Scene XIX The Château
The Queen’s Tower
“No. No, you’re wrong.” Aimé stares at me white-faced, his shoulders heaving as though he has run miles. “You’re wrong .”
Carefully, I walk over to the bed and sit down in front of him, opening my hands in supplication. “Think about it, Aimé. She has many connections at court yet goes mostly unnoticed. She had your father’s trust, has your trust—”
“My father was killed by a beast,” Aimé interrupts me desperately.
“A beast of impossible size. Most likely created by a sorcier.”
“My stepmother has red blood,” Aimé says adamantly. “I saw her prick her finger once on an embroidery needle. She’s no sorcier.”
“But she could have contacts with one,” I argue.
“She could have let the sorcier know where the King would be, and the sorcier could have sent the beast after him.” The more I explain it, the more the picture begins to come together.
There’s something terribly satisfying about it, like the easy click of puzzle pieces.
“But this doesn’t explain what my father was doing out on the grounds mere hours before dawn.”
“Perhaps Anne asked him to meet her there. Orchestrated some sort of meeting or ruse. And ensured Damien would arrive just in time to find the bodies.” I lean forward. “It makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Aimé’s jaw is set now. “Let’s… let’s say that you’re right. She did kill my father. Why not kill me the same way?”
“Because if another, similar death occurred while Damien was in prison, he would be absolved. So she’s relying on the potions to kill you slowly. What if the reason your nerves have gotten worse isn’t despite the medicine but because of it?”
“These are all assumptions. Theories.” Aimé gets to his feet, slamming the book in his lap shut and beginning to pace.
“I know you are trying to help, Marie, but I cannot believe this. This strange rivalry between you and my stepmother is skewing your perception of things. Anne would never hurt me. She—she doesn’t have a reason to. ”
“She does,” I argue, feeling a sear of frustration at his dismissal. “If you were to die, who would inherit the throne?”
He pulls up short. I see the realization dawn on his face. “Pierre. But he’s just a little boy.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Easy to control.”
“Stop this.” He covers his face with one hand. “Anne isn’t like that.”
But I can’t stop. Not with my brother at stake. The timeline has been shortened, and I can feel desperation gnawing on my bones. “Do you know what’s in the medicine, Aimé?”
He shakes his head minutely.
“I do.” As he turns toward me, I pull the flower from my pocket and hold it out to him.
“I found this near the border of the palace grounds. I heard a rumor that Anne frequents a certain spot there, so I went to look. Found a patch of these. I tried to identify them, but in all the Chateau’s botanical books, I could not find a single mention of anything similar. ”
A flicker of doubt ghosts over Aimé’s face.
Then he huffs sharply. “No. I can’t believe this, Marie—I’m sorry.
So Stepmother uses strange flowers to make my medicine?
That doesn’t make it any less effective.
I’ve been taking it since I was a boy—it is the only thing that helps me.
” He shakes his head, dislodging a few golden ringlets that fall around his face.
“All this is merely an assumption. Without proof it is meaningless. And it won’t save Damien. ”
Disappointment and urgency whirl through me in a storm. He’s right. I don’t have proof, and for all my excitement about my theory, it is really just that: a theory. I need evidence. I need to identify that flower. But how?
I try to put myself in the shoes of a poisoner.
Where would I hide my secrets? Surely not in my bedroom, a place that would see a constant flow of servants.
But nowhere too strange, either—nowhere that could raise eyebrows if I went there too often.
The Step-Queen has a study, I remember: somewhere in the Chateau’s north wing.
It is her private space for letter writing, and not even the King was allowed to enter.
I never went there as a servant—there was only one maid permitted to clean the space, a shy girl who spoke little and kept her head down.
I’d thought little of it at the time, but…
it’s possible Anne de Malezieu was doing more in there than simply writing letters.
Now that I am no longer pressing him, Aimé stops his pacing. He puts down the massive tome on a fabric-swathed table, sending up a puff of dust. I realize it is some sort of ledger—or perhaps a journal, judging by the wear and tear of the spine.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s what I wanted to show you,” he says, staring at it in reproach. “Technically it’s a ledger of finance. My father kept it up here with all his other… memories. Except this one wasn’t my mother’s, but my grandfather’s. My father showed it to me once when I was a boy. As… a warning.”
I come closer. “A warning?”
“Yes. You’ll find it’s rather… maddening .
” He laughs quietly at his own joke, one I don’t understand.
I frown and open the tome. The first pages are written in neat, precise script, sums and charts detailing imports and exports, debts and budgets.
Looking at the numbers, my head immediately starts to throb, and I continue flicking through the pages. Halfway through the journal, however…
“See the writing here? See how orderly it is?” Aimé turns a few more pages and stops. “Now look at the date.” He points to the top of the yellowed paper, and I suck in a breath. October 25.
“The day of Bartrand de Roux’s betrayal,” I say.
“Exactly.” Aimé flips the page again. “Now watch.”
As he gets further into the journal, the Spider King’s writing begins to grow more and more lopsided, going from perfectly shaped letters and numbers to a maddened, frenzied scrawl. Eventually, the writing breaks off entirely, devolving into three words, ink-spotted and panicked and never ending.
HE IS COMING HE IS COMING
HE IS COMING HE
IS COMING
The longer I look at the words, the more my skin crawls.
Aimé glances at me, sheepish. “This is what it does, you see? The Couronne. This is the big secret. It’s not just a magical artifact—whatever is inside it drove my grandfather to the brink of insanity.
The more he used it, the worse it got. According to my father, he would simply stare for hours at the thing, like it had him in some sort of thrall.
Sometimes he would talk to things that weren’t there.
Toward the end, he didn’t even recognize his own son. ”
My pulse rises—dread slips through me, cold and biting. Regnault always told me that the Couronne was impossibly powerful, full of enough magic to summon back Morgane. Could it be that very magic which drove the Spider King mad?
“This is why my father was always so reluctant to use it,” Aimé says, closing the book, brushing his sleeve over the leather cover.
“Do you remember the drought three years ago? It would have decimated southern Auréal had my father not traveled there with the Couronne to encourage crops to grow.” He toys idly with the edge of the page, his eyes distant.
“He was never the same after that. Sometimes he would mumble under his breath or stare at nothing with his eyes glazed. His anger got worse. Much worse. So he swore never to use the crown again, no matter what befell us. I think he believed that… that Auréal could survive without it. But with every year, the crops bear smaller yields, the trees less fruit. The courtiers go hunting and complain that they find no quarry, only old carcasses. This kingdom is decaying , Marie. I’m certain even Auvigny has felt it.
The only way to keep it from rotting entirely is to use the Couronne’s magic.
Once I am crowned, that duty will fall to me.
” He sighs, then laughs. “Thankfully, I’m already going mad.
No one will be able to tell the difference. ”
“Aimé,” I say tightly, and that’s all I can manage. For a brief, baffling moment, I consider telