Scene VI The Château
The Ballroom
I could insult a thousand things about Aimé-Victor Augier, the Dauphin of Auréal.
I could insult his clothing, garishly gaudy and fitted too tight, stuffed with enough lace that I think we might both drown in it.
I could insult his perfume, saccharine and cloyingly floral, sharp enough that it gives me a headache.
I could even insult his demeanor—the way his confidence is obviously a mask worn with mutinous stubbornness, fraying around the edges.
But there is one thing I could not insult.
The Dauphin of Auréal is a breathtaking dancer.
The musicians play a slow, elegant minuet, and I’m surprised by the fluid way he moves, losing the gangly awkwardness he’d had about himself moments previously.
Regrettably, the Dauphin seems all too aware of his talent, because he grins pridefully at me.
When I return the smile, he takes it as an invitation to move closer.
“ Ma chère Marie,” he murmurs, “I must admit you’ve shocked me. ”
His breath is hot, his sugared voice sticking to my skin. I want to lean away, but I cannot—I must play this game until the end. So I mirror the teasing tilt of his head, even as my innards crawl with revulsion. A sorcier flirting with an Augier… my ancestors must be rolling in their graves.
“How so?” I inquire of the Dauphin as we switch sides, taking each other’s hands once more.
“I’d heard stories about how you’d become such a polite, well-mannered lady,” he responds.
“One of my stepmother’s friends couldn’t stop praising how your mother had managed to tame you .
” The corners of his mouth tilt up, but there is a strange, conflicted edge to that smile.
“That didn’t sound anything like the Marie I knew, and I was worried I wouldn’t recognize you anymore. I’m rather glad to be wrong.”
“And I am glad to prove you wrong,” I reply.
I focus for a moment on the dance and find myself wishing that I did not have to play this charade—that I could simply procure a dagger, press it to the Dauphin’s throat, and demand he give me the Couronne.
Unfortunately, that would probably earn me some sort of creatively horrid execution. Theatrical, but inconvenient.
“And the white dresses?” the Dauphin inquires, interrupting my thoughts. “Where did that come from, I wonder? I certainly did not mandate it.”
I shrug innocently. “I think it’s meant to make you think of wedding dresses. I’m not sure where the rumor started.”
He makes a face. “This entire marriage affair is ridiculous. I don’t want it at all. But it’s tradition, and the kingdom needs an heir , apparently, so here you are and here I am.” He sniffs. “Might as well enjoy it. Between your controversies and mine, we make quite the scandalous pair.”
Ah yes, the controversies. He must be referring to his reputation: the Dauphin is known to be a foppish, spoiled, and incompetent successor to King Honoré.
They say he shirks his duties, caring nothing for politics or the court’s social events, and prefers to spend his time locked in his room, composing music he will play for no one.
When he does emerge, it is to spend the kingdom’s dwindling resources on wine or clothing.
I’ve heard it whispered more and more frequently at the Théatre by commoners and noblesse alike—the kingdom has little trust in Aimé-Victor Augier.
And considering how he nearly shot me in his drunken state last night, I can see why.
Marie’s controversies, though… that’s more of a mystery to me.
I wonder if he’s referring to the same thing Charlotte mentioned last night: something about a necklace.
In my memory, diamonds wink hypnotically.
But she couldn’t have been referring to…
No. There is no way that caused such a scandal.
There must have been a different incident, another necklace. And yet…
I focus back on the dance, shaking off the nagging feeling. In response to Aimé’s words, I give a flirtatious smile. “A match made in heaven, I daresay.”
To my surprise, the Dauphin’s coy demeanor fades momentarily.
His eyes flick over my shoulder; when he turns to me and I’m able to see where he has been looking, I recognize my brother standing in the corner of the room, a glum shadow in his guard’s uniform.
I frown, but before I can say anything, the song ends.
The Dauphin steps away from me, dropping my hand. I curtsy in turn.
“Another, monseigneur?” I want to continue to pry information from him, but the Dauphin shakes his head.
“I must take another partner now,” he says.
When my face falls, he leans forward and whispers in my ear.
