Page 52 of A Treachery of Swans

I try to catch Aimé’s eyes, trying to discern what thissomethingcould be, but he is already looking toward Regnault, giving me an opening to leave. I take it, picking up my skirts as I go.

I do not, in fact, have tea with the court ladies. Instead, I hide in the empty library, trying to calm myself after my encounter with my father. I scavenge for books and manuscripts detailing Aurélian flora, searching desperately for anything that might resemble the odd, wrinkled flower. I find no answers—but I do find myself staring at pictures of beautiful, colorful blooms that have not been seen in Auréal for two hundred years.

I trace my fingers over a dainty painting of a rose the color of ripe peaches, and for no reason I can explain, I imagine how lovely it would look tucked into Marie’s hair, pink against silver.

And if you would simply tell me the truth, the whole truth, about what you’re trying to do here, I could be your ally.

I groan and shut the book, rubbing my eyes. Marie, Marie, Marie. Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

Because you want her,whispers a treacherous little voice in my mind.

No,I tell it.I want to hate her.

Then I get to my feet.

I search until the brass clock on the far wall strikes three. Then I replace my books, abandon the dusty room, and ask a guard for directions to the Queen’s tower.

The Queen’s tower is one of the few places in the Château I did not go to as a servant—no one did, as it was unused, said to be haunted by the Queen’s ghost since her death. Though I don’t believe the stories, I approach the first stair cautiously, growing bolder only when I hear humming carrying faintly down. I recognize Aimé’s boyish lilt and the high-pitched notes of the musical piece he played last night.

Curious, I begin my climb. The Augier tarasque is painted in vivid colors on the tower walls, its long tail coiling downward, the wrinkled length of its neck extending overhead. At the very top of the turret is a room, the tarasque’s head snarling from the keystone. The door is cracked open, letting out a waterfall of pale light. Beyond, I glimpse a grand room, perfectly circular, white tarps settled over the furniture and a massive, canopied bed.

On the bed sits Aimé, a book open on his lap as he waits, staring out the window. This is one of the few rooms that looks out not over the lake, but across the brown, bare woodland that strangles the front of the Château. There, humps of distant mountains peer over a clot of bleak, leafless trees and a winding carriage path. A few dried leaves have become trapped on the window’s sill, and they rasp wetly against the panes.

“Good afternoon,” I greet him, keeping my voice hushed. Something about the room makes me think of a mausoleum, as though a word spoken too loud might indeed awaken a restless ghost.

The Dauphin starts. When his gaze snaps to mine, his eyes are haunted, murky instead of crystalline. He hastily wipes at tears on his cheeks, his expression growing sheepish. “Apologies,” he says. “I didn’t hear your approach.”

“I walk quietly,” I admit. “You look troubled. What is it?”

Aimé sighs. I realize, suddenly, just how weary he looks—how the bruises under his eyes seem only to have darkened, how hischeeks grow more gaunt by the day. I think of the yellow flower, of the potions, and wonder: Is it just exhaustion? Or is there something more to all this?

“Damien,” Aimé says finally, startling me further. “I—I mean, the guard. The one they arrested. He’s been transferred to the city prison.”

My chest suddenly feels caught in a vise. A surge of guilt fills me. I’ve been so caught up with Marie and Bartrand de Roux’s journal that I nearly forgot my original goal—absolving my brother. “What…” I swallow. “What does that mean?”

“They’re going to try him,” the Dauphin says, staring at the book in his lap. “I do not doubt he will be found guilty, because my uncle needs a scapegoat. And he will be executed before the wedding.”

“Before the—” My breath catches in my throat. By moving up the wedding, did I inadvertently condemn my brother? “Why? Why now? Why not wait until—”

“Because a wedding needs guests,” Aimé says quietly. “And most nobles are too frightened to return after my father’s death. They need to know they are safe. And what better way to do that than to show them the murderer was caught and hanged?”

Aimé wrings his hands, and I resist the urge to grab him by the lapels and shake him with all my might. “Can you not do anything?” I demand. “You’re the Mothers-damned Dauphin!”

“I tried!” he shouts, and the sound is so fierce that I back away, mollified. “I tried. But my uncle is right, Marie. The peopleareafraid. They need someone to blame. The only way I can save Damien is by finding the true killer before the wedding.”

“All right,” I say, trying to project assurance into my voice, though it rings false and grating in my ears. “With that, at least, I think I can help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I found something in the gardens. But you’re not going to like it.”

“There are few things I like these days, it seems,” Aimé says, forcing a laugh. It comes out strangled. “What is it, then?”

I take a breath. “The medicine Madame de Malezieu gives you. I don’t think… I don’t think you should drink it anymore.”

Aimé blinks. “What?”

“I think it might be poison.”

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