Scene VIII The Dauphine’s Apartments
Dawn Breaks
The world blurs at the edges, unreal, mocking. I take a step back, my hands falling uselessly to my sides. The guard’s masked face is a slash of silver against the dawn-soaked surroundings.
“Mademoiselle,” he says gruffly, “do you know him?”
I shake my head. “No.” Yes, I want to scream. Yes, by the Mothers, that’s my brother.
But he’s not , I remind myself. He betrayed you, remember?
I take a breath, gathering myself. “Let me through,” I say.
“I already told you—”
My temper shatters in its entirety. I pretend to see something terrifying over his shoulder and clap my hands over my mouth. “Good Mothers, he’s here ,” I say dramatically.
The guard starts in alarm and turns on his heel. I use the distraction to shove past him and into the corridor.
“Mademoiselle!” He reaches for me, but even in Marie’s taller body, I’m still nimble. I duck under his outstretched arm and take off toward the stairs, my footfalls echoing behind me, my pulse pounding in my ears.
By the time I reach the entrance hall, I’m breathless. I have to pause halfway down the stairs, leaning on the balustrade and taking in the chaos of the dark hall.
The space vibrates with anxious voices. A group of stately noblemen stand in a small cluster in the middle, clad in nightclothes and hastily thrown-over cloaks.
Half the candles of the room’s chandelier have gone out, and darkness reaches eagerly to fill the hollows of their cheeks and the bags beneath their eyes.
In the center of it all is the Step-Queen, wearing a silk robe of deep blue.
Pressed against her is the Dauphin, his golden hair loose, violent sobs wracking his body.
The same word bubbles from his lips over and over again.
“No, no, no, it can’t be, he would never, no, please .”
I watch, surprised, as the Dauphin attempts to jerk out of the Step-Queen’s arms. She pulls him to herself and shushes him, but there is no tenderness in her eyes. Her mouth is tight, cold.
“Please,” the boy repeats, and struggles once more. This time he breaks free from the Step-Queen’s grasp and turns toward the gathered courtiers. “Please, you must listen to me. It doesn’t make sense, he—he would not do this, he’s the most loyal of my men, he—”
I frown. He’s not talking about the King—he’s talking about Damien.
One of the lords runs his hand exasperatedly over his face.
I recognize him from the ball—it’s the man with the scarred nose.
In the faint light, his skin looks paper-thin, his eyes glittering shrewdly.
“I understand that is what you think, nephew, but you are blinded by your affection for the man.”
“But it doesn’t make sense,” the Dauphin argues feebly. “What reason could he possibly have…” He trails off, tries to gather himself. “Please. Listen to me. I’m the King now.”
“You are not king until you are crowned,” says the scar-nosed man. “Until then, I am regent, and I will take care of this matter.”
I wonder if I should interfere, but something in me thinks it’s better simply to watch this unfold. There’s a jagged tension in the room, every word a blade rusted by resentment. I would prefer not to get impaled.
“At least let me see him,” the Dauphin pleads. “Let me hear him out.”
“I do not think it is a good idea for you to be speaking with a murderer, Aimé,” says the scar-nosed man—the Regent. “Not in this state.”
The Dauphin’s eyes hold the same wild, watery desperation as those of a trapped animal. “Uncle, please,” he begs. When the Regent doesn’t reply, he turns to the Step-Queen, clutching her robe. “Stepmother?” The Step-Queen shakes her head, and he sobs. “Please, this isn’t fair .”
The Regent lays a hand on his shoulder with cruel gentleness. “All these tears. Do you see? This is precisely why you cannot be trusted with decisions right now.”
I take a step back, my mind buzzing from all I’ve heard. I realize there’s nothing I can do here, no way I can twist this to my advantage. There are too many people present—too many variables, as Regnault would say, for me to attempt to manipulate the situation.
The Regent turns his attention to the Step-Queen.
“I think the Dauphin should be returned to his bedchambers. He clearly needs time to grieve. Laujon, please escort him.” He addresses the last words to one of the tallest guards in the hall, a bearlike man with an ugly, stretched face.
The guard stomps toward the Step-Queen and the Dauphin, and the Dauphin flinches farther into his stepmother’s arms.
I watch as the Step-Queen guides the Dauphin away, even as he continues to whisper small, pathetic pleas under his breath.
Frustration surges through me at the sight.
This is the future king, the man who will one day rule Auréal, and here he is tossed around like a rag doll by his own uncle.
He is making the same mistake the Golden-Blooded Girl made—all this power within his grasp, and he is letting it be torn away from him.
I shake my head sharply and begin to turn away.
As I do, my neck begins to prickle. I pause and turn, slowly, to catch the pale eyes of the Regent, the scar across his nose seeming to stretch and warp.
My chest tightens in sudden, painful warning.
Look away, look away, it screams. For a moment I can’t, as though all my willpower has been stripped from me, my gaze sucked into the mire that is the Regent’s attention.
Then, at last, I manage to tear away. Heart thudding, I touch the owl-face pendant and hurry back the way I came.
I know from the crawling, greasy feeling on my skin that the Regent watches me until I’m out of sight.
