Page 7 of A Treachery of Swans

Yet she is a lie.

Lying has always been as simple as breathing to me. It’s how I first met Regnault, after all—as a snot-nosed five-year-old orphan huddled in the cold and begging for help, while my brother attemptedto pick a pocket. Damien was a bad thief, but I was a good liar. It kept our bellies full, and it caught Regnault’s interest that day. “Good liars make good actors,” he’d said to me as he rubbed off the mud I had smeared on my wrists to hide my shimmering veins. “And I happen to run a theater house. So why don’t you come and work for me? You could be so much more than this.”

And he kept his word—Ididbecome more. I became villains and heroes, princes and princesses. I learned to dance and sing and stage fight, to draw attention and avoid it, to feign emotions and toy with them. And after every play I would wander the galleries and the grand entryway, where a second theater took place—the social theater of the noblesse. I would tuck myself into a shadowed alcove or mingle as one of the performers, observing their mannerisms and habits. I learned how they twisted words into subtle betrayals, built scandal from rumors, and pried gossip out of one another like digging snail bodies from their shells. Later I would practice curtsies in the dressing-room mirrors, rehearse different accents until they came to me with perfect ease.

So this is nothing new. Donning a mask, stepping away from my own dull skin and into a flamboyant costume. It’s the easy part—it’s where I thrive. The only challenge now is keeping back the smug smile that begs to slip onto my lips. Because all these vacuous nobles, with their frilly shirts and empty eyes, have no idea I intend to be their ruin.

“Mademoiselle d’Auvigny!” A shrill voice cuts across the hall. I don’t have to turn to know it belongs to one of the pink-cheeked, swaying girls nursing wineglasses in the middle of the entrance hall, squinting under the light of the crystal-hung chandelier.

I give her a profoundly disinterested smile. I don’t have to fake this one.

“Hey! We’re talking to you!” The girl growls in frustration,unbridled in her drunken state. The odd pale brown mass of her hair makes me think of a disfigured turnip.

“Do you think she can hear me?” Turnip Hair asks her companions.

“Maybe she’s too daft to understand,” sneers the one on her left, who has what seems to be a decapitated peacock jutting out of her hat. She starts toward me, nearly sloshing wine across her violently green bodice. “Hey, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny, where did you go? We were just discussing yourinterestingchoice of gowns.”

I pause mid-step, a vindictive spark lighting inside me. I may resent Marie, but faced with these vapid socialites, I suddenly want to defend her. Still, if there’s anything I know about Marie, it’s that she’s not easily driven to anger, so I force myself—with torturous effort—to remain calm. “I was exploring,” I say mildly, and my words come out in Marie’s warm coastal lilt. It’s the first time I’ve spoken in this disguise, and the new, deeper tone of my voice is unsettling.

“Exploringggg,”says Green Dress, rolling her eyes. “Bet you got lost, silly. Oh, Charlotte, do you think that’s the reason her mother locked her up in that tower?” She leans in closer to me, a fat emerald swinging from her neck. I resist the urge to snatch it as she drawls, “Do you get lost a lot? Is that why?”

Turnip Hair smacks her friend, nearly spilling her drink. “Quiet. That’s all just a rumor.”

A rumor, but it piques my curiosity, and I file the information away for later. Green Dress, however, gives an affected sniffle. “Oh, youpoorcreature,” she says with the glee of a wealthy lord throwing breadcrumbs to a beggar. “No wonder you’ve been away from court for so long.”

“My mother says that’s because of some scandal,” Turnip Hair corrects her. “Something about a necklace.”

Just like that, I can feel the weight of diamonds heavy aroundmy throat, the brush of Marie’s fingers as she closes the clasp. A delighted laugh.They suit you.

No.I shove the memory back furiously. I will not feel remorse.

Turnip Hair is still staring at me, bug-eyed. “Do you think the Dauphin still remembers you? You had quite the story once upon a time. The Lonely Prince and the Swan Princess. It was cute, I’ll give you that.”

“Ah,” I say, privately fantasizing about setting her vegetable-adjacent updo on fire. “Thank you.”

She gives a nasal laugh. “You’re shy, aren’t you? I like that. You know what—when the Dauphin chooses me, I’ll make you my maid.”

Theaudacity.My growing anger turns from a simmer into a boil, and some of it must show on my face, because Turnip Hair gives me a sympathetic look.

“Oh dear. You must be wondering what I mean. Where are my manners? I’m Princess Charlotte Louise, second daughter of the King of Lore. But you couldn’t tell, could you? I’m told my Aurélian is flawless.” To her friend, she adds, “I’ve been practicing for darling Aimé.”

As they share a giggling exchange, I bite the inside of my cheek. My confidence is suddenly shaken—I did not expect a princess of Lore to be here. Our northwestern neighbor, Lore was once at war with Auréal and is notoriously disdainful of any people but its own. Turnip Hair’s presence must be an attempt from Lore to bridge that divide—or, more likely, to curl their claws into yet another kingdom. That alliance will likely be a tempting proposition to the Dauphin—perhaps more tempting than finally stabilizing the restless Auvigny, which with its unique dialect and enduring wealth has never been quite at home under Auréal’s broad wing.

I force my lips back into a gracious smile. This complicatesmy plans, but it does not change them. The Dauphin is famously rebellious—I will simply have to use that to solidify myself as the perfect candidate. The game isn’t over yet.

In fact, it’s just beginning.

“Well, it wasdelightfulmeeting you both,” I say to the noblewomen, curtsying cordially and giving them a cheery smile, hoping that they can see the barely veiled threat behind my eyes. “But I do have to go. It’s been such a long night.”

With that, I march for the grand double doors, determination bubbling in my chest.

The city-facing side of the Théâtre du Roi is fronted by a flagstone courtyard, guarded by wrought-iron gates that will be locked once the theater empties for the night. There, several carriages and their bleary-eyed coachmen still stand, waiting to collect any straggling noblesse. Behind them, the lights of Verroux cluster together like frightened fireflies.

I get into the foremost coach, lifting Marie’s frothy skirts gracefully, ignoring the night’s chill. The coach’s thick-limbed stallions stomp restlessly as I sit down.

“To the Château?” the coachman asks.

I give him a curt nod.

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