Scene VII The Château
The Ballroom
Remember, Odile, they must never see you bleed.
For the first time since my arrival at the palace, I feel true panic. My pulse surges; I clasp my uninjured hand over the wounded one and barely manage to keep my composure.
“Mademoiselle?” the young girl squeaks.
“Excuse me.” I whirl away, cursing the gown’s heavy skirts as I nearly trip over them. I force myself to remain calm, dignified, walking at a steady pace even while my every instinct screams at me to run, to hide, because they will see they will see.
I manage to keep my composure long enough to leave the ballroom.
My skirts rustle behind me—my chest strains against the confines of my tightly laced bodice.
The crimson of the ballroom breaks like a tide upon a gallery of black and silver, the polished indigo flooring speckled white as though stars are trapped beneath.
Columns flank the room, and I duck behind one to catch my breath.
I inspect my hand, assessing the damage. The cut is blessedly small; I suck on it and am relieved to see that the bleeding has already slowed. I exhale in relief and begin rubbing off the stain on my bodice, when footsteps echo through the room.
“…High time for change,” a voice is saying. When I peer around the column, I see it belongs to a short, balding man, the buttons of his doublet straining to contain his stomach.
Beside him walks a nobleman of middling age, thin brows lording over a thinner face, a scar carved across his nose.
“Yes, yes, so you’ve said,” he drawls as the pair approach my hiding spot.
I tuck myself more tightly against the column as they pass.
“At least my brother still inspires enough respect in this court to keep it from falling apart entirely. But that brat of his… you’ve seen it firsthand.
Never in the history of Auréal has there been an heir more unfit to the throne. ”
“At least his incompetence has an advantage,” says his companion.
“And what is that?” asks Scar Nose, adjusting his auburn peruke. The guards flanking the ballroom doors pull them open, sending golden light gushing through the dark gallery.
The balding man snorts. “The little pest is easy to get rid of.”
Their laughter trails behind them even as the doors fall shut again.
I frown, turning their words over in my mind as I rub any remaining blood off my palm. My shoulders ache with tension, and I roll them before heading back toward the ballroom.
Before I can reach the doors, they go flying open. For a second time that night, a figure crashes into me.
“Marie!”
It’s the Dauphin. He reels back in surprise, his cheeks red and eyes even redder. His golden hair has come undone around his face, any confidence he’d worn previously shed in favor of genuine despair.
He sways for a moment, staring at me piteously. Then, “Marie, I’m so sorry,” he wails, and throws his arms around my neck.
It takes all my willpower not to punch the Dauphin of Auréal. “Sorry?” I echo, trying to peel him off myself. His perfume has turned sickly sweet, spoiled by sweat and alcohol. “What are you talking about?”
“The bargain. I couldn’t do anything, he’s already arranged it, it’s all ruined—”
This time I do succeed in shoving him off. “What bargain?”
“The one we made as children! I knew, after the scandal, that it might be difficult to keep, but now Charlotte wants an alliance—though we all know this is just about power ; when has Lore ever done anything without ulterior motives?—but my father somehow thinks that’s a better idea than strengthening Auréal, or perhaps Anne talked him into it—she can be so cruel sometimes—or—or—”
“You will not choose me,” I realize, a wave of furious disappointment rising up inside me.
His shoulders sag. “I cannot. The King has sworn to the ambassador of Lore that I will marry Charlotte. And I cannot disobey him.”
Coward, I want to say. Instead, I smile gently, gathering what little scraps of kindness I can dredge up from my withered excuse for a heart.
I take Aimé’s hand and pull him away from the doors, through the gallery, and into the glittering entrance hall beyond.
“Monseigneur, correct me if I am wrong, but I believe your father is already married.”
He frowns, brushing tears from his eyes. “Y-yes…”
“So he cannot possibly be choosing a bride for himself.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then this is your choice to make.”
The Dauphin shakes his head violently. “I can’t go against him, not again. When I tried to do it at the last Conseil meeting, he… Regardless. He knows better than I.”
“Perhaps he does. But this is your happiness in the balance. And mine,” I admit. That much is not a lie.
The Dauphin bites his lip. “If I undermine him in front of the whole court—”
“He can do nothing.”
“You underestimate him.”
“Your choice is made publicly,” I say. “I doubt he will force you to change it after the fact. That would be a sign of discord, of instability within the court.”
He smiles wanly. “I missed you. And your ridiculous problem-solving.”
