Scene IV The 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 Chateau Front-du-Lac.
If the Théatre is a gluttonous creature, the Chateau 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, something prowling —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, taking in the cracking flagstones, the dead trees ringing a long-dry fountain, and, finally, the wide stair leading to the Chateau’s maw.
“So it begins,” I mutter, and begin my climb.
The air changes as soon as I step into the entrance hall, the Chateau’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 in the Théatre.
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 is she doing here?”
Her eyes cut to me, twin sapphire shards. They are far too keen, far too knowing . I resist the urge to touch the owl-face pendant, to assure 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.
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 Chateau.
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 Chateau’s guest wing.
Most of the rooms are 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 quiet snick.
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 is working.
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 answering no was 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 is brought 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.