Page 72 of A Treachery of Swans

The Couronne du Roi.

My heart jumps at the sight of the bejeweled golden circlet. The light seems to shy away from it, leaving the piece of jewelry in shadow, a smear of rusty ink against its lambent surroundings. I clench my hands, swallowing back eager hunger. It’s here. The only object powerful enough to summon back Morgane. So close, and yet so far from me.

Marie walks down the aisle, dainty as a doe, her steps so light that they can barely be heard despite the trapped, breathless silence. Sunlit smoke curls around her in a hazy shroud. As she crosses the great expanse toward the waiting prince, I cast my eyes about for my father. I spot him near the side of the chapel, standing among the lower-ranked courtiers. His lips are curled upward in a not-quite-smile, the look of a wolf scenting prey.

I lean back, biting my lip. What is he planning?

Ahead of me, Marie finally reaches the Dauphin. The musicians stop playing, but one of them seemingly misses the cue, because he plays a millisecond longer than the rest, eliciting a few amused chuckles from the crowd. Aimé turns red—his hands are definitely shaking as he kisses Marie’s cheek. Marie smiles kindly and raises the Couronne to place it on his head. Queen crowning king. An ancient tradition.

Aimé licks his lips nervously and takes Marie’s hands. I notice her running her thumbs over his knuckles, a soothing gesture. My stomach knots in what I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.

The priestess begins to speak, and my attention immediately falters as I realize she has quite the speech to go through. Restless, I let my hands drift to my pocket, and I find myself fidgeting with the dried petals of the yellow flower, crushing them between my thumband forefinger. I remember the pages of the Step-Queen’s notes and hope that Aimé has at least stopped taking her potions.

I pull my hand from my pocket; a few crumpled petals are dusted on my fingertips. I shake them off and notice a faint scent in the air, barely there. It smells familiar, muskily sweet, but it takes me a moment to place it.

Then I realize: it’s nearly the same as that of the substance that flaked off the Step-Queen’s dagger. The one that had destroyed the owl-face pendant’s spell.

Ahead, the officiant priestess is droning out vows, and Marie and Aimé are echoing them in subdued voices. Wrongness creeps up on me. Something squirms in my memories, begging for attention. The Step-Queen’s notes in her journal:lower dosage ineffective, led to disastrous results.Aimé’s scream. The monster appearing right after, with no Aimé in sight. The wordsI need it for my nerves.

Whatever substance the dagger had been coated in, it had been made from the same yellow flower as Aimé’s potions. If a small dose was capable of destroying a spell as intricate as Regnault’s, what could a higher dose do, taken daily? Could it suppress someone’s magic altogether?

I realize now why the blue petals had seemed so familiar. Because I’d seen them before, when I was flipping throughMedicinal Applications of Sorcerous Elixirs. Bluefang,the flower had been called.A universal antidote.

Horror suddenly clogs my throat. I know what my father’s plan is. I know what the Step-Queen’s potions were for—they were not meant to harm the Dauphin after all.

They were meant to suppress something inside him.

I straighten in alarm. At the altar, Marie and Aimé are done repeating their vows, and the officiant has procured a long dagger from a pillow of velvet. As per tradition, she will cut the palms ofboth the betrothed, and they will press the weeping wounds together to signify an unbreakable bond—eternal dedication. She snatches Marie’s palm roughly and drags the dagger across it. Marie winces as crimson blood wells from the wound, while the priestess moves on to Aimé’s hand.

I start forward, adrenaline screaming through my veins, but in the same moment I feel the prickle of heated eyes on my face.

I turn to see my father watching me. He shakes his head minutely—a warning.Get in the way and there will be no coming back from this.

Conflict judders through me, and I hesitate for a heartbeat. Too long. Too late. The priestess runs the dagger meticulously over Aimé’s palm.

There is a second of silence while blood gathers at the edge of the wound.

Then the first droplet slips out onto Aimé’s flesh, glittering in the brightness of the chapel.

A disbelieving murmur crawls through the crowd. Several people crane their necks as if they can’t quite tell what they’re seeing. An old woman gasps, clutching her shawl.

“By the Mothers,” she says, her voice carrying over the din. “His blood is gold.”

SCENE XXVIIChapel of the Château

Aimé snatches his hand away, but it’s too late. Metallic blood leaks down his wrist, smears across the lace of his cuffs.

“Sorcier!” someone cries.

Chaos erupts—the noblesse start to their feet, shouting and pointing. Marie takes a wobbling step back. Someone calls for guards—whether to protect Aimé or capture him, I can’t tell. One of the priestesses tries to pull Marie away, but she resists. In an instant, I’m barreling back down to the main floor of the chapel, but before I can get near the altar, a cold hand grabs my forearm.

I whirl on my assailant, only to come face-to-face with Regnault. He shakes his head at me, seeming to almost gorge himself on the chaos, a smug smile stretching across his face. He’s waiting for something. As I look into the crowd, I see the Regent glance toward Regnault. The men lock eyes knowingly.

The Regent nods. Then he turns to the guards. “Get the Dauphin!”

That’s when the severity of the situation truly hits Aimé. His face whitens, his pupils wide and moving erratically as he searches the room in vain for an escape. He shrinks in on himself, curling over his bleeding hand. He looks helplessly toward Marie, but Marie is staring at him in openmouthed shock, clearly reeling. I can sympathize with that—this is the second time she has been betrayed in two days. It never hurts any less.

Aimé’s guards start toward him. My brother is at their head, desperately shoving through the crowd, clearly trying to get to his beloved Dauphin before anyone else. But even Damien looks conflicted. I can seedoubt.I know what he is wondering—the same thing everyone in the chapel most likely is.Did Aimé know? Has he been lying all this time?

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