Page 8 of A Treachery of Swans

A snap of the reins and the coach is turning sharply away from the city, leaving the Théâtre in the dust and angling toward the forest that surrounds the palace grounds. My chest tightens at the sight—with every stride, the horses pull me farther from home toward a palace that too often fills my nightmares.

You see, that’s the thing about the Théâtre du Roi: it’s nothing but a thin layer of icing slathered over a rotting cake. A commoner walks in, seeing gilt splendor and immaculate grandeur, to watch a play depicting the King as noble and honorable, comparing the Dauphin to the sun, and ending in victorious, patriotic, and horriblysappy fanfare. Once they leave, they believe that the Château across the great expanse of Lac des Cygnes is the same. That beyond the lake lies a resplendent palace ruled by a righteous man, a king worthy of praise and loyalty.

But I have been there, and I know that could not be further from the truth.

SCENE IVThe Château

Long Past Midnight

It takes no less than fifteen minutes at a brisk trot to make it through the woodland surrounding the lake. It’s a raggedy place of jutting, bony trunks and unforgiving earth, and it ends as abruptly as it begins, spitting us out onto a narrow, foggy path.

And there, old-bone white and impossibly tall, stands Château Front-du-Lac.

If the Théâtre is a gluttonous creature, the Château is a violent one, bleak and lifeless against the pit of night. Its towers are sharp as wolf teeth, the few lit windows slit like a snake’s pupils. There’s something vigilant about it, somethingprowling—as though it is grinning, lips pulled back, a predator anticipating a kill.

The coachman stops in the courtyard and helps me down from the carriage before leaving with unsettling urgency. Alone, I find myself breathing shallowly, as if a single sound from my lungs will make jaws snap closed around me. I scan my surroundings, takingin the cracking flagstones, the dead trees ringing a long-dry fountain, and, finally, the wide stair leading to the Château’s maw.

“So it begins,” I mutter, and begin my climb.

The air changes as soon as I step into the entrance hall, the Château’s heavy doors thudding shut behind me. Ahead yawns a vast, sharply cold room full of flickering light, with black marble flooring and dark wood walls slathered in gold leaf. Golden statues stand at erratic intervals throughout the room, naked and curled in positions of agony. The Spider King’s former courtiers, frozen in eternal punishment.

From the epicenter of the room split two grand staircases, each curling up to a dark landing. There’s a group of noblesse, mostly boys, about my age gathered at the base of them, but before I can decide if I want to attract their attention, something whistles past my head.

I have only the Mothers to thank for my quick reflexes. I duck aside, narrowly avoiding losing an earlobe as a gold-fletched arrow soars past my head and embeds itself in the chest of a statue behind me.

I whirl furiously, looking for the source of the arrow. The boys near the stairs have burst into laughter, many of them red-faced and hazy-eyed. One of them is cursing vibrantly—he scrambles to his feet, tossing aside an ornate crossbow and pushing off a girl draped over his shoulders.

“Louis, you idiot, you nearly made me shoot a—Marie?”

I freeze. Because I recognize the boy who’s speaking. He’s the one I’ve come to trick, the one I’ve come to marry—the Dauphin of Auréal, Aimé-Victor Augier.

The prince stares at me with wide, watery blue eyes, his brows drawn up in almost comical surprise. I’ve hardly ever seen him up close—only in paintings or sitting in the royal family’s private box inthe Théâtre. He’s gangly in a dainty sort of way, like a colt growing out of its youth. True to his reputation, he’s dressed in the most ostentatious rendition of current court fashion—a wine-colored doublet of gold-embroidered silk, voluminous petticoat breeches, and frankly offensive amounts of lace at his cuffs and collar. The famous golden Augier hair is busy trying to escape its carefully coiffed curls, and a thin layer of face powder hides delicate freckles. Some would call him handsome. I would call him a profligate, questionably dressed pigeon.

The Dauphin teeters as he makes his way toward me. “Marie!” he cries. He reeks of wine, and I resist the urge to curl my lip. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say graciously, forcing myself to stay still as he snatches my hands, his grip clammy.

“I am soooo sorry,” he says, pulling me closer to himself with a stumble. “The stupid crossbow was my father’s gift. He seems to think shooting things will turn me into a less embarrassing son.” He rolls his eyes. “But Mothers, am I glad to see you. I didn’t know if you’d gotten the invitation—I was worried Stepmother would get to it; she’s still hung up on that ridiculous fiasco from five years ago. I daresay it—”

“Aimé!” A new voice cuts through the room, shrill and reedy. The Dauphin and his jeering friends fall silent as a woman marches into the hall, heels clacking against the marble. Tall as a thorn and twice as sharp, wrapped in a sapphire gown and a corpse’s colorless skin, I recognize Anne de Malezieu, the King’s second wife, known derisively as the Step-Queen.

“I believe it is time for you all to retire,” the Step-Queen declares, every word echoing through the hall. “And… what isshedoing here?”

Her eyes cut to me, twin sapphire shards. They are far too keen, far tooknowing. I resist the urge to touch the owl-face pendant, toassure myself that my guise is still secure. I look to the Dauphin for help, but he barely glances at me, apparently cowed by his stepmother’s wrath.

Fine then. I suppose I must take matters into my own hands. And by that, I mean make a prompt and dignified escape.

“It’s scandalous, I agree,” I chirp innocently. “I truly ought to be in bed. After all, tomorrow is a big day, and I do need my beauty sleep.” I wink at the Dauphin, then curtsy to the Step-Queen, ignoring the mounting fury in her expression. “I suggest you get some as well, Madame, you really could use it.Bonne nuit!”

With that, I turn and hurry up the leftmost stair, leaving the Step-Queen spluttering furiously behind me.

It’s only when I reach the landing that I dare look down again. As I do, my attention is caught by one of the guards standing in the shadows.

At first glance, he is unremarkable. He wears a musketeer’s cloak, blue embroidered with gold, and from its back snarls the Augier tarasque. His shoulders are broad, his jaw set, and his eyes remain fixed loyally on the Dauphin.

Then there is his hair. It’s shaggy, an unruly tumble of black waves, and nearly identical to my own. Nearly identical to our mother’s.

Damien.

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