Scene VII The Château #2
The crowd bursts into applause, though it sounds malicious somehow, threatening.
As I walk by them, their faces blur together, artificial as theater masks, lifeless eyes and painted lips and too-sharp teeth glinting as they seethe out their congratulations.
They think I will be an easy meal, I realize: the Swan Princess of Auvigny, pearlescent and purehearted and ripe for their devouring.
But they’re wrong. I’m not the delicate white-feathered bird they believe me to be. I’m the darkness of cold gutters and merciless nights, the bruised shadows beneath a thief’s desperate eyes. I’m nothing but a lie, a twisted reflection, a black swan.
And my teeth are just as sharp as theirs.
The Dauphin does not release my hand until he has pulled me out of the ballroom, through the gallery, and into the empty entrance hall.
Only then does he let me go, his hands shaking minutely, urgency replacing his previous dignified facade.
He beckons forth one of his musketeers, a short, square-jawed man.
“Armand will take you to the Dauphine’s apartments—they were prepared this morning in anticipation of my new betrothed.” He cringes as he says the word. “Go with him now, before my father is no longer occupied by formalities. I will have to calm his ire.”
Am I wrong, or is there fear in his voice? “How badly have we upset him?”
I wonder just how many enemies I’ve made myself today, how many people will try to get between me and the Couronne.
He shrugs. “It hardly matters—he’s always upset.
It only gets worse as the years pass, really, even without the…
Never mind.” He shakes his head, sending disheveled locks bouncing around his face.
“Regardless, thank you for giving me courage. It felt good to finally make a decision he could not reject. I—”
“Where is that idiot boy ?” The King’s growl reaches us from the gallery. Over the Dauphin’s shoulder, I can see King Honoré storming toward us. Behind him, music continues to thrum through the ballroom, the celebrations unceasing even now.
“Go,” Aimé mouths at me, and I don’t need to be told twice. I turn and follow the guard up the left staircase, in a direction that I remember leads to the royal chambers. I hold up my skirts as we go up the stairs, then wait as the guard pulls a sconce from the wall to light the way.
Even from this distance, I can hear the fury in the King’s hushed voice. “Aimé, what is the meaning of this?”
I can hardly make out Aimé’s trembling response. “I thought—I—”
“Speak up, boy,” his father snarls. “Explain this ridiculous prank.”
“It’s not a… I only—I thought a Lorish queen, now, would be the equivalent of letting in a spy. If they learned just how precarious—”
The sound of a slap echoes through the hall. Beside me, the guard flinches. “We should go,” he murmurs.
I can’t move. The King’s voice shakes with anger.
“Precarious. What do you know about any of this? About Lore? About Auréal ?” He scoffs when the Dauphin doesn’t reply.
“That’s right. Nothing. Yet somehow you are arrogant enough to interfere with my plans.
You will go back in there, and you will tell them all that you’ve changed your mind. ”
“If it weren’t for Lore,” Aimé argues, “you would have been perfectly content with my choice. I know how long you’ve wanted to strengthen our bond with Auvigny—”
“Oh, you know what I want, do you?” the King cuts in. “Then why aren’t you doing as I say ?”
“He cannot.” Another voice joins the fray—I recognize the stern tone of Anne de Malezieu, the Step-Queen. Her heels echo as she approaches the men. “My King, you know he cannot. As unwise as this decision may be, to rescind it would only make us seem irresolute.”
The Dauphin speaks up again, bolstered by the Step-Queen’s defense. “Besides, this ensures Auvigny’s support, and with the rumors—”
“Quiet, Aimé.” This time it’s the Step-Queen who silences him.
But his words have already added fuel to the King’s fire. “Do not pretend you did this for any other reason than childish fancy,” he growls. “You’re still infatuated with that girl.”
“I’m not infatuated with any girl!”
There’s a beat of silence, and I realize I’m bracing myself for the sound of another strike.
It doesn’t come. Instead, the King makes a sound more animal than man.
“Out of my sight, both of you. And pray to the Mothers that I can soothe the King of Lore before he declares war on us for this slight.”
The guard’s hand brushes my shoulder, breaking my concentration. “Mademoiselle,” he urges. “Come.”
This time I follow.
The Dauphine’s apartments are a gaudy, bloated place.
The furniture shines greasily in the low light; the bed is swollen with pillows, and the lace lain over the table and vanity looks more like trimmings of animal fat.
The lancet windows show a glimpse of the gardens and lake, wreathed in heavy emerald curtains with a pattern that is probably flower bouquets but looks more like heads of broccoli.
I stare at them as a maid peels away heavy layers of ball gown and pries apart coils of pale hair. Once she is gone, I sit on—or rather, sink into —the overstuffed bed. “I win,” I tell the ugly chandelier. “I win ,” I repeat, then rub my eyes in frustration.
