Page 6 of A Treachery of Swans

When he touches the necklace, the magic detaches itself from his palms and slips into the pendant as if it were never there. The other hand he tips toward the earth, letting the glowing liquid pour onto the soil between his feet. Before it can hit the ground, it expands once more, another blossom of light, until there is a shape curled at my father’s feet.

I stifle a gasp. It’s a white swan, soft-feathered and moonlit. It rests in Regnault’s shadow like a pearl in the maw of an oyster, its body limp, its eyes squeezed shut. He nudges it with the toe of his boot, but the bird doesn’t stir. A mocking smile tightens his lips.

I stare, realization hitting me. “Is that…”

“Marie d’Odette,” Regnault confirms.

My heart gives a little shudder. “She’s not dead, is she?”

Regnault rubs his palms together, the shimmering remnants of magic flaking from his fingers. “This spell would not work if she were,” he replies. “Death is not our Good Mothers’ domain. Their magic cannot create or destroy, only transform.” He turns on hisheels. “Come, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny should wake soon enough. We do not want to be here when she does.”

I nod and fall in step behind my father, my pulse pounding with anticipation. I feel devious, eager, like a cat on the hunt. This small taste of success has left me salivating for more, for the next victory, for the next step closer to vengeance.

And if there is a tightness in my gut, a discomfort curled somewhere in the depths of me, I don’t allow myself to inspect it. Not even when it drives me to glance over my shoulder—back at the unconscious swan we have left lying at the lake’s edge, as pale as bone against the cold bleak earth.

SCENE IIIRegnault’s Office

I duck after my father into his office, the heavy door thudding into place behind us. It’s an odd room, squat and tomb-like, one side occupied by discarded theater props. Old puppets perch crookedly on the stone mantelpiece, staring at a wooden elephant mounted on wheels. A column of cracked plaster guards the shadowed corner, and on it hangs a wolf skin, its mouth drawn in a perpetual sneer.

On the other side of the room is an oak desk laid with unassuming papers: new scripts and finance ledgers and contracts. Nothing about it screams sorcery, yet the magic-scent is strong enough to make my sinuses burn.

Regnault strides behind the desk, tapping his sharp nails on it. “We are running short on time,” he says, his voice low. He unclasps the pendant from his neck and drops it into my outstretched palms. It hums, quietly powerful, against my skin. I know that if I focused hard enough, I could summon up the intricate spell-threads wrapped around it by Regnault, making its magic visible to the naked eye.

“When you put this on,” Regnault says, “you will look and sound like Marie d’Odette. None will be able to tell the difference as long as you do not bleed.”

I close my fist around the delicate chain, the words sending a grim lurch through me. A reminder of just how precarious my disguise will be, of the danger I carry in my own blood. Regnault reminds me of it before every mission.

Remember, Odile, they must never see you bleed.

I recall another discussion from long ago. “What of Damien?” I ask. “He will be guarding the Dauphin. He’s grown up around sorcery—he knows the signs of it almost as well as I.”

Regnault’s lip curls, as it always does when I mention my brother. “You must not involve him. He cannot be trusted.”

I hesitate. “But with his connections, would it not be useful to—”

“It is out of the question,” my father interrupts. “Damien made his choice. If you cannot avoid him, you must eliminate him. He cannot be allowed to jeopardize everything we’ve worked for. Yes?”

“Of course,” I say automatically, because my father is always right, because that is what Ishouldwant.

“Good,” Regnault says, and the gleam of fondness in his eyes is enough to quell the faint twinging of my stomach. “Now, the dress should have been delivered to Mademoiselle d’Auvigny’s quarters earlier today. You will be spectacular, I am certain. And remember, the pendant does not affect clothing. Whatever you are wearing when you put it on, you will be wearing when you take it off. Understood?”

I nod. Regnault straightens, looking down at me with an unreadable expression. He makes even the smallest action look regal,powerful, and I’m reminded that his ancestor is Bartrand de Roux himself. I find myself unwittingly mimicking his posture.

I can do this. Iwilldo this.

“Find the Couronne du Roi, ma fille,” says Regnault. “Find it and we will set everything to rights. The time of sorcery is coming once more.”

“And you will teach me magic,” I remind him, fastening the owl-face pendant around my neck, feeling it send a pulse of prickling magic along my skin.

Regnault chuckles. “I will teach you that and so much more. Now go, and may the Good Mothers guide you.”

It’s long past midnight, and the Théâtre du Roi is quiet.

It’s not an empty quiet, like that of an abandoned hall or a forgotten street. No, it’s tense, watchful—as taut as a tongue holding back a curse, coiled like a secret begging to be spilled. It’s the quiet of infidelity, of coins passing from nobleman to actress as he buckles his belt and she smooths down her skirts. It’s the quiet of gossip, of noble girls huddled together in a gilt corner, vicious giggles discolored by the reek of alcohol on their breaths. It’s the quiet of longing, of the greasy-haired servant scrubbing the parterre, cursing the supercilious nobles even as he fantasizes about stealing their places.

This is the quiet that is broken by the heeled footsteps of Mademoiselle Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny. She glides down the staircase like an apparition, the veined marble kissing her skirts, candlelight draped across her pearl jewelry. As always, she is the image of poise, a paragon of control—chin held high, collarbones bared, a liquid smoothness to every motion. Her silver eyes sweep across the room like a rising tide, carrying their usual reticent haughtiness.

She has not changed, of course, since she was last seen in the loges.

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