Page 50 of A Treachery of Swans

He looked up at me, his soft brown eyes—so much like our mother’s—filled with earnest, rippling sorrow. I realized with a pang that I had sounded exactly like Regnault.

“Damien…” I said shakily.

“Give back the necklace,” Damien said. “Prove me wrong.”

It was something about the way he looked when he said it. The upright posture, the patronizing tilt of his chin. As though he were chastising me, as though I were a small child he was punishing for a temper tantrum.

“Why can’t you takemy sidefor once?” I shoved the necklace in my pocket, jabbed a finger at his chest. “All this talk about leaving me, but you’ve already left me, haven’t you? You’ve chosen that idiot prince over me. I guess it makes sense. You don’t have magic—you’ll never really understand.” My anguish was a tidal wave, giving my fury momentum. “I think you’re right. I think you should go.”

Damien looked stricken. “What?”

“I said you shouldgo!” I couldn’t look in his eyes, because I knew I’d see betrayed hurt pooling within them. He never was good at hiding his emotions. “Go back to the Château, to your precious little Aimé, so you can protect him instead. I’m sure he’s justperfect—not at all vindictive and cruel like me.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath. The sound reverberated through the air like the crack of a whip. His hand, I noticed, was clamped around his opposite wrist, as though feeling the red blood pumping beneath his skin, separating us as surely as a wall.

I couldn’t stop myself anymore. I hurt, I hurt all over—my chest ached, my heart felt as though a fist had closed around it. Damien was going to leave me, just as our birth father had. Just like our mother had. And in that infinitesimal moment, I wanted to hurt him just as he was hurting me.

And so I spat,“Traitor.”

Later, Regnault found me sobbing in the dressing room, my face buried in a pair of feathered black wings I had been using as a pillow. I told him everything, and when I was done, he drew me into his arms. “Oh, Odile, do you see now?” His voice was achinglytender. “I am the only one who will never leave you.”

By the next day, the guilt had set in. It battered at my walls, no matter how much I tried to harden myself against it, no matter how often I reminded myself that Regnault wouldn’t care, so neither should I. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the wordsvindictive, cruel.I pictured Marie’s luminous silver eyes filling with tears as she was ridiculed by the court. The diamond necklace weighed heavy in my pocket.

Unable to look at the thing any longer, I went back to the Château Front-du-Lac. I donned my servant’s reds for the last time. And when I was sent up to the guest wing to clean, I slipped the diamond necklace from my pocket and left it under Marie d’Odette’s pillow.

Now I take the small yellow flower from my pocket. I hold it between my fingers, tight enough that its petals creak beneath my touch. Any more pressure, and I would crush it. I wish I could hold my guilt the same way, squeeze it in until it capitulates and crumbles. So what if I hurt Marie? She’s only a means to an end. It matters not how much I crave her touch, how cleverly she tempts me with her sweet, generous trust. How much I regret my role in her ruination.

I can long for her and still hate her.

After all, does a moth not hate a flame when it learns that the very thing that attracts it is the thing that will see it burn?

“At least all my suffering wasn’t for nothing,” I murmur, pressing the yellow flower between the pages of Bartrand de Roux’s journal and closing the book carefully. Tomorrow I will decide what to do with it, and I will think of Marie no longer.

I sleep until it is nearly noon, until the slam of rain on my window and the knock of a maid forces me, groaning, back to my feet. The stiffness of bandages on my arm draws me up short. The previousnight comes rushing back to me—the thorn, the well,Marie.

“A moment!” I call to the maid.

I peel the bandages off and toss them angrily into the room’s chest, ignoring the way my stomach lurches at the memory of torn cloth and a burning touch. I’m relieved to see the wound beneath has closed itself smoothly. I cover it with face powder and dab more onto my wrists, then wrap the wound in lace and ribbon, hoping it will look like a quirky choice of accessory.

Only then do I let the maid in. Once I am dressed, I pull both journal and yellow flower from beneath my mattress and slip them into the pockets tied beneath my skirts. I think of showing Aimé the yellow flower, telling him my concerns. Then I pause. What if I’m wrong? What if the Step-Queen is truly helping Aimé, as he claims, and all I do is cast suspicion on myself for following her around the Château grounds?

I consider my options as I head down the stairs, still unsure whether I should angle toward the library or the Dauphin’s chambers.

Before I can make a decision, I notice a familiar silhouette in the entrance hall and freeze in my tracks.

Regnault stands in the middle of the chamber, his black cloak brushing the marble, auburn hair slicked back and raven-feather mask shining in the daylight. He is speaking with the Regent, and given that a servant is hurrying away with a small trunk of belongings, I assume he has just arrived.

For no reason I can explain, my heart begins to pound uneasily. I have not seen my father since before I tried to unravel his spell on Marie. What if he feels that something is amiss? What if he’s displeased by the way I have handled our plans? Worse, what if he realizes I have been…fraternizingwith not only the Dauphin but Mademoiselle d’Auvigny, who for all intents and purposes should still be spending all her time as a bird?

The men are deep in conversation—I consider ducking into the shadows and skirting around them, or doubling back and going a different way. But I don’t get the chance to move before my father’s eyes land on me.

It’s like being pinned by an arrow. His gaze glitters, sly and unyielding. My heart begins to pound harder, my knees feeling strangely weak. The wound on my arm throbs urgently. I try to calm myself. I wanted this. I orchestrated this so we could work together. Regnault is the only person who truly understands me, after all.

So why do I feel afraid?

My father opens his arms. “This must be the Dauphine-to-be!” his voice booms, animated and charismatic. There is not a trace of familiarity in his actions. He greets me with a bow and a flourish, in character as the peculiar theater master. “You have been the talk of the court, mademoiselle.”

The Regent notices me, and his lip curls. “Yes,” he says, hardly trying to hide his disdain. “This is she. She is, ah…eccentric.”

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