It appears Marie d’Odette and I have something in common after all. I put a hand on my hip, trying to mimic her stern manner. “You don’t really want to marry Princess Charlotte Turnip Hair, do you?”
“Marie!” A surprised laugh bursts out from him.
“What? Do you disagree?”
He sniffs. “Personally, I think it looks more like a beet.”
“A discolored beet, perhaps,” I muse, then grow sober again, eyeing him carefully. It’s time to finish this game. And for that I must draw on a resource I rarely use: honesty.
“Monseigneur, listen to me now.” I take the Dauphin’s hand in mine, hold his gaze with fierce conviction.
“Aimé-Victor Augier, I swear this upon the Mothers. I do not want to be queen, not truly. What I want… what I want is to restore this kingdom to what it was truly meant to be. To bring about a new era. But without you, without this , I can’t do it. ”
His eyes have gone wide and hopeful in a way that almost makes me pity him. Almost. “Do you truly think so?”
Before I can reply, a shadow falls over us. “There you are.”
We both turn to see Damien, his expression an excellent imitation of a thundercloud. He blatantly ignores me and walks up to the Dauphin, his eyes gentling a fraction as he bows to the wayward prince. “It’s time for you to make your announcement, monseigneur.”
The Dauphin scowls. “Mothers, I hate it when you call me that.”
Damien looks weary. “You know I cannot—”
“I know. You do so love reminding me.” The Dauphin rubs his eyes. “Must I do this?”
Damien puts a hand on his shoulder and draws him away from my side. “The King is waiting,” he says, with a gentleness to his voice that I have seldom heard. “This ball must end eventually. You cannot draw it out forever.”
“You’re right, I suppose. Though I do resent it.” The prince turns back and bows to me, his eyes dark and thoughtful. “Mademoiselle d’Auvigny.”
I curtsy in return. “Remember my promise,” I say, and ignore the deadly look Damien shoots me. As I watch my brother usher the Dauphin away, Regnault’s words ring in my head: If you cannot avoid him, you must eliminate him.
Well, Damien hasn’t told anyone of my identity yet. He’s a variable I’ll have to worry about later; for now I can only wait and pray that my words to the Dauphin have been enough to change my fate.
“Mesdames et messieurs, may I claim your attention for one last time tonight? After some… deliberation, the Dauphin has made his choice.”
I’m glad for Marie’s height as I peer over shoulders, weaving between the press of bodies to attempt to get to the front of the crowd.
King Honoré stands in the center of the ballroom, the Dauphin fidgeting beside him.
One of the King’s meaty hands grips his son’s arm, and even from a distance the gesture does not look amicable.
“Well?” says the King. The silk of the Dauphin’s sleeve creases under the King’s tightening fingers.
“I have made my choice!” the Dauphin says, forcing a smile as he addresses the crowd.
“Thank you all for coming today and placing your offers of alliance before me.” I make this decision with difficulty, but also with reassurance, for I have found someone whom I believe I can trust with my heart and with the kingdom.
Someone who will someday make an excellent queen. ”
My chest feels tight. I watch with dread as the Dauphin’s eyes land on Charlotte, who is tapping her foot impatiently. The Dauphin opens his mouth again, hesitates.
The King shakes him by the shoulder, as though to break him from the silence.
I push past the man standing in front of me to emerge from the crowd.
The movement is enough to bring the Dauphin’s eyes back to me—his gaze pools with the panic of a much younger boy, caught in a riptide and struggling not to be pulled under.
I can’t help but feel a reluctant stab of kinship.
Aimé-Victor Augier’s brand of chaos is different from mine, but it comes from the same place.
We are both birds trapped in cages. Only, while he is batting brokenly at the bars, I’m determined to pick the lock.
That is what I try to convey as I hold his attention. Understanding. A final play on his pity, in case my vow earlier was not enough.
The Dauphin looks away. Straightens. And steps away from his father, forcing the man to release his grip.
“My beloved guests, I present to you the future Queen of Auréal, Mademoiselle Marie d’Odette, daughter of Auvigny!”
The world becomes a blur. The musicians play a jarring, rushed fanfare, and the Dauphin rushes forward to grip my hands and press a tense kiss to my cheek.
I dart a look at the King—though his face is without expression, he watches his son with cold, vicious rage.
The Dauphin wisely avoids his father’s eyes as he pulls me toward the gathered court.