Scene XVI The Château
The Royal Dining Room
“There is unrest at the Chateau.”
The Dauphin’s voice rings like a bell through the room.
Before me, a long, regal dining table seems to stretch into infinity, laden with a gargantuan display of foods—slabs of veal slick with grease, a pheasant with its feathers splayed out, vegetables carved into odd, abstract shapes, and frosted goblets of exotic wine.
We are in the royal dining room, a low-ceilinged chamber with walls of dark wood and an odd, earthy scent to it, as though we are trapped in a great coffin.
Overhead, arcs of silver lightning flash quietly over a ceiling painted with a roiling storm.
Like most of the Chateau’s enchantments, this magic is fading—the bolts, instead of streaking majestically across the vista, merely meander through it at a leisurely pace.
One such lightning bolt crawls over the Regent’s head as he leans forward, giving his scarred nose an unflattering highlight.
“From whom?” he inquires, his reedy voice seeming to send the wineglasses shaking. “Who dares utter dissent within these walls?”
The post-funeral banquet has turned into an unofficial meeting for the Conseil du Roi. The Step-Queen is present, as are all the most important secretaries of state, and the whole affair is going about as amicably as one might expect.
“Why does it matter who it was?” the Dauphin says faintly, leaning away from his uncle even though a table separates them. “They are not wrong to worry.”
“Gossip about the crown is treason ,” the Regent replies sharply. “Any who spread it must be arrested.”
Like you arrested my brother? I want to say, but I keep myself demurely silent, biding my time. I think of the funeral, the gray ocean of commoners with dull, desolate eyes. Apparently the cracks in Auréal’s foundations reach all the way to the Chateau Front-du-Lac.
Confronted by the Regent, Aimé seems to waver. He opens his mouth, closes it again. The Regent sits back down, seeming to expect the Dauphin to agree and confess. For a moment, it seems that is what Aimé will do, his breath shaky and audible. But then, to my utter shock—
“They’re worried, uncle. And if my own courtiers are expressing concern over the stability of my reign—over the effects of Morgane’s curse—then I can’t imagine what is being said of me in the city below.”
Grimaces and dirtied faces, clothes hanging off thinning frames.
“Anyway, I thought we could—” Aimé continues, but the Regent cuts him off.
“Dear nephew.” The man smiles kindly, but his eyes glitter with unashamed derision.
“Should you not be resting? Yesterday must have taken a toll on you—your father, my beloved brother, has only just been buried. Why not allow me to perform my duty as regent while you focus your attention on your future queen?” His gaze plasters onto me, as slimy and stubborn as a leech.
I resist the urge to scrub at my skin. The two other Conseil members chuckle, while the Step-Queen presses her lips together.
Aimé’s cheeks have gone red. When he says nothing, the Regent’s smile curls into something jagged and gloating.
“So I thought. You agree, then, that it is best I handle this my way. I understand you want to take charge now before your coronation, but you are still grieving, and we all know of your… ah, nerves .” He crosses his arms, the image of thin, looming authority, like a lengthened shadow at sunset.
“You have stayed out of royal business for so long, dear nephew. It may be best that you wait a little longer.”
Beside me, Aimé’s shoulders drop in defeat. He pulls his hands under the tablecloth, but before he can fully hide them, I see they’re shaking minutely.
I gnaw on my thumb, shoving down a wave of frustration.
The Regent has turned to the courtier on his left, and they’re discussing the unrest within the kingdom.
I hear the word “militia” muttered, and beside me Aimé tenses.
I remember what the Regent’s friend said about the Dauphin the night of the ball: The little pest is easy to get rid of.
I can’t help but wonder: What if there had been unspoken words between them?
What if he had wanted to say, The King will be harder?
Kill the King, control the prince. But the beast had golden blood—sorcery was involved in its creation, and the Regent is no sorcier.
Which means he must be working with one.
I wish, once more, for my father. He has always held a wealth of knowledge about magic. He might know a way of tracking down another sorcier if one is present.
If only I could bring my father here…
A sudden idea springs to me, and I’m leaping to my feet before I can think it through. “What if we moved up the wedding?”
The Regent’s head snaps toward me.
“What did she say?” asks the sallow-faced courtier at his side.
