Page 46 of A Treachery of Swans

“Not if it getsinfected,” she counters, her jaw set. “Hold that there—no, don’t lift it. You need to apply pressure.”

“I know that,” I growl, furious at myself for getting into this situation. I really thought I would go out in a blaze of glory, but here I am, utterly undone by a shrub.

Marie tugs on my elbow. “Come on, we’re not far from the servant’s wing. We can use the well water there. Hopefully everyone will be asleep by now.”

I wobble when I stand, feeling oddly light-headed, and something presses into the small of my back. I nearly jump out of my skin until I realize it is Marie’s hand, attempting to steady me. I give her a sideways look. I want to tell her that I can walk on my own, that I don’t need to becoddled.And yet I can’t bring myself to shake off her touch.

As we walk away, Marie swipes her foot over the earth, carefully wiping away the stains my blood has left on the wet loam. I blowout my candle, and we navigate again by moonlight. By the time we reach the servant’s wing—an aged, morose part of the Château, smudged stone walls imprisoned in a cage of leafless grapevines—my black handkerchief has turned entirely gold, and blood has begun to drip from my arm again. I lean sullenly against the old stone well, watching for guards as Marie hauls up a bucket of water with surprising ease. In the distance I can make out the stables—the ground is littered with stray bits of straw, and a cold breeze carries the smell of horse, sweet and musty.

Marie sets down the bucket. A moment later there comes the sound of fabric tearing, and I turn in surprise to see Marie with her outer skirt pulled up, tearing her cotton petticoat to strips. My eyes are drawn to her exposed calves, their lovely, slender curve, and something flutters in my lower stomach. I wrench my eyes away, annoyed at myself, at her, at theworld.

After a time, Marie approaches me, gesturing to my arm. I let her take it, trying not to think of how long it has been sinceanyonetouched me like this, with gentle steadiness, her fingers leaving tingling traces, skin gliding against skin. She begins to pour crystalline water carefully over the wound, and though I wince, I’m grateful for the momentary relief. Then she begins wiping off my arm with a scrap of fabric, and I wonder if I will simply burst into flames.

“Why are you helping me?” I exclaim in frustration, unable to bear the tension any longer. “I don’t understand it. I’ve been nothing but cruel to you.”

Marie hums, not looking up from her work. “What makes you think I’m not doing this out of self-interest? Perhaps I merely want to make sure you’re not dripping conspicuous golden liquid in the Château while wearing my face.” She draws my arm closer to her body and begins binding it carefully in white linen.

“That’s just it,” I say. “You’re being so casual aboutallof this. You’ve been cursed—twice, if you count my failed attempt at undoing said curse—and I’ve been walking around pretending to be you. Yet you’ve hardly put up a fight since that first night.”

She is suspiciously silent at that.

“Ah, so I am onto something,” I say slyly, feeling like I’ve finally gained the upper hand. “You don’t want to go back to court at all, do you?”

Marie continues to avoid my eyes. Her expression is unreadable—the only sign that my words have affected her is the slight tremble of her touch against my skin. Finally she ties off the makeshift bandages and sighs, bowing her head slightly.

“You’re right,” she says, and there’s an edge of shame to her voice. “I do not wish to go back. The last time I was here as a girl, I nearly ruined my family’s reputation. I’ve dreaded coming back ever since.”

“You? Ruin someone’s reputation?” I raise my eyebrows. “But you’re so… proper.”

The statement seems to make her wither. She lets me go, seeming not to notice the golden smears of my blood left on her palms. “I am,” she says quietly. “Because when I was not, I made mistakes. Terrible mistakes.”

Foreboding creeps through me. Surely, surely, this cannot be about—

“Do you remember that diamond necklace?” Marie says. “The one the Step-Queen lent me?”

My chest seizes up. Mothers, I was right. I didn’t want to be. I thought I’d fixed it; I thought I’d undone that mistake.

“I do,” I reply hoarsely.

She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes. When she pullsthem away, flakes of my blood glint on her cheek. “I lost it,” she says. “Soon after I took it back from you, it vanished. That’s how it all started.”

She tells me about it, but I remember a different story. It tears from me like a scab from a still-healing wound, old pain becoming new again, crimson regret welling to the surface.

The Dauphin was having a birthday banquet, and Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny did not want to go.

“Why not?” I said, tightening the back of her bodice, the velvet-soft ribbons sliding between my fingers and the warmth of her back against my hands. “There must be so much food.”

“And so muchformality,” she said drearily. “Maman will not let me breathe. If I so much as slouch, she will jab me in the back with her finger. If I speak too loudly, she will glare, or pinch me until I fall quiet. Sometimes I’m sure she wants a doll, not a daughter. If it weren’t for Papa, she probably wouldn’t even let me outside. Just put me up on a shelf to ripen like an apple until I’m nice and sweet for the Dauphin.”

“Sounds like an easy life,” I said, feeling a pang of resentment—it felt unfair that Marie should have a doting mother when I hardly remembered mine, only plague sores on skin and desperate eyes on Damien and the wordsTake your sister and go.

“She sold my horse,” Marie said quietly. “Before we came. I fell off her and got all muddy, so Maman decided I was too old to go riding. I shouldn’t be doing things that are so reckless—only sitting indoors doing embroidery, or whatever it is real ladies do.”

“That is terrible.” I tried to sound sympathetic. Her life sounded idyllic to me. Banquets and wealth and parents and safety. She didn’t have to work for anything—it was all handed to her on a golden platter.

“I wonder if we could steal one of the Dauphin’s horses,” Mariemused impishly. “He has beautiful ones, and he never rides them. Says he’s worried he’ll hurt one, though I don’t see how he would—he’s shorter than I am and built like a feather. Oh—” She reached for something on the dresser. “Can you help me put this on?”

My breath caught. It was a necklace, a dazzling necklace of diamonds. Its faceted jewels swallowed light, turning it over in their bellies before spitting it out in prismatic beams. Between them were little roses of gold, their small petals impossibly thin and frail.

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