Page 5 of A Treachery of Swans

“I thought you said these tours were not all that unusual,” Marie remarks. “Why the rush?”

I dart a look at her, suddenly nervous I might have said too much. But she holds my gaze steadily, eyes bright and willful, candlelightslipping through their pearly depths. “I miss when we used to do this,” she says quietly. “Before it all went wrong.”

Is she trying to apologize? I nearly scoff. It’s too late for that. Five years too late.

“I’ll be honest,” I say lightly, ignoring her attempt at amends. “We usually do not show this part of the Théâtre to noblesse, but I thought you might enjoy it. They say… well.” I lower my voice. “Did anyone tell you the true story behind Lac des Cygnes?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly humoring me. “Ididhear something about it being haunted.”

“Not only haunted,” I reply. “They say the ruins beneath its waters were once a shrine built in the center of the lake, dedicated to the Good Mothers. That after Bartrand de Roux’s betrayal, their wrath is what caused it to collapse. And do you want to know what else?”

“What?”

“They say there were people in the shrine when it collapsed… and that the skeletons of those people remain at the bottom of the lake. When there is a full moon like tonight, if you close your eyes and still your heartbeat, you can hear their screams carrying across the water.”

I break off as we arrive at the Théâtre’s back doors. They are plain and heavy, lacking in decoration—once they might have been used by a gardener, but in recent years they have been mainly used by actors seeking a place for trysts. That is, until Regnault and I began to carefully spread rumors of ghastly apparitions haunting the overgrown garden beyond. Since then, no one has dared to use these doors, and I can be certain that Marie and I will be alone.

Without hesitation, I push them open and usher Marie through.

“Here we are,” I say with a flourish.

The gardens are not much of a sight, spindly and skeletal and bleached by a wan November moon. Naked trees hold the spacehostage, entombed in their own rotting leaves, while ivy chews at cracks in the Théâtre walls and furious briars grapple the legs of statues. The grass underfoot is bristly and frost-ruined, blades scraping against one another as a cold wind rushes by. The whole is blotted upon a small hill that slips into the lacquer-smooth waters of Lac des Cygnes.

“It’s lovely,” Marie says softly, and she must be lying, becauselovelyis the last word anyone would use to describe the miserable carcass that sprawls before us. Even the lake, in the night, is a slippery black thing smeared over the landscape like an old bloodstain. Fog writhes over its waters, veiling the distant bank and the Château Front-du-Lac beyond.

But I did not bring Marie here to marvel at its beauty. I brought her here because the gardens are a lonely place, isolating—the perfect hatching ground for an illicit plot.

As if on cue, the candelabra in my hand snuffs out. The doors behind us slam shut as though by an unseen hand, and the wind picks up, tearing at Marie’s cloak. She makes a startled sound and turns to me, brushing stray curls out of her eyes. She smiles, barely concealing a nervous unease.

“You know,” she says, “I’m not usually one to believe in ghosts, but—” She cuts herself off abruptly. Her eyes widen, fixing on something over my shoulder. “There’s someone else here,” she whispers, just as footsteps rustle upon the grass.

I allow a devilish grin to slide over my features. I know who is approaching behind us—I know him from those featherlight skulking footsteps, the magic-scent clinging to his clothes, and from the sheertheatricsthat heralded his appearance.

Regnault never can resist a dramatic entrance.

“My, my, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny, you are even more beautiful than the legends say,” my father murmurs. His voice is quiet, but itwashes over the gardens with liquid menace. “In fact, I believe you are…perfect.”

He rests his hand briefly on my shoulder before lifting it and pointing at Marie. Golden rings gleam on his fingers, dozens of bracelets jingling from his wrists. Each one is made of goddess-gold, bearing a scrap of magic left over from a faded spell. Each one was stolen by me.

Accumulating this much power has taken me over a decade. A decade of missions, of carefully planned thefts. Here is a fat ring I squirreled away from a man too drunk to notice. Here is the pendant of a noblewoman I bumped into on the city streets. Here is a simple chain I won at a gambling table. Here it all is, a regalia of stolen magic. And my father wears it all proudly.

Marie stares at Regnault, her composure faltering before she schools her features into cautious politeness. “And—and who are you, monsieur?”

A devious thrill sings through my veins, and I can’t help but answer first. “Mademoiselle d’Auvigny, meet my father, Regnault.”

The scent of magic is suddenly overwhelming.

Marie gags when it hits her, her brow furrowing in confusion as she attempts to find the source of the smell. She is too far away to see it, but I can—a liquid like molten gold, seeping out of every piece of jewelry Regnault wears. It leaks down his arms, his wrists, gathering slick upon his nailbeds before dripping from his fingers.

Only then, when the moonlight strikes Regnault’s hands and the glistening liquid upon them, does Marie truly realize what is happening.

“Sorcier,”she gasps, her eyes widening in horror. She stumbles a step back, but it’s too late—Regnault traces a series of lines in quick succession, leaving spider silk–like threads of gold hovering in the air before him, forming a web.

The web shoots forward and wraps itself around Marie. Each thread flares with golden light, expanding quickly, sealing Marie’s lips before she can scream. It eats away at her cheeks, her collarbones, spreading, spreading. She thrashes once, turning toward me, her agonized gaze filled with deep, drowning betrayal.

Then Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny’s eyes roll back, and she is gone, her body dissolved into globules of faintly shimmering magic. Regnault extends his hands, and the globules drip into his palms one by one, until he is cupping a pool of molten gold, as sticky as honey and oozing between his fingers.

He separates his hands, each holding a glistening puddle of magic. One he raises to the owl-face pendant at his neck—the other he extends before him.

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