“You know how it is. I can’t show favoritism.
I need to pretend to consider all the candidates, or Stepmother will have a conniption.
Anyway, I think it’s time for a drink. I’ll certainly need it to survive this night.
” He winks at me, bows, and whirls away.
As the Dauphin makes a beeline for a servant carrying flutes of wine, I take a breath, forcing the tension from my chest. Now that I’m free, I notice an older nobleman with a face like a prune sliding his eyes over me.
Before he can ask me to dance, I turn away and hurry to the edge of the room, where I make a show of eyeing the ridiculously extravagant pastries.
The theme appears to be birds—red cardinals iced on cream-filled choux, macarons shaped like swooping sparrows, fruitcakes topped with little lemon canaries.
The result is a lurid, mismatched flock that looks less like an artful arrangement and more like something a house cat might drag in.
I pluck a chocolate parakeet from its basin of ganache just as a hand seizes me from behind.
I turn in panic and come face-to-face with a broad-chested guardsman, who glares at me down the length of his crooked nose. I remember the day it was broken—he’d been defending me from a particularly aggressive patron after a play.
Damien.
“Monsieur!” I gasp, raising my fist. “Unhand me at once!”
Damien scoffs. He looks me up and down, then eyes the chocolate parakeet still clutched in my raised fist. “Are you going to hit me with that, Dilou?”
My stomach plunges. He knows. Of course he does.
I place the now-mangled bird back on the table and wipe my hand on the tablecloth before scanning the room anxiously.
Thankfully, most of the noblesse are preoccupied with either dancing, flirting, or attempting to elbow their way to speak with the King.
I turn back to Damien, keeping my expression polite as though we are strangers. “How did you know it was me?”
“Marie d’Odette isn’t the type to resort to trickery,” he says. “Also, the owl necklace. Very subtle.”
I scowl, raising my hand to clutch the owl-face pendant protectively. “What do you want, Damien?” I snap. “Planning to betray me again?”
He glowers at me. I glower back. As usual, Damien breaks first, running a hand over his face. “I just… What are you doing here? And what, by the Mothers, did you do with the real Marie d’Odette?”
“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Damien replies acridly.
Once upon a time that might have stung. But I don’t care what my brother thinks of me anymore.
“Yes, you’re right,” I sneer. “I’m on a rampage, killing noblesse left and right.
You should arrest me before I murder all the realm’s spoiled lordlings, since that would be such a tragedy.
But wait”—I give him a pitying look—“you can’t, can you?
Because you made a vow to our poor dead maman. ”
Damien, as usual, has no sense of humor. His scowl deepens, but he’s smart enough to keep it subtle. “Dilou,” he says quietly. “Please. What deranged errand has that man sent you on this time?”
That man. As though Regnault didn’t rescue both of us, raise both of us, despite Damien being utterly barren of magic.
I would roll my eyes if I didn’t have to keep up my charade as dignified Marie. “What will you do if I tell you?”
“This isn’t a game, little sister.”
“Answer my question.”
“I asked first.”
More glowering. Once again I win. “You’re not even acting like her, you know,” Damien mutters. “Someone is bound to become suspicious.”
I shrug. “Let them. Marie d’Odette has not been to Verroux in five years. It’s normal for people to change as they get older.”
“And if you are injured?” he growls. “It’s not normal for people to change the color of their blood as they get older.”
I eye him steadily. “Is that a threat? Because you and I both know you could never bring yourself to hurt me.”
I see the flash of anger across his face, followed by wounded petulance.
I’ve won this round as well. Damien’s last words to our mother were a promise: to care for me, to protect me at all costs.
For someone as foolishly sentimental as my brother, such a vow is not to be broken.
Even five years after abandoning me, it seems he hasn’t been able to sever that bond, though I’m sure he wishes he could.
Damien opens his mouth to argue again, but before he can, someone breaks into bright, chiming laughter, so loud that it carries across the ballroom. Damien’s whole body tilts toward the noise. When I look over my shoulder and find the source, I nearly burst out laughing.