Any formalities I might have been expected to handle as the soon-to-be Dauphine are forgotten as the Chateau reels from news of the murder. I have breakfast in my chambers—after all, I’m meant to be mourning —and restlessly pick at a plate of syrupy viennoiseries.
My mind churns. According to the maid who brought me my breakfast—who heard it from the cook, who heard it from a footman, who overheard it from a guard—Damien has been taken to the Chateau prisons.
“Apparently,” the maid tells me in a gleeful whisper, “he was covered in blood when the guards found him, leaning over the King’s body. He had a knife in his hand.”
I squeeze my eyes tight, rubbing my temples. What a fine mess my brother has gotten himself into. I might resent him, but Damien has always firmly believed in justice. He’s not a killer. And if he were to kill someone, it would be in a fair duel, not with a knife in the dark.
Then again, a voice in my mind whispers, you haven’t seen him in five years. People change.
Frustrated, I shove my chair back and stand. There’s too much I don’t know—I cannot decide on my next course of action until I learn more about what happened last night.
“I believe I will go for a walk in the gardens,” I declare to the maid who has been waiting on me.
The girl nods and fetches my jacket, helping me into it. “Shall I summon some of the court ladies for company?”
I wave my hand. “No, I’m going alone. I must clear my head.” Before she can protest, I rush out the door. To my relief, Armand is not there to stop me—it seems most guards have been summoned away to deal with the post-murder chaos.
It did not take long for the tidings of the King’s death to spread across the Chateau.
One might as well have announced an epidemic—ever since the news broke, the palace has emptied out like an overturned bucket, spilling nobles from its bowels and into glittering carriages.
Some are still awaiting their turn to escape, milling about restlessly in the entrance hall and shuffling into the main courtyard.
I avoid them and head for the gardens instead.
I draw in a breath when I step outside, the frost-sharp air pricking my lungs.
Ahead stretch the Chateau grounds, occupied by a hedge maze of jagged rosebushes nearly as tall as my head, obscuring most of Lac des Cygnes from sight.
The hedges, though lifelike, are made entirely of iron, peppered with large, shining roses of solid gold.
The rosebushes are a brutal reminder of all the kingdom has lost. Once, Morgane had blessed Auréal, ensuring it was fertile and plentiful. Hers was the domain of transformation: winter becoming spring, seeds turning to crops, butterflies bursting from chrysalises.
After her curse, flowers refused to bloom.
Crops failed. Foals and calves were born sickly.
When all his beloved roses withered, the Spider King, in a fit of fury, placed the Couronne du Roi upon his head for the first time.
With its magic he grew new roses of metal, deathless imitations of former beauty.
Then he traveled the kingdom and used the crown’s powers to force the failing crops to grow, to rekindle some little life within his dying kingdom.
Picking up my skirts, I step between the hedges, relishing in the silence, a welcome change to the noisiness of the Chateau.
The garden’s treasures peek over the tangles of metal, offering glimpses of dilapidated secrets—the forehead of a crumbling statue, the tip of a trellis, the occasional stunted fruit tree.
I made my way through this maze more than once as a maid, so I know where to go.
I reach my goal soon enough—Lac des Cygnes, a sleepy, rippling entity, the Théatre du Roi a fog-veiled speck on the opposite bank, a scattering of swans drifting nearby.
I wonder which one of them is Marie—I wonder if I would even be able to tell.
I pull my jacket tighter around myself and begin my slow trek around the lake.
It doesn’t take me long to find the place where the King died.
It’s obvious even from a distance: dried blood darkens the earth between forest and lake, and the bank is littered with crushed leaves and footprints.
The bodies are gone, but I can see indents in the soil where they had lain, still stained the color of rust.
Before drawing closer, I check my surroundings carefully.
Once I’m certain that I’m alone, I take off the owl-face pendant and turn back into myself.
It would be rather odd if Marie d’Odette returned to the Chateau with her skirts stained with blood.
I’m not entirely sure how I would explain that one.
Oh dear, I went for a stroll and stumbled upon the scene of a grisly murder. Silly me!
My chest loosens now that I’m no longer in disguise.
I walk slowly up to the imprints in the earth before crouching by the one nearest to me.
I can make out the silhouette of splayed legs, grooves carved out by clawing human hands.
The grass around them is sticky with gore, with bits of flesh tucked between bristly blades. Whatever happened here, it was violent.
And Damien is not a violent man. So what was he doing over the corpses?
I chew on my thumb, considering. Damien is Aimé’s closest confidant, his valiant protector.
Without him Aimé would be exposed, left almost entirely alone.
First the King, then the Dauphin’s closest guard? This seems too convenient.
Could Damien have been framed? And does this mean the Dauphin might be in danger?
“This will not do,” I mutter to the trees rustling overhead. “No one is allowed to kill the Dauphin until after the wedding. I need that crown.”
As if in response to my words, splashing erupts from the lake ahead. I look up, startled, then realize that it’s just one of the swans, beating its wings against the water as it draws closer.
I begin to relax… until I meet the creature’s eyes, and its gaze brightens with furious, frighteningly human recognition. It stretches its neck forward and hisses, slamming its wings against the lake’s surface in threat. I leap to my feet, scrambling back from the bank.
“M-Marie?” I stammer.
The swan seems to puff itself up in righteous anger, wings spread wide and menacing.
Then it charges.