Page 9 of A Treachery of Swans

I clench my fists, swallowing down a wave of betrayed anger, still as potent now as it was five years ago. Before I can do something that I might regret, I force myself to turn into the nearest corridor, leaving the light behind.

Five years ago, at Regnault’s behest, I spent two weeks impersonating a maid at the Château. At the time, I did not understand why he asked such a thing of me, but now I am grateful for it. I know exactly where to go, which of the dark, maze-like corridors to turn down in order to find the Château’s guest wing. Most of the roomsare already occupied, their doors closed and voices echoing within. One, however, remains empty, the door ajar. A traveling trunk has been left inside, its leather coating tooled with the Odette family crest: a swan flanked by waves. A rectangular package sits on the bed, wrapped in a dark ribbon.

ROYAL SEAMSTRESSES OF VERROUX, the label reads.FOR MARIE D’ODETTE D’AUVIGNY.

The door closes behind me with a quietsnick.I track my eyes over the room: its dark ebony furnishings and dripping shadows, the faded tapestries on the wall, and the single lit candlestick on the vanity. Two narrow windows look upon the fog-cloaked gardens, their iron tracery kinked in hypnotic, menacing shapes.

I cross the room and wrestle the heavy velvet curtains closed, fighting back a shudder. Only once the windows are covered and the doors are locked does the tension finally ease from my limbs.

I’ve made it. The plan isworking.

And somewhere beneath this palace, locked away in a vault and meticulously guarded, is the Couronne du Roi.

It is nearly an impossibility to reach the Couronne. No one knows where exactly it is stored, and it is said to be guarded by horrifying traps created by the Spider King. I once asked Regnault if we could simply break into the vault and steal the crown from its resting place—his answeringnowas so impassioned, I wondered if he had tried it himself and witnessed unspeakable things.

Obviously, that does make everything more complicated. The Couronne is only brought out of the vault in times of dire need, when Morgane’s curse once again begins to take its toll on Auréal. To make matters worse, it can only be reached by an Augier king, and despite the pleas of his people, King Honoré has not used the Couronne in over ten years. Which means my only chance at stealing the crown is either at a coronation or a wedding, when it isbrought out so Morgane’s magic can bless the new king or queen.

Regnault and I have bided our time for years, waiting for this opportunity. I cannot waste it.

Exhaling sharply, I stare down at myself, at the foreign layers of clothing. My skin has begun to itch; I am suddenly, achingly aware that I am not in my own body. Unable to bear it any longer, I unclip the owl-face pendant from my neck, feeling my hair shorten to its usual choppy length and my clothing transform back into a black-and-gold costume.

I press my palms to my cheeks, rub the ruby earring pierced through my right lobe. Exhaustion rushes through me. The room’s great four-poster bed beckons, weeping heavy curtains the color of spilled wine.

I give myself a moment longer to breathe, then clip the pendant back on, shuddering as the transformation takes hold. I could call a servant to undress, but I don’t wish to wait—I simply wrestle layers of blue gown off myself, looking anywhere but at the linen chemise that is not mine, draping over a body that is not my own.

Once done, I seize the candlestick from the vanity and bring it over onto the bed. When I blow it out, the darkness that greets me is a relief.

But my mind refuses to be still. I think of a white swan flying in a dazed panic toward a glossy black lake. I think of spell-threads glowing between my father’s fingertips. And I think of a heavy, bejeweled crown clutched in my hand.

When sleep claims me, it is like drowning in the dark.

Morning comes, a solemn gray smog that seeps through the cracks in my curtains. I wake slowly, unwillingly, rolling over to press my face deeper into the delightfully soft pillow.

Soft…wait.My makeshift pallet at the Théâtre has never been soft.

It strikes me all at once. Where I am, what I must do.

With a groan, I force myself to sit up in my bed. I might have allowed myself to indulge a little longer, but it’s a Sunday, which means the noblesse will soon be gathering in the chapel for morning service. I don’t care for prayer, but this might be the perfect time to implement my plan—and my revenge—so I can’t miss it.

I ring for a maid to help me dress. Normally, a woman of Marie’s standing would be expected to travel with at least one lady’s maid of her own, if not several. But King Honoré inherited his father’s paranoia, and he allows no unfamiliar staff to stay in the palace. Even the Château’s own staff is scarce—fewer people in the grounds means fewer people whose intentions he needs to question.

A minute passes before a maid comes into the room. She might be my age, but it’s hard to tell—part of the uniform of the Château staff is a golden half mask, its swirling design bringing to mind a skull. It covers the upper half of her face, from her brow to the bridge of her nose. I want to wince in sympathy. I’ve worn one of those masks before, and I know they offer limited peripheral vision. It was the Spider King, in his madness, who first mandated them. And his son, in his cowardice, has upheld the tradition.

The girl remains silent as she curls my—Marie’s—hair into tight ringlets, secures it in a refined chignon, and helps me dress. I choose a gown that is simpler than the previous night’s, in a shimmering satin that is the same silver as Marie’s eyes. The skirts are full and pleated, tangling impractically around my ankles. I curse them with every step as I exit the room.

I’d forgotten just howsinisterthe Château Front-du-Lac truly feels. The Spider King’s magic lingers in these walls, in these floors. It is old now, decaying, and as it fades from the pieces it once enchanted, they seem all the more unsettling. I pass the statue of a man thatbows to me, its movements jerky and startling. I spot a tapestry of a caged bird that still sings, though its song has withered away to a strangled whine. I even walk by a painting of the Spider King—he looks eerily like the Dauphin, in the way a hideous, powder-winged moth might resemble a butterfly, and his enchanted blue eyes track me down the hall.

By the time I arrive at the chapel, several noblewomen are already there, gathered in front of the doors. I recognize Princess Charlotte Turnip Hair of Lore and her friend Green Dress, who has mercifully opted for a more subdued shade of her favored color today.

“So bizarre that they would choose this hideous creature,” Charlotte is saying loudly. “Why not something more noble, like a lion or a bear?”

I follow their gazes to the source of their discussion: the tarasque engraved upon the heavy iron double doors. The beast’s short snout is opened in a snarl, its six feet poised to attack and inlaid-ruby eyes seeming to glow. There are more jewels embedded in its tortoise-like shell, glittering in the faint morning light.

“It’s from a legend,” I say, putting on Marie’s reserved persona once more to address them. “The Little Saint and the Tarasque. The tarasque represents power untamed. Surely you must be familiar with it, considering it’s one of Auréal’s most famous stories?”

Charlotte flushes. “I—I am. I simply forgot.” She tugs on Green Dress’s hand. “Come, let us go inside. I want to see what these funny little Aurélian chapels look like.”

There is a guard standing by the doors, a musket at his side. He too wears a skull mask, silver instead of gold, and it gleams dully as he pulls the doors open and ushers us inside.

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