A Treachery of Swans

Scene I Théâtre du Roi

Night

They will tell the story, later, of the white swan and the black, but they will tell it wrong.

It begins as they say: A beautiful girl, pale as the moon, at the edge of the lake in the dark of night. And a sorcerer stalking from the shadows, foul-hearted and wicked, with the yellow eyes of an owl and fingertips coated in magic.

The prince will come later, as will the ball and the love story doomed by deceit. But for now there is a theater house, and there is a play, and there is a villainous girl whose story was never told.

First, allow me to set the stage.

The Théatre du Roi is a grizzled, devouring edifice sprawled languidly at the edge of Lac des Cygnes.

Tonight it is a well-fed beast, belly full of roaring noblesse and commoners alike, its candlelit windows narrowed in satisfaction.

It’s a Saturday, and on Saturday the Théatre’s resident troupe puts on one of their legendary tragédies en musique, affairs of glittering splendor and dizzying dance and operatic, tear-wrenching song.

The play is drawing to a close, and I have been stabbed.

I rush from the stage with a torrent of applause at my heels, the warm slickness of blood sticking my doublet to my skin.

The familiar stench of the dressing rooms welcomes me—cheap perfume and old sweat and something suspiciously like strong liquor, though the troupe has yet to locate the culprit behind that particular smell.

I yank the collapsible dagger from my chest and strip off the outer layer of my costume, a mass of heavy black brocade and pinned-on lace belonging to the play’s dramatically murdered prince.

I wipe fat, insincere tears from my eyes.

Sweat slips down my spine; my feet ache from the prince’s ostentatious pre-death dance number.

Normally I’d be elated, adrenaline singing through my veins, a satisfied grin on my face.

But not tonight. Tonight I have one more role to play, and it will be the most spectacular of my career.

There’s a swell of applause in the distance as the rest of the troupe finishes taking their bows.

Normally, I would be up there with them, but I need a head start to locate the target of my mission.

As I pull the now-pierced bladder of hog’s blood from beneath my shirt, the other actors and dancers come surging down into the dressing rooms, a blur of gaudy costumes and gaudier faces, wrenching off headdresses and masks and unfastening heeled dance shoes.

There’s an uncharacteristic, tense energy to it all, putting a rueful note in the usual backstage banter.

“Mothers be merciful, I nearly tripped over Guillaume’s train.”

“Do you think they noticed that I started my aria off-key?”

“Forget the aria, Maurice nearly knocked me off that wooden horse. Then Henri started to giggle, and he’s meant to be playing a corpse .”

I want to join them, to snicker and commiserate over stage mishaps or forgotten lines, but my stomach is too tight, my mind already on the task ahead.

Tonight the theater’s audience is swollen to twice its usual size, filled with not only the usual attendees—court nobles and wealthy city merchants and any commoner able to scrape together enough to afford the Théatre’s cheaper parterre tickets—but also nobles from across Auréal and beyond, dukes and duchesses and most importantly, their daughters of marrying age.

To them, our performance is only an appetizer, a prelude to tomorrow night’s grand ball—a ball celebrating the Dauphin’s eighteenth birthday, at which the realm’s future ruler is expected to choose a bride.

I pause by the cracked mirror of one of the dressing room’s mismatched vanities, wiping away the most garish of my makeup.

My true features peer out from beneath—a sharp, boyish face studded with citrine-yellow eyes, nothing trustworthy about either.

I leave some paint behind—dark shadows on my eyelids, golden glitter on my cheekbones.

I slide my mother’s red-and-gold earring back into my right ear.

I want to look dangerous—the kind of danger that tempts and seduces, that promises a thrill.

As I work, I catch more snippets of conversation.

“Did you see the young Mademoiselle d’Auvigny?

” says one of the men. I recognize the reedy tenor of Henri, the former giggling corpse.

“She was sitting just to our right in the loges. No wonder they say the Dauphin is going to choose her.” One of the other men responds with what I can only describe as an infatuated moan, and I roll my eyes.

“You going to try to seduce her, Henri?” someone teases.

“You think I can’t?”

“I think you have the tact of a dazed fruit fly,” replies the former.

