Page 59 of A Treachery of Swans

“Hmm” is all I can say to that. Because she’s right—it does. I let my head fall onto her shoulder, loose coils of her hair tickling my cheek. She smells warm yet wild, like honey and spices and young summer midnights.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “For what I said earlier. It was unfair of me.”

She hums in acknowledgment. “I understand it now. I understand more than you know. Our lives have not been similar, but I know what it’s like to feel alone.”

“I wasn’t really alone,” I say defensively. “I had Regnault.”

Marie makes another sound in her throat, not quite agreement.“And yet you have been fighting on your own for so long. You don’t have to anymore. Tell Aimé all you’ve told me. Let ushelpyou.”

It’s tempting. Oh, it’s tempting. But then the doubt begins needling into me, as it always does.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t trust an Augier, Marie, I can’t.”

“You trusted me.”

“A lapse of judgment,” I say woefully. “Besides, it’s too much of a risk. If I reveal myself to be a sorcier now, Aimé could thinkI’mthe one who killed his father and lock me up in Damien’s stead. I need to find the true killer first. The Step-Queen seems the most likely suspect, but now I’ve made her suspicious of me. She had guards tracking me all evening. Which”—I pull away at last, shifting farther back and ignoring the sharp stab of longing I feel at the loss of Marie’s touch—“brings me to the true reason I came to see you tonight.”

Marie arches an eyebrow. “Oh? It wasn’t because you simply missed me?”

“I would never admit to such a thing,” I say, feigning offense. Then I take a steadying breath, reality sinking its talons into me again. “Marie… look. I have a plan to find out the Step-Queen’s true intentions. But it could be dangerous. And I’m going to need your help.”

SCENE XXIThe Château

I wake late the next morning, groggy and sticky-eyed and taut with nerves. The events of last night are still stark in my mind, as is the knowledge that Damien is running out of time. But I cannot set my plan in motion until nightfall, and for it to work, there is one more person I must recruit: my father.

I wind through the Château halls in search of him. More guests seem to have arrived today, clad in the latest lacy fashions, dripping with jewels and self-importance. Before them, the Château has put on its own luxurious mask: every candle lit and banister polished, plush carpets rolled out over cold marble, and a sudden gush of crimson-clad servants flooding the halls to attend to every guest. It’s all a veneer, a thin varnish. The guests seem to sense it—there is ever an edge of paranoia in their eyes, ever a pause in their step as they turn a corner, as though there is a monster waiting unseen on the other side. They eye the Château like vultures might a corpse—skittish and mistrustful, yet eager to pluck everylast morsel of gossip from between its rotting bones.

I find Regnault in a drawing room, speaking to several courtiers, gesturing grandly as he entertains them with some story or jest. The gathered noblemen stare at him, transfixed, and when he finishes the tale, they all burst into raucous laughter.

My father, I remark, seems to have seized control of the court’s ravenous chaos. Even as theater director, he was always careful to maintain the good regard of the noblesse. Now he has been awarded new authority, new importance, for the time of the wedding, and he is using that to ingratiate himself with them. He is able to endure their patronizing amusement in a way that I never could, presenting himself as an attraction, a jester. It’s a clever sleight of hand—the more they enjoy his presence, the more they seek him out, the more power he gains.

I curtsy as I walk up to him, all too aware that we are both playing parts and that I must maintain my guise of Marie. “A word, monsieur?”

Regnault dips his head and leads me to a quiet corner. There I tell him a lie: I need him to organize an event tonight, a distraction, so I can investigate a clue that might help us steal the Couronne sooner.

It’s a small lie—a half lie, really—but when Regnault nods and agrees, something inside me shrivels in shame. I have never before told so many lies to my father, hidden so many truths from him. I can only hope that in the end it is all worth it.

That evening after nightfall, the court and the guests and anyone of importance are called to attend an elaborate many-course dinner.

Minutes before twilight, I open my window to an ashen, windswept November sky, dark clouds reflecting the dwindling sunset like cinnabar flame. Against them a single figure appears: a whiteswan approaching from over the lake, graceful wings flapping with smooth, steady strokes. As she approaches, she halts midair, and for a moment she is motionless, the last ray of light against a gathering dark, every feather dyed by dusk. Then she folds her wings and dives through the window.

Before her feet can touch the ground, a burst of golden light swallows her body. Moments later, Marie d’Odette drops daintily to her feet, flexing her shoulders as if to fold invisible wings. Her eyes open slowly, gray as a storm-tossed sea.

“Good evening, sorciere,” she greets me softly. There’s an uncharacteristic, nervous edge to her voice.

I throw her a grin. “Evening, princess. Welcome home.”

She smiles wanly but doesn’t reply. Her gaze skips across the dark room as though she expects it to tighten around her like a snare. I’ve never seen her so skittish, so reluctant, but I don’t remark on it. I don’t have Marie’s talent for comforting words or, as she put it last night,affection.

“Are you ready?” I ask instead, gesturing to the pile of silver satin lain out on the bed.

She nods, a strained motion.

Marie carefully removes her peasant’s clothing until she’s in nothing but a lacy chemise, a cold tongue of wind slipping through the window to lap at the hem. I help her into the gown. It should be simple, familiar—I did this many times when we were girls. Yet now I am too aware of it, ofher—the thin layers of silky fabric between us, the tantalizing slope of her collarbones over the low-cut neckline. The pale divot between them where I could press my lips.

I wonder what it would feel like to ruin her, to tangle my legs with hers and stain her pristine, pallid perfection with my darkness.

I clear my throat, ushering the thoughts away with haste. “Theplan is as I told you last night,” I say, to distract myself from the proximity of her skin as I tug on the ribbon lacing of her bodice. “All you have to do is keep Anne de Malezieu’s attention, and make sure she stays in the dining room for as long as possible. I will do my best to be swift, but no matter what I find, I will return here in two hours.”

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