I can’t find satisfaction in my victory, not when my mind reverberates with sounds: the slap of the King’s palm striking the Dauphin, the crack of the shattering wineglass, my brother’s pleading voice.
I’m not used to feeling uncertain, and it unsettles me.
I’ve spent my life under Regnault’s guidance, every move dictated by his plans, every choice made in search of his approval.
Even now I want to run back to the Théatre and tell him everything, ask him how to untangle the threads of intrigue that seem to be drawing tighter and tighter around me.
But I can’t, not yet. Not until I have the Couronne in my hands.
When this is over, we will never have to scavenge again. We will have all the magic we desire, and I will teach you all I know.
My father’s promise rings in my ears, bringing me a spark of much-needed hope. When I crawl into bed, I’m bone-tired but keen for the morning, for the next step of my plot, the next step closer to magic.
I fall asleep clutching the owl-face pendant. In my dreams, it burns against my palm, and a floor of black-and-white tiles stretches like a chessboard in front of me, golden blood streaked down the middle.
Something is coming, Daughter of the Blood, says a voice that rattles like a drowning man’s lungs. Something is coming.
I wake to the sound of sobbing.
For an instant, I’m afraid I’m still dreaming—buried by something heavy and stifling, my back slick with sweat. I scrabble around, panicking, until I finally manage to untangle myself from the lavish bedding of the Dauphine’s apartments and gulp night-chilled air.
The crying, however, does not stop. It comes from a distance, crawling through the hallways, reaching my chambers only as a quiet echo. Slowly the sound multiplies, until I can make out more raised voices, more hysteric sobs.
I climb from my bed and check the owl-face pendant before pulling a silk jacket from the chest to throw over my chemise. A red-wine dawn spills through the chamber’s windows, bathing me in violent shades as I rush toward the door. Foreboding fills my gut as I grip the handle and pull.
I do not get the chance to step out before Armand, the guard, is bearing down upon me, his mask jagged in the eerie light. “Mademoiselle, you can’t leave your chambers,” he says gruffly.
My heart leaps into my throat. Has my ruse been discovered?
“Why?” I demand, gathering as much queenly authority as I can muster while likely resembling a bedraggled, sleep-deprived rat.
“We are still assessing the situation. You will be told when it’s deemed safe.”
“Monsieur, please. I must—” I cut myself off as another wail echoes down the corridor.
It seems to be coming from the entrance hall.
I pause to listen, attempting to distinguish one panicked voice from another.
A command is barked. A woman’s voice argues back.
Then a third wail carries into the hallway.
“No! Bring him back!”
The Dauphin.
I step closer to the guard, nose-to-nose and glad once again for Marie’s superior height. “ What is g oing on down there? Why is my betrothed weeping?”
I can’t see the man’s expression, and the frustration of it makes me want to dig my nails under his mask and peel it from his face. He seems to deliberate. I force myself to be still, even though I feel as if sparks are trapped in my chest.
Finally he says, “The King is dead.”
The King is dead.
My chest lurches. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. How is this possible? It was mere hours ago that I’d seen him alive, bearing furiously down upon the Dauphin.
“How did it happen?” My voice comes out too matter-of-fact, too callous for tactful Marie. I force a handful of fat tears into my eyes so I don’t look too conspicuous.
The guard sounds haunted. “They found his body by the lakeside,” he says. “Halfway to the theater house.”
I frown. “What was he doing out there?”
“They say he went for a ride to clear his head. They found his guards dead, too. All bloodied.”
Now that gets my interest. “Bloodied?”
The guard shifts uncomfortably, realizing he has said too much. “This is a sensitive matter, mademoiselle, too violent for the ears of a lady. I’m sure the Dauphin would decide better what details you should know.”
I force a demure smile to my lips and let a few more tears fall. “Please, monsieur,” I say piteously. “I must know what is causing the Dauphin such distress.”
“It is… unspeakable.”
An ominous feeling slips along my bones. “Monsieur, you must tell me. You must. I’m your future queen.”
Beneath the ridges of the guard’s mask, his eyes squeeze shut.
He weighs his options in harrowed, irritated silence.
Finally he begins to speak again. “He was murdered by his own guard, mademoiselle.” His voice turns rough and halting, as though it’s snagging on his teeth.
“One of the best musketeers in the regiment too, a favorite of the Dauphin’s.
Prince Aimé took him off the streets, treated him like an equal.
And this is how he repays him, the ungrateful bastard. ”
My hair stands on end—this is beginning to sound too familiar. “Monsieur. What… what is his name?”
“I do not think you would know him, mademoiselle.”
“Still, I should like to hear it. Please.”
The guard regards me through narrowed eyes, as though my insistence is an annoyance. “If you must know, his name is Damien.”