Page 89 of A Treachery of Swans

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It was never really about the necklace at all—my mother merely used my guilt to manipulate me. For years, I had been the only variable she couldn’t control, and finally, she had the chance. I was only ever a tool to her, and somehow, she convinced me that it was all for the good of the family. I never truly realized what she was doing… until you told me about your father. About how he treated you.”

I bow my head. One of my hands rests on the edge of her wing, and I inadvertently bury my fingers deeper into their downy surface. “We were both fooled.”

“Yes, but we can change,” Marie says. “We can grow past what they made us into. That’s what I decided after you came to visit me in the Dauphine’s apartments. That I wouldn’t be locked awayagain. That I was going to start making my own decisions, no matter how much it frightened me. When I heard your scream, and the shattering of glass… I didn’t hesitate. My doors were guarded, but my windows were not, and I simply… knew. Knew that I could summon my wings again, if I jumped. So I did.”

“And then you saved me,” I say softly.

She hums, clearly unwilling to agree outright. I lean back, studying her wound, which looks much cleaner now than before. “I’m going to wrap this,” I decide. “I would also advise not moving this wing too much for some time. Else you’ll keep tearing it open.”

Marie laughs under her breath. “Yes, doctor. And whatever shall I owe you for such tender care?”

The heady warmth of her voice travels from my head to my lower stomach, where it sits, pleasantly curled. I’m glad her back is turned, because my cheeks must be flaming. “A kiss would be sufficient payment,” I say, unthinking, and immediately wish I could evaporate.

Marie makes a contemplative sound. I realize, with sudden clarity, that she is so close to me, the sides of her doublet pulled apart. She seems to have cut a hole in the shirt beneath, leaving her spine bared. Small feathers trail from her wings onto her shoulder blades like white petals, and it takes all my willpower to keep from touching them.

I shake my head and lean down to pick up a few scraps of linen from the floor. I cut them from one of the cleaner-looking costumes, and I have to hope they’ll be enough.

I tie the scraps together to make a bandage long enough to wrap around the wing. I do it carefully, feathers brushing my wrist, the faint heat of Marie’s body pressing in against me. “There,” I say finally, running my hand down the breadth of the wing. It’s analmost thoughtless act, but I pause when Marie gasps in surprise.

“What is it?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “They’re… sensitive.”

Oh.

I grin wolfishly. “Are they now?” Unable to help myself, I stroke her wing again, letting myself delight in the feeling of the feathers against my palm.

Marie makes a breathy sound of pleasure and abruptly turns around, lifting her injured right wing out of my reach while her left one comes to curl around me. “I think I owe you payment for your services, doctor,” she says, her forehead nearly against mine, her exhalation tickling my lips. She smells of spices: of clove and vanilla and fiery, sweet cinnamon.

She’s magnificent. Once I’d wanted to ruin her; now I want her to sanctify me.

But first I’m going to put up a fight.

“Alas, I’ve had to raise my prices,” I say, looking up at her mischievously. “I fear one kiss will no longer suffice.”

Marie brushes her fingers tantalizingly along my jaw. I can’t help but follow the trajectory of her touch, tilting up my chin. She smirks—smirks—all power and control, her lashes lowering as she gazes at my lips.

“Very well, then,” says Marie d’Odette, and she brings her mouth to mine.

SCENE XXXIVThéâtre du Roi

Backstage

Later, I lie awake at Marie’s side, pillowed by the breadth of her outstretched wing, my body no longer fully mine. Because how can it be, if my skin still sparks where she’d straddled my hips, where my hands had glided up her spine? If my wrists still remember how she’d seized them both, pressed them over my head, and kissed me ever deeper? If I can still taste her, every part of her, lingering on my tongue and lips and the back of my teeth?

I am made of echoes, of afterimages, and they all belong toher.

There is a heartbeat of silence, and I can almost feel the Théâtre hovering protectively over us, slowing time so that we may finally breathe. And I do, deep and full for the first time since I can remember, one breath for every one of Marie’s soft inhalations.Thirty-four, thirty-five…

Marie stirs delicately, turning over to me. Her lashes are long and heavy—they rise like a curtain, revealing gleaming dewdropirises. “Hello, sorciere,” she says, and pokes the tip of my nose.

An exhausted, ecstatic laugh escapes me. “How was that for affection?” I tease. The fabric of her chemise has slipped off her shoulder, and I reach over to pull it up, pushing back a silvery-gold curl as I do. We stare at each other, reluctant to leave this intoxicating, impossible dream.

Then someone bangs on the dressing room door.

“Odile? Mademoiselle d’Auvigny? We have a problem!”

Marie jolts upright at the urgency in Damien’s voice. I growl in frustration and follow suit, bending down to pick up my discarded clothing, then stumble as my injured knees make themselves known. Marie catches me before I fall, righting me. Wordlessly I gesture for her to turn and help her do up the laces of her doublet around her wings.

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