Page 60 of A Treachery of Swans

“What if Anne leaves before then?” Marie asks.

“She shouldn’t. She’s the Dauphin’s stepmother, after all—she’s expected to be present and entertain guests. But if she does decide to leave, you must stop her. Ask her about her earrings. Spill wine on her dress. Challenge her to a duel. Anything, just keep her in place.”

Marie shoots me a sceptical look. “Challenge her to a duel?”

“Be creative!” I say cheerily, tucking the ribbons away and stepping back. “Oh, and try to avoid my father. I doubt he will be present at the table—he’ll likely be busy coordinating the staff. But if heisthere, and he asks you what you’re doing, tell him the plan has changed. Tell him you have everything under control, and that you will explain tomorrow.”

Marie nods, understanding. “He’ll think I’m you.”

“Yes. And everyone else will think you’re you.”

“Of course.” She takes a steadying breath, her breasts swelling against the firm constraints of the bodice. One of the blue ribbon closures along the front has come undone, and I resist the urge to reach for it, to get close to her one last time. Marie ties it herself, then squares her shoulders.

“Very well,” she says, heading for the door. She reaches for the handle, then pauses, looking back at me. “What happens after tonight, Odile? What happens to… to this?” She gestures between us.

This.Memories of the previous night, of the soft brush of herhair against my cheek. Mothers, how did I let myself become so distracted? “IfI can find evidence of the Step-Queen’s plot,” I say matter-of-factly, “we tell the Dauphin the truth.”

Marie raises her eyebrows. “All of it?”

I nod, reluctant, but for once in my life, honest. “All of it. Now go.” I shove her shoulder so that I don’t have to witness the proud, pleased edge to her smile. “Go pretend to be me pretending to be you, my silver-eyed muse.”

“You’re absurd,” she tells me.

“I’m an actress, mademoiselle,” I reply, bowing dramatically. “It’s a mandatory affliction.”

Her only response is a laugh, birdsong soft as she slips out the door.

I wait until I can no longer hear voices or footsteps echoing down the halls before I slip from the room. I put the owl-face pendant back on as I walk—it will be easier to explain myself if I’m caught, as long as someone hasn’t just witnessed the real Marie d’Odette in the dining room. With the attention of the whole court on the dinner, the remainder of the palace has grown tight and sinister, as though I am walking not on marble but on thin, creaking ice. My stomach twists with anticipation.

I follow the path the Step-Queen took the previous day until I reach the obsidian door where she cornered me. I survey it carefully: there’s a keyhole in the very middle of tarnished bronze, and little other decoration to speak of.

I kneel in front of the keyhole, pulling out my trusty pins and slipping them inside. After some fiddling, it clicks open easily. The metal around it seems to shimmer, but I blink, and all looks normal.A trick of the light,I decide, and push open the door.

Magic-scent hits the back of my throat with such force that I barely manage to mute a cough against my knuckles. Beyond thedoors lies a threadbare room, smaller than I expected for a queen, with furniture scattered about it haphazardly, all of it archaic and worn and splashed with strange substances. The air seems strangely foggy, and the scent around me changes, taking on a sour, fermented edge.

On a distant bookshelf I notice rows upon rows of vials and bottles, all containing liquids of different colors. I approach them carefully, my breath quickening. One of the jars has been left on the edge, carefully screwed tight, set aside as though it has been recently opened.

Within the jar are the strange flowers from the forest, all crushed together, their soggy corpses piled against its walls. Around them, a watery liquid turns a sickly, eerie yellow.

Nearby is a writing desk, set under a narrow window with the crimson curtains drawn tight. Upon it lie stacks of papers—notes, I realize—and I gather them up with jittery excitement. There are dates written on the tops of pages, and I find the more recent ones, scanning them quickly. Fragments of words catch my eye:subject is beginning to show signs of toxicosis… lower dosage ineffective, led to disastrous results… improved with reduced psychological symptoms… completely undetectable…

Poison. The Step-Queen has been experimenting with poison.

I set the papers aside and reach for a heavy book bound in red leather lying just beneath them. My heart skips when I read the title:Medicinal Applications of Sorcerous Elixirs.Something inside me vibrates urgently—this is it; I know this is it. I open the book and begin to flip through it. I go through pages of recipes, of pictures of herbs and flowers and mushrooms I have never seen.Witherwort. For prolonging the effects of a potion. Wolf-lily. To enhance a sorcier’s power. Bluefang, a universal antidote.And then…

There it is. The yellow flower from the forest, though theillustration clearly comes from a time before Bartrand de Roux’s betrayal, because it is not small and wrinkled but gloriously blooming, leaves outspread like a sun’s rays.

This is it. This is the proof I need.

But before I can read a single word, an unpleasant, reedy voice rings through the room: “I think that’s rather enough, don’t you?”

SCENE XXIIThe Secret Laboratory

The Step-Queen struts toward me, indigo skirts swishing around her ankles. I shove the book behind myself, as though it isn’t obvious what I’ve been doing, as though I haven’t made a mess of her carefully arranged notes. A worried voice slips through my thoughts:How did she know I was here? Why didn’t Marie stop her?

“W-wait,” I stammer. “It’s not what you think.”

“I doubt that,” she says, coming closer. I have nowhere to run—my tailbone slams into the edge of the desk. “Now tell me, who is that impostor downstairs?”

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