Page 53 of A Treachery of Swans

He laughs in confusion, an edge of panic to the sound. “Why would you say that?”

I steel myself, softening my voice as much as I can before delivering the realization that has been haunting me since Marie and I found the flower.

“Because I believe Anne de Malezieu is trying to kill you.”

SCENE XIXThe Château

The Queen’s Tower

“No. No, you’re wrong.” Aimé stares at me white-faced, his shoulders heaving as though he has run miles. “You’rewrong.”

Carefully, I walk over to the bed and sit down in front of him, opening my hands in supplication. “Think about it, Aimé. She has many connections at court yet goes mostly unnoticed. She had your father’s trust, has your trust—”

“My father was killed by a beast,” Aimé interrupts me desperately.

“A beast of impossible size. Most likely created by a sorcier.”

“My stepmother has red blood,” Aimé says adamantly. “I saw her prick her finger once on an embroidery needle. She’s no sorcier.”

“But she could have contacts with one,” I argue. “She could have let the sorcier know where the King would be, and the sorcier could have sent the beast after him.” The more I explain it, the morethe picture begins to come together. There’s something terribly satisfying about it, like the easyclickof puzzle pieces.

“But this doesn’t explain what my father was doing out on the grounds mere hours before dawn.”

“Perhaps Anne asked him to meet her there. Orchestrated some sort of meeting or ruse. And ensured Damien would arrive just in time to find the bodies.” I lean forward. “It makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Aimé’s jaw is set now. “Let’s… let’s say that you’re right. She did kill my father. Why not kill me the same way?”

“Because if another, similar death occurred while Damien was in prison, he would be absolved. So she’s relying on the potions to kill you slowly. What if the reason your nerves have gotten worse isn’t despite the medicine butbecauseof it?”

“These are all assumptions. Theories.” Aimé gets to his feet, slamming the book in his lap shut and beginning to pace. “I know you are trying to help, Marie, but I cannot believe this. This strange rivalry between you and my stepmother is skewing your perception of things. Anne would never hurt me. She—she doesn’t have a reason to.”

“She does,” I argue, feeling a sear of frustration at his dismissal. “If you were to die, who would inherit the throne?”

He pulls up short. I see the realization dawn on his face. “Pierre. But he’s just a little boy.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Easy to control.”

“Stop this.” He covers his face with one hand. “Anne isn’t like that.”

But I can’t stop. Not with my brother at stake. The timeline has been shortened, and I can feel desperation gnawing on my bones. “Do you know what’s in the medicine, Aimé?”

He shakes his head minutely.

“I do.” As he turns toward me, I pull the flower from my pocketand hold it out to him. “I found this near the border of the palace grounds. I heard a rumor that Anne frequents a certain spot there, so I went to look. Found a patch of these. I tried to identify them, but in all the Château’s botanical books, I could not find a single mention of anything similar.”

A flicker of doubt ghosts over Aimé’s face. Then he huffs sharply. “No. I can’t believe this, Marie—I’m sorry. So Stepmother uses strange flowers to make my medicine? That doesn’t make it any less effective. I’ve been taking it since I was a boy—it is the only thing that helps me.” He shakes his head, dislodging a few golden ringlets that fall around his face. “All this is merely an assumption. Without proof it is meaningless. And it won’t save Damien.”

Disappointment and urgency whirl through me in a storm. He’s right. I don’t have proof, and for all my excitement about my theory, it is really just that: a theory. I need evidence. I need to identify that flower. But how?

I try to put myself in the shoes of a poisoner. Where would I hide my secrets? Surely not in my bedroom, a place that would see a constant flow of servants. But nowhere too strange, either—nowhere that could raise eyebrows if I went there too often. The Step-Queen has a study, I remember: somewhere in the Château’s north wing. It is her private space for letter writing, and not even the King was allowed to enter. I never went there as a servant—there was only one maid permitted to clean the space, a shy girl who spoke little and kept her head down. I’d thought little of it at the time, but… it’s possible Anne de Malezieu was doing more in there than simply writing letters.

Now that I am no longer pressing him, Aimé stops his pacing. He puts down the massive tome on a fabric-swathed table, sending up a puff of dust. I realize it is some sort of ledger—or perhaps a journal, judging by the wear and tear of the spine.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s what I wanted to show you,” he says, staring at it in reproach. “Technically it’s a ledger of finance. My father kept it up here with all his other…memories.Except this one wasn’t my mother’s, but my grandfather’s. My father showed it to me once when I was a boy. As… a warning.”

I come closer. “A warning?”

---