he was left with a weak and unworthy son.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died right after I was born. They say it was a sudden illness—one night and she was gone. The violin was hers—Stepmother taught me to play it so I could honor her. I wish you could know Madame de Malezieu as I do, Marie. She can be very kind.”

“Yes, well, she can also hold a ghastly grudge.”

He laughs. “That she can. But she risked my father’s ire for it,you know. Teaching me to play. He hated all art, be it music or painting.Pastimes for a bored noblewoman,he would say. He only kept the theater houses running because he knew how powerful theater could be in forming the public’s opinion of the court.”

I think of the many grand performances my father has put on, each one glorifying the history of Auréal, painting the Spider King as a hero—not a madman but a genius, putting the kingdom back together after the Mothers abandoned us; wielding the Couronne, a relic gifted by the Mothers themselves. Lies, all of them.

Aimé raises an arm to rub his eyes. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t actually miss my father at all. I’m almost… relieved. That he’s gone. What’s wrong with me, that I think this way?”

He stares at me as though I might have the answer to his question. There is wetness gathering in his eyes. I shift awkwardly.

He sits up, blinking tears away furiously.“Mothers,”he curses. “That was insensitive of me. I shouldn’t say such things, what with your father… well. I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Marie’s father? I knew he was dead, but nothing more than that. I file the information away for later.

“It’s all right,” I reassure the Dauphin. “I’m not… I don’t know what to do when people cry is all. It seems…”Weak,I almost say, but that wouldn’t be very diplomatic. “Vulnerable.”

“Yes,” he says, sniffing. “I suppose it is. But I trust you.”

The words strike me in an odd place, sending aftershocks long after they’ve been uttered.Don’t be a fool,says a voice in my thoughts, my father’s voice.He doesn’t trust you. He trusts Marie d’Odette. And when you reveal your true identity to him, he will call you what you truly are: thief, liar, villain.

Another bloom of guilt spreads through me, more potent this time, and I turn away from Aimé, unable to face the defenselessnessof his expression. Past the room’s ornate windows, night spreads; a mask of black satin drawn over the sky, the stars white pearls sewn into the fabric. Despite myself, I wonder what Marie is doing. If our assumption is correct and I did accidentally curse her to become a swan by day, then she must have returned to her human shape by now.

“I need to go,” I say tightly to Aimé. “I hate to leave, but I’m weary. Any longer and I might fall asleep in this bed, and I presume that could be misconstrued as something scandalous.”

“Mothers.” Aimé rubs his eyes with a groan. “Don’t remind me. Sometimes I forget that our marriage will involve… maritalduties.”

“Let’s live in ignorant bliss,” I declare, getting to my feet. “I don’t want to think about it either.”

I don’t tell him it’ll never come to that. That moving the marriage up two weeks has merely sped up the deadline for my heist, and that the moment the Couronne is brought out from the vaults, it will be gone, and I along with it. I don’t tell him that I’ve come to understand why my brother thinks he’s worth protecting. I don’t tell him that I wish we could truly be friends.

I merely rush from the room, perhaps faster than I should have, because I don’t want to picture the heartbreak on Aimé-Victor Augier’s face when the time comes for me to betray him.

By the time I make my escape into the gardens, the Château looks drowsy, its golden windows flickering in the dark like shuttering eyes. The cold is more bearable today—autumn caught in its final desperate throes before winter’s jaws close upon it. I stare at the vast lake ahead, that ever-present shroud of mist spread across it like a layer of stiff icing.

Marie.I shouldn’t want to see her, not after last night’s argument. Yet there’s a tugging in my chest, incessant, urging me to find her.It’s for the mission,I tell myself.I need to make sure she hasn’t changed her mind and done something to betray me.Yes. That’s all this is. I’m being practical.

Squaring my shoulders, I make my way through the maze of iron roses, the Château turrets growing smaller behind me.

Just before I reach the lakeside, an ice-cold hand clamps down on my mouth.

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