“Besides, you remember that ridiculous piece of gossip from years ago, the one the court ladies so loved? I had to listen to Madame Bérengère prattle about it for hours.” He raises his voice to a mocking feminine squeak.

“?‘They say when the Dauphin first saw Marie d’Odette on the edge of Lac des Cygnes, he thought her an enchanted swan maiden! Sparks flew, flowers bloomed, the Mothers considered returning, and the Dauphin nearly married her on the spot.’?”

“Please, we all know the Duchesse d’Auvigny spread those rumors,” Henri replies sullenly. “Laying her claim on the Dauphin, the ornery hag.”

“My point is you have no hope,” his companion replies, still in squeaky falsetto, prompting a smattering of snickers.

Smiling, I slip from the room, snatching a clean black-and-gold doublet from a rickety chair as I go.

Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny, only daughter of the family ruling Auvigny province, has certainly made an impression.

That has always been a skill of hers, after all.

Even I hadn’t been immune when I’d spotted her watching from the loges.

The beatific Swan Princess living up to her name—magnanimous and pale, with a gown of silver-blue lapping at her shoulders and lace frothing at her collar; her hair the color of moonlit sand, piled high and studded with pearls.

My chest bubbles with anticipation. If I play my cards right tonight, that gown, those pearls, and that hair… they will all be mine.

I quicken my pace, pulling on the doublet and checking the powder on my wrists, ensuring none of it has rubbed off.

The backstage stairwells are dark, stifling things, curling upward as if through the throat of some great beast. Even here, encased in somber wood, I can hear the crowd: the chatter of nobles mingling after the performance, the stomp of feet across the parterre as commoners head back into the city.

All of it is broken by the sudden clack of heeled shoes descending the steps, a familiar voice consuming the dark.

“Yes, of course I will remember. Goodbye, monseigneur.”

I straighten instinctively as my father swoops into view.

It’s like being mobbed by crows—a descent of darkness, a flurry of a black silk cloak, a glimpse of keen eyes and a face wreathed in feathers.

Known only by his stage name, never seen without his ornate, owl-faced mask, Regnault has always been mystery incarnate—not a man, but a character , breathed out of the sumptuous stage décor and exuberant melodrama of one of his troupe’s grandest plays.

Yet tonight there is no mirth, no elaborate jest, in his glittering eyes.

“Ah, there you are.” His voice is resonant even at a whisper, filled with a performer’s charisma. “Are you ready?”

“Y-yes.” I wince at the tremble in my voice—somehow he always makes me feel like I’m five years old again, begging for scraps in an alleyway. I clear my throat. “Yes, Papa, I’m ready.”

Regnault clasps a talon-like hand on my shoulder. “Good. Remember, I will be waiting by the lake. Should anything change…”

“It will not,” I reassure him, keeping my voice steady. “I will not fail you.”

My father’s thin lips slide up, curling into a too-wide grin that most would find unnerving. I used to try imitating that smile when I was younger, practicing in front of any mirror I could find, though I never quite managed to perfect it.

“You know,” he says, touching his knuckle to my cheek, “I finally believe that.” His gaze softens briefly, and I can’t help but revel in the expression.

This is a rare side of my father, a thing to be hoarded and treasured.

“There is a reason I took you in, little owl,” he adds. “Do not make me regret it.”

And there it is, that reminder of doubt.

Regnault doesn’t yet trust me fully. He is holding back, rightfully so, waiting to see if I accomplish this final mission, the one he raised me for.

The task that begins tonight: Gain the trust of Marie d’Odette.

Take her place. Seduce the Dauphin of Auréal and fool him long enough to steal the Couronne du Roi.

My stomach squeezes. What could possibly go wrong?

Regnault’s eyes roam over my face. “I can see you are anxious to begin,” he remarks. “Go, then. I can hear the others coming.”

He bends to kiss the crown of my head. As he does, a necklace swings from the collar of his doublet.

My eyes are drawn to it: it’s a thing of fine gold, composed of a brittle chain and a pendant molded into the face of an owl.

At its appearance, the scent of iron and sage fills my nostrils, a prickle of static scattering across my skin.

Sorcery. I grin at the feeling. I still remember the rush of stealing that pendant, three weeks ago.