Page 71 of A Treachery of Swans

“If I must marry, I am glad it is you,” Marie agrees. Am I wrong, or do I hear a note of regret in her voice?

I drift forward hesitantly with my tray. All I need to do is say their names. All I need to do is sayI’m sorry,sayI’m not the person my brother thinks I am. I’m no longer the girl who stole the diamond necklace.

But then Aimé sighs, dragging one of the tasseled pillows onto his lap. “I really thought I could trust her, Marie,” he says, fidgeting with the pillow’s tassels. “I was so desperate for companionship, for someone to tell me I wasn’t the worthless idiot the whole court believed me to be. If I’d known what she was… I would never have trusted a word out of her mouth.”

Marie smooths her palms over her knees, the satin rustling. Her voice is soft. “She did hold affection for you, Aimé.”

Aimé scoffs, snatching both teapot and cup off the tray before I even manage to set it down. “Thank you,” he says, hardly sparing me a glance before pouring himself a cup, setting down the teapot, and turning back to Marie. “A snake holds some affection for its prey, I believe, as it sinks its fangs in slowly and waits for the venom to spread.” He stares down at the steaming cup. “That doesn’t make it any less vile.”

The words are a well-aimed arrow, piercing through bone and muscle to strike at my very core. My grip tightens around the platter as I back away, and I can’t help but glance desperately at Marie.

Say something,I beg in my thoughts.Tell him he’s wrong, tell him it’s not true. Give me a reason, any reason, to stay.

But Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny says nothing, and I do not stop walking.

I keep my eyes on the floor as I rush down the Château’s hallways, tapestries and paintings flashing by. Aimé’s words turn over mercilessly in my thoughts, seeming louder and more cruel the more I dwell on them.That doesn’t make it any less vile.

Something cracks inside me. A small fissure, but growing,expanding with every step I take. Damien betrayed me to the Regent. Aimé condemned me as soon as he discovered my true identity. And Marie…

Well… I did that myself. I cannot blame her for realizing my true nature, not when that is exactly what I intended. But if what my father says is true, if she truly has been telling the noblesse I corrupted her… I cannot stop the knowledge from aching. Especially after witnessing the cold look in her eyes when Aimé called me a snake. I’ve seen that look before—she wore it five years ago when she took the diamonds from my neck.

Very well, then,I think.So be it.I am back where I started—alone, with a single mission: Steal the Couronne du Roi for my father.

I pause mid-step, struck by a sudden idea. Marie is currently with Aimé. Which means her chambers are empty. And unless someone has performed intense renovations in the last two days, Bartrand de Roux’s journal should still be where I hid it. I change course and head to the Dauphine’s apartments.

As expected, the rooms are entirely empty. When I walk inside, the window is cracked open, heaving gasps of chilly air. The curtains and bed canopy sway in the breeze. I search beneath the mattress and come away victorious, the precious journal and the flower clutched in my hands. I shove them in my pocket and sneak out once again into the hall.

By the time I manage to find my father, the palace is writhing with activity, noblesse crowding together in the hallways, slowly filing down to the chapel where the wedding is to take place. I find my father in the grand ballroom, directing sweat-soaked servants in arranging crystalline bowls and glassware and shouting for last-minute changes. I blend in with the other servants—he doesn’t notice me until his eyes snag against mine, black catching gold.

“Is it done?” he asks simply as I approach, nodding approval to a servant showing him a bottle of wine.

“Yes,” I reply, keeping my voice hushed. “Though I am not certain if he drank it. His betrothed was present—I had to leave promptly.”

His brows furrow with displeasure. “Very well. I will find out later and adjust the plan as necessary. Your tasks are complete until the ceremony—find a way to be in the chapel and wait for my signal.”

I incline my head and turn to leave, then pause. “What will happen if Marie drinks it?” I ask worriedly.

“Nothing,” Regnault replies. “Now go.”

I give him a small smile before bowing and leaving the room. The hallways are swamped with guests, the air thick with perfume and anticipation. Normally this sort of chaos would inject energy into me. Instead, I only feel twitchy.

I have to trust that Regnault told me the truth about the blue petals—that whatever the herb is, it will not harm Aimé. But if it isn’t harmful, then whatisits purpose?

I reach the chapel and slip inside, blinking at the blinding whiteness of its innards. The room is still mostly empty—a few guests murmur in the shadows of a column, and before the altar, a lone maid is busy arranging flowers of glittering diamond and ruby and gilt iron. Her movements are listless, her eyes bruised and weary. I wonder when she last slept.

I move silently along the far wall until I reach the stairwell to the tribune. Even the sight of it sends my heart rattling—the last time I was here, I was running from a monster. If I look closely, I can still make out the faint grooves where its claws struck the marble. The stained-glass window I shattered seems to have been hastily replaced with clear panes.

Forcing my eyes away, I then make my way up the stairs to adiscreet spot behind a column, one unlikely to be seen from the nave, though I can easily think of an excuse if I am noticed.

Slowly guests begin to be ushered in—Aurélians and foreigners alike, a mass of gold and burgundy and obsidian bunching together in the pews. Their whispers swell and clash like waves against a shore, filling the cavernous space. Musicians file in and begin tuning their instruments. Finally three priestesses enter from behind the altar, the one in the center wearing a glittering chasuble of pure white, the two flanking her dressed in red and carrying incense. Smoke fills the chapel, sickeningly sweet.

Music begins to play. The murmuring crescendos, then drops entirely to a hush as Aimé enters the room. His doublet today is white damask, edged with golden cord. He stands on the first step of the altar, his face pale but determined, his hands clasped behind his back. Something about the tightness of his knuckles and angle of his fingers makes me think he’s trying to keep them from shaking. The music changes to the traditional wedding melody, and immediately all the guests rise to their feet.

The doors open once more, a grandiose flourish like the bow of a performer. In the same moment the sun finds the chapel window, pushes through to alight on the figure walking through the doorway.

Marie d’Odette looks like a lonely goddess, incandescent and melancholy, as though she has been seized from the heavens and brought to the mortal earth against her will. She wears a gown of shimmering satin, with delicate silver embroidery forming the shape of overlapping feathers along her bodice. Pearls glint in her hair and at her neck, and a white mantle of feathers rests on her shoulders. There are more feathers swooping around her head, arching over her ears in a champion’s wreath.

My chest lurches in furious longing. At the altar, Aimé’s eyes light in wonder. His throat bobs as he takes in his betrothed, and allI can think is,That should be me.Then the Dauphin’s gaze—and the gaze of everyone in the room—drifts to the object in Marie’s hands.

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