“Nothing of importance,” says the Regent immediately, turning back to him. “You know how women are.”
I grind my teeth together, understanding suddenly why the Step-Queen remains silent. I want to push over my wineglass, shatter a plate: whatever it takes to gain their attention. But— You are Marie d’Odette, I remind myself. Be diplomatic.
“My apologies.” I address both the Regent and the elderly courtier. “I see I should speak more loudly to accommodate those of more… mature hearing.” I suppress a smile as the Regent purples. “I was thinking we could move the wedding up. Say, by two weeks.”
Beside me, Aimé nearly chokes on his wine. “What?”
“You say that the people doubt Aimé’s strength?” I say. “What better way to show them that the crown is as united as ever than by a grand celebration? Perhaps you could even put some magic into the event, bring out the Couronne for—”
“No.” The Step-Queen’s voice breaks through my words like a well-aimed arrow. “That is not how the Couronne works. It should only be used in dire need, not for frivolous party tricks. The late king understood that.”
“Yes, so he let the kingdom languish instead,” Aimé mutters.
“And thus avoided becoming a second Spider King,” the Step-Queen points out.
Aimé’s eyes blaze suddenly. “I would gladly go mad if it meant keeping my people from starving!”
There is a snap of silence, and the old courtier sidles into it awkwardly. “This is a good idea,” he says, wiping his lips with a napkin. “The wedding, I mean. It would be an excellent way to put the court’s mind off the recent tragedy.”
“But the magnitude of planning such an event,” Aimé interjects, his hands still clenched together under the table, “of organizing food and décor and sending out invitations on such short notice… it would be impossible.”
“Not impossible,” I say. I have to maneuver this discussion carefully now, to make sure the outcome is as I want it.
Overhead, a bolt of lightning flashes across the ceiling, and for a heartbeat every noble at the table is turned into a brightly lit ghoul.
“Surely there must be someone at the palace who is adept at managing such events. Someone with knowledge of decoration, of coordinating. Someone who can make an impression.”
Silence falls as all present seem to try to think of such a person. I sit back, worrying my bottom lip, wondering if I should have been more pointed with my words.
To my relief, Aimé gives a soft “oh” of realization. “Uncle, Stepmother, what about the theater director?”
It takes all my self-control not to smirk with satisfaction.
“Monsieur Regnault always puts on the grandest spectacles. Even Papa used to praise him, and we know how he hated frivolity. Surely we have all had our breaths taken away many times by the Théatre du Roi’s plays.
And what is a wedding, really, if not a grand performance?
” He adds the last words with a touch of irony.
Another courtier speaks up. “I think the girl has a point,” he says. “It would be a good way to reassure the noblesse that the King’s death was a regrettable anomaly and that there is nothing to fear at the Chateau. All myths are just that: myths.”
“Very well,” the Regent says, rubbing his temples. There is an edge of vitriol to his words, the sound of a man who may have admitted defeat but is already plotting revenge. “We will send for this theater master and let him manage the preparations.”
“We can hire staff from the city too,” Aimé pipes in. “And some more guards as well. We need to be prepared. And perhaps we can keep the new servants on afterward. Bring some life back to this place.”
And so it is settled. Dinner ends, the company dispersing to attend to their individual duties, and I am left filled with conflicting emotions as thick as the storm clouds painted overhead.
I am eager to see Regnault again. Once he is here, everything will be easier.
Once he is here, we can plan the rest of this heist together.
I stand, smoothing out Marie’s skirts, and make to leave the room. But a sudden suspicion has me pausing at the threshold, tucking myself behind the wall to eavesdrop.
At the end of the table, Aimé is approaching the Step-Queen, a teacup in hand.
They exchange quiet words, and she once again reaches into her pocket, taking out the vial of strange yellow liquid.
Just as in the previous day, she pours it into Aimé’s drink, watching intently as the golden-haired prince raises the cup to his lips.
Her gaze does not leave him until he swallows every last drop.
If anyone nearby is surprised by the sight, they make no indication. Nor does the Step-Queen try to hide her actions. And yet a sense of wrongness overcomes me. There’s something too intense, too urgent, in the Step-Queen’s eyes. Just what, I wonder, is in that vial?