Page 45 of A Treachery of Swans

“Are you all right?” Marie asks worriedly, midway through wrestling the old door open.

I grit my teeth against the sting. “Fine,” I say. “It’s just a scratch.”

It doesn’tfeellike a scratch, but I’m not about to admit that. I finish struggling past the thorns and slip through the gate as Marie holds it open, ignoring the wet stickiness of the blood on my arm.

The forest engulfs me immediately. It is dark and damp, the smell ancient, like old bones rotting by a riverside. The trees seem to fidget restlessly, rubbing against one another, boughs clattering and trunks creaking. Ahead, a small path snakes between the trees, bare branches and evergreen fronds forming a latticework overhead, the soil underfoot crackling with pine needles. Strange, spindly plants cluster on either side, their shadows crooked and lengthened by candlelight.

“They’reblooming,” Marie says in surprise. She crouches by a patch of the plants, carding her hands gently through its curled leaves. Like any flowers that survived Morgane’s curse, these are wrinkled, unsightly things, their edges curling like burnt paper.

But Marie coos at them, gathering a few blossoms carefully in her palm. “Oh, how long it has been since I’ve seen real flowers,” she murmurs. “Look, Odile.”

I wipe the stream of blood off my arm and onto my shirt, ignoring the aggressive throb of pain, and walk over to her side, eyeing the little blooms in Marie’s cupped hands. In the faint light of my candle, her skin looks just as soft as their petals, and I have a sudden urge to touch her palms.

Obviously, I resist it. Instead, I pluck one of the flowers and hold it between my fingers. I squint at it and notice with a start the color of its petals—a familiar sickly yellow.

Medicine,Aimé had said.For my nerves.

“This is what she comes here for,” I say in realization. Marie looks at me questioningly, and I tell her about the drinks I’ve seen the Step-Queen give Aimé.

“I never saw him drink anything like that when we were children,” she says, her brows drawing together. “It seems odd.”

“Odder still,” I add, “why come here disguised? Surely if it’s only a mundane medicine, there would be no need to keep the location of these flowers secret.”

Marie’s eyes widen. “Do you think it could be poison?”

I nod, chewing on my bottom lip.

Marie huffs. “I never did like that woman.”

“She seems to have a particular hatred for you,” I agree. “Care to explain?”

Marie glances at me in surprise, curling her fingers around the flowers. “You… you really don’t know why?”

I have my suspicions, most of them revolving around a diamond necklace, but I don’t tell her that.

“If you don’t know, then I’m glad,” she says, and that’s all. Her tone makes it clear that she doesn’t wish to continue the topic, and I don’t pry, focusing back on the flowers.

“The Step-Queen has a motive,” I reason. “If she were to kill Aimé, her son would be next in line. That would only give her more power.”

“Yes,” Marie agrees. “It does, though—” Her attention abruptly drops to my arm. “By the Mothers, Odile!”

Her sudden exclamation makes me jump. Disconcerted, I follow her gaze from the flowers to my arm, and the breath whistles out of me. I was so distracted by our discovery that I had forgotten about the pain in my arm. Now I see that my entire forearm is marbled in streaks of gilded blood, and I have left a trail of shimmering drops behind me on the narrow path.

Marie reaches for my arm, but I pull away instinctively. All I can think of is Regnault’s thunderous gaze the first time he saw me injured, his scolding words. Since then, I’ve never let anyone see my wounds. Not even Damien.

“No,”I say, too sharply. My voice rings in the silence. Marie’s lips part in surprise, and I force myself to take a shuddering breath. More quietly, I grit out, “I’m fine. I can deal with it myself.”

I pass her the candle and pull a fraying handkerchief from my pocket, pressing it against the gash. I wince as it soaks through almost instantly, the contact sending waves of pain up my arm. Mothers, how badly did I cut myself? I raise the handkerchief to check and realize the bleeding isn’t slowing at all. For some absurd reason, panic begins to fill me. What if it doesn’t stop? What if it needsstitches? I don’t know how to stitch a wound, and I can’t ask anyonefor help without revealing my identity as a sorcier. Am I doomed to simply bleed out here, all over the forest floor?

“Odile.” Soft hands close around mine, pressing the handkerchief back to my arm, and I realize I’ve begun to shake. Shame floods me, and I jerk away.

“Odile, it’s all right.” Marie’s tone has grown cautious, muted, as though I’m a skittish bird on the verge of taking flight. “Here, let me see.”

She kneels in front of me, taking my forearm gently and pulling it toward herself, then laying it in her lap. Shaken and still somewhat woozy, I can’t find the willpower to resist this time.

“Mothers,that isdeep,” she says, turning my arm over. “What did this, a thorn? Can you stand? We need to wash it off somewhere.”

“It’ll be fine,” I argue feebly.

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