Page 56 of A Treachery of Swans

“I haven’t heard you laugh like that since we were girls.”

I don’t know how to respond. I pick up a macaron and stuff it petulantly into my mouth.

I sit quietly for a moment, the sugary confection melting on my tongue. Then abruptly Marie says, “Did you find anything more about those strange flowers?”

I shake my head. “I tried, but it seems I found only more mysteries.” Quickly I recount to her the events of the past few days, from my father’s arrival to my confrontation with the Step-Queen. When I’m done, Marie taps her knuckle to her mouth contemplatively, then suddenly gets to her feet.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go to the city.”

“The city?” I echo.

“We could look for an apothecary’s shop. Where better to ask about mysterious herbs?”

“Will any be open at this hour?” Though I came to see Marie as soon as I could escape without notice, it’s still rather late—eight or nine, at least.

“Surely at least one must be.” Her eyes glitter eagerly, and I huff.

“You want to explore the city.”

“Perhaps,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

I stare, unable to restrain a fond smile of my own at seeing her old adventurous authority shine through her usual veil of propriety. I should refuse. Verroux is dangerous—Verroux at night doubly so. But she is right. Perhaps the city will hold answers the Château does not.

“Very well, then,” I say. “But we won’t go too far past the upper quarters, and we avoid trouble at all costs.”

Marie’s lips curl up. “Between the two of us, that’s rather a tall order, wouldn’t you say?”

I have little love for Verroux. It’s a spider’s web of a city, unraveling in thin, slick threads from the cathedral at its heart, clinging to the Théâtre on one side and the fat, snaking Verroux river on the other. Upper Verroux is for the wealthy, for lesser nobles and merchants and fanciful shops, the buildings neat and clean and fronted by arches and columns. Marie and I weave through them cautiously, seeking any promising establishments.

The upper sector appears to have only one apothecary. It is, to my dismay, closed, forcing us to leave the secure embrace of orderly streets to continue our search. As the city deepens, its façade of finesse peels away like an apple skin, revealing a moldering brown core. Filth lines the flagstone roads; livestock brays in muddy pens; beggars slump in alleys. We stick to the main street—the evening is cold, but the streets are lively, music erupting from nearby taverns and drunk men swaying under eaves.

Eventually the main street spits us out into a town square, meant for markets and gatherings. In the center is a neglected fountain depicting the Good Mothers, their hands outspread. Once, I imagine, water would have burst from their palms. Now they are still, a fine layer of frost spread over the basin’s green water. A fiddler plays nearby, and a young urchin entertains a small crowd with a gambling game.

Marie draws her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She starts forward eagerly, ravenously taking in the chaos of the square.

“Wait.” I tug her back, feeling strangely protective. The wonder in her eyes is that of someone unaware of the world’s darkness—and though this area of Verroux is safe enough, I’ve learned that safeenoughis the siren song of danger. “We have to be careful,” I whisper. “Two young women out unescorted is certain to draw attention.”

Sure enough, one of the gamblers turns to stare at us, beady eyes glistening. I try to pull Marie even closer, but her attention has already caught on a small shop across the square, with candlelight still flickering inside and jars of what looks like herbs in the windows.

“That looks promising,” she says. “Come on. It might still be open.” To my shock, she seizes my hand in her own, her elegant fingers wrapping around my calloused ones. It’s like being struck by lightning. I nearly stumble when she tugs me along, my heart pounding ridiculously.

We don’t get far before we both splash into a large puddle, which I’ve failed to notice in the dim lamplight. Marie gasps at the cold kiss of water, and I can’t help my chuckle.

“Scared of a little mud, princess?”

She kicks some of the water at me in response, and I barely manage to jump out of the way. She giggles. “It appears you are too.”

“Why, you—” But before I can think of adequate revenge, a roar goes up from the group of gamblers in the corner of the square. We both turn to see one of the men rear back, gripping the skinny wrist of the little urchin.

“You cheater! Where are you putting it?”

“I’m not putting it anywhere!” The urchin tries to tug his hand free, to no avail. “I swear, look under the cups! It’s there!”

One of the other men shoves him aside, the scar over his eyegiving him a vicious appearance as he storms over to the little overturned crate with the three cups stacked on top. The boy had been shuffling them around. The burly man turns over the first cup—nothing. The second—also nothing. The third reveals a golden coin. Another roar goes up.

“It wasn’t there a moment ago,” says the man holding the boy. He’s built like an ox, with a thick red beard.

“It was, monsieur!” the boy cries. “I haven’t been cheating, I swear!”

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