Page 92 of A Treachery of Swans

My heart stutters, tripping over itself. Warmth fills me, and I feel my own cheeks heat. Marie is adamantly refusing to meet my eyes, and on an impulse I reach out, tilting her chin toward me, forcing her to meet my eyes.

“Then I’m yours,” I say quietly.

Her breath hitches. Before either of us can say anything more, we are interrupted by distant shouting and the sound of a bottle shattering. Aimé flinches.

“I did not know that my father had let Verroux come to such a state,” he says, clearly more to himself than to us. “There are commissioners in each quarter; why have they not been called to…?” He trails off. “Something should have been done.”

He lapses into silence at that, visibly uncomfortable. Since our departure from the Théâtre, anxiety has been radiating from him in waves, and it seems to only grow with every step to our destination. And the task that I have laid upon him once we arrive.

“It should be here somewhere,” Damien says, taking us carefully around the corner of a butcher’s shop—its windows black, entrails slathered on the street alongside it.

“Assuming the letter was telling the truth,” I hiss at him. “It could very well have been forged.”

“No,” Damien says curtly. “I know Thomas’s handwriting. Ah.” His eyes brighten. “It’s here.” Ahead is a tavern, perched quiet and unassuming on a street corner, with horses tied by the building and a drunk man sprawled beneath the eaves.

Damien begins to approach the doors, but Aimé shrinks back. “I don’t think I can do this,” he whispers.

Damien pauses and doubles back, resting a hand on the Dauphin’s upper arm. “You can. It’s just like we talked about. I will speak to the men first, and then you can come in after me. They areyourguards, Aimé. They defected because they do not think the Regent is the rightful heir to the throne.”

“Yes, but they don’t think I should be king, either,” Aimé argues. “They’re simply preparing to leave Verroux. That’s what Thomas said in the letter.”

Damien sighs. “I know. But that’s because they believe all the lies they were told about you. You simply need to prove them otherwise.” He gives Aimé a reassuring smile. “It will be all right.”

Then he turns and enters the bar. Marie starts to follow him, and Aimé makes a move to join, but I hold him back. “One moment,” I say, and then nod to Marie. “Go, introduce the Dauphin. I’m going to instruct him on making an entrance.”

Aimé eyes me mistrustfully as they leave us, and I chuckle. “Very well, I deserve that. But I only wanted to give you something.”

“Give me something?” he echoes. His voice is distracted—he keeps rubbing his hands together, and even in the darkness I can see them trembling. I reach into the small pouch I have brought and pull out the circlet I’d found in the dressing rooms earlier.

“See this circlet?” I say. “This is a relic from three hundred years ago. It was worn by the father of King Ludovic. He lived inharmony with magic, and under his rule the kingdom prospered.” I move quickly so he doesn’t notice that the circlet is made quite roughly, a thing wrought of crude golden spirals barely clinging to a blue-painted rock. I place it on his head, then take a step back.

“There. Now you’re ready to command your men.” I give him the most formal curtsy I can manage.“Votre Majesté.”

He’s staring at me, and I know he is looking for the lie in my words, trying to discover how I am tricking him. “But what if I turn into the monster again, Odile?” he says tightly. “What if I do more harm?”

“You won’t,” I say firmly. “I trust you.”

And for once I’m telling the truth. Aimé exhales shakily, and I can almost hear the distantclickof a lock being sprung. No, two locks. Two locks for two cages. The turtledove and the owl.

“Thank you, Odile,” Aimé says, adjusting the circlet resting on his brow. Then he offers me his arm. “Come, let us go meet my guard.” He crooks a grin at me, and he looks momentarily like the roguish princeling I met my first night at the palace. “But if Idoturn into the beast again, I’m eating you first.”

In the end Aimé proves himself capable, far more capable than even I could have guessed of him. He pulls down his hood, uncovering golden ringlets and eyes as firm as aquamarines, and before him the palace guards sitting at the bar’s tables all straighten. The men’s attention goes to the circlet on his head, to the piece of jewelry representing Aimé’s status.

Aimé clasps his hands behind his back, and only I can see them shaking as I stand behind him in the shadows. The circlet has no magic, but clearly wearing it—feeling the weight of a crown, even if it is merely a theater prop—seems to bolster his courage. He speaks like a king, every word landing with considerate, weighty gravitas. He lets his earnestness shine through, and though his voice maywaver, the men listen. He explains his curse and tells them he is trying to break it, and reclaim his throne in the process. Finally he drops down on one knee before them, pressing his fist to his chest.

“I am not my father,” he says. “And I am not his father. I do not want the crown as they did. But I want to see snow fall white and flowers bloom; I want to see Verroux and Auréal flourish. I know you are all afraid—you have lost your faith in the crown, and you do not want to fight a meaningless battle. I too am afraid. Afraid of failure. Afraid of fighting alone. Afraid of this curse of mine. But fear… it only means I’m human. It only means I have something to fight for.” He looks around the room, and at the rugged faces of his men as their spines straighten and their chests swell with renewed faith. “So I ask for your forgiveness and your faith. To fight alongside me and see Auréal restored.”

Silence settles over the dimly lit tavern. The men all look to the guard seated in the middle of the room. I recognize Thomas, the large guardsman who once stopped Aimé and me from entering the chapel. He seems to have now assumed the role of leader.

Slowly, he glances down at the tankard in his hand. Then he gets to his feet and raises it high.

All the other men follow suit, forming a ring around Aimé. Marie and Damien join in. Aimé gets to his feet, looking dazed but elated. He smiles as the guardsmen salute his health and his long reign, looking more like a king than ever before. Then, once they have settled down, he begins to explain my plan to them.

While the room’s attention is focused elsewhere, I slip unnoticed out of the door and into the dark alley. There, I draw a scrap of paper from my pocket and pull up my hood before setting off. It doesn’t take me long before I find a hungry-eyed urchin and trade a coin—pickpocketed from Aimé—for the boy to deliver a message to the Château.

Then I look up toward the smoke-veiled sky and puff out a tense breath of cold, billowing air.

Tomorrow I will tell my last lie. It will be my greatest performance, my grand finale, my swan song. After that I will leave behind this life of treacheries and masks and schemes.

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