“Nothing ever changes with you, does it?” I mock as my brother stares longingly after the Dauphin of Auréal. “Oh, Damien, you idiot .”
I see his fists clench out of the corner of my eye. “Tell me what he sent you here for, Dilou.”
“I can’t,” I say, Regnault’s warning still stark in my mind. “But I’m doing this for us, for our family, so do yourself a favor and stay out of it. And if it makes you feel better, I have no intention of harming your precious Dauphin.”
Damien’s chest swells in an irritated breath. “Swear it. Swear you won’t hurt him.”
I give my brother my sweetest, most innocent smile, and reach across the table to grab a brioche shaped like a mallard. “You’ll just have to trust me,” I sing, and bite off the duck’s head before skipping back into the crowd.
After that, the ball does its best imitation of my chocolate parakeet—it melts, abandoning all semblance of propriety, devolving into a mangled caricature that barely resembles its former shape.
The musicians play air after air, the music becoming frenzied, distorted.
The dancing fades into a blur of silken skirts and tapping feet.
Bottles and bottles of various liquors are brought out, first expensive champagnes and then wines of cheaper and cheaper quality, until I swear I’m handed a flute of red-dyed water.
The Dauphin reigns over it all, flitting from group to group, patting red-faced, swaying lords on their backs and winking at their wives before whirling away with their daughters.
A cake is brought out, tiered and hideous. Someone knocks it over. Laughter roars.
Swept up in the crowd, I do not stop dancing, even as blisters bloom on my feet. If there’s anything I understand, it’s this—pure, exhilarating, dazzling chaos. And chaos, I’ve learned, is the best place to hide secrets.
As I whirl alongside partner after partner, I keep my eye on the Dauphin and the King and Charlotte.
Though I keep a sweet smile plastered on my face, I don’t like what I see.
First the King is approached by Charlotte and another man—a tall, long-faced lord who must be her chaperone, perhaps an uncle or an ambassador.
They drift to the edges of the ballroom, deep in heated conversation.
Eventually the King and the lord shake hands.
Charlotte curtsies to the King, and as she does, her eyes sweep the crowd, searching for someone.
Me. They land on me. She bares her teeth in a triumphant smile.
Not good , I think, but I can do nothing, only take my partner’s hand again as the song refuses to end.
I watch helplessly as moments later the King seizes the Dauphin from the crowd, drags him away from a group of young noblemen to whisper in his ear.
The Dauphin’s face falls, and he opens his mouth to argue, only to be silenced by a dangerous look from his father.
Oh, this is not good at all.
The song ends, mercifully, and I move quickly away from the dancers, heading to the back of the room where the more important-looking noblemen have gathered.
The Dauphin. I need to speak with the Dauphin to find out exactly what bargain the Princess of Lore has struck with the King.
My position, so certain merely an hour ago, now seems precarious, shifting under my feet like sand.
I cannot fail here. I cannot. If I do not secure this proposal, I lose any chance of ever laying eyes on the—
Crack. I throw up my hands in alarm. A bolt of pain sears through my palm, and lukewarm liquid pours down my sleeve.
It takes me a moment to realize what happened—in my urgency, I hadn’t seen the girl headed directly toward me.
I jump back in alarm, as does the other girl, who shrieks shrilly and drops her now-shattered glass, along with its contents of bloodred wine.
I begin to rebuke her, but she is faster. “Oh, Mothers, I’m so sorry!” she cries. There are tears in her eyes and flecks of wine on her poorly fitting white bodice.
Some of my anger ebbs. “It’s all right,” I say quickly, wiping my wet, stinging palm on my dress. At least the fabric is dark enough to conceal any stains.
“Mademoiselle, you…” The girl’s brows furrow in confusion, and she gestures with her wine-dripping fingers to the spot where I just pressed my hand. “You smudged some of your maquillage.”
I look down, and my stomach plummets.
There is a small gold streak spotting the smooth obsidian of my bodice, bright as paint. The same liquid stains my palm, where the shattering wineglass cut my skin open.
Only it isn’t paint at all.
It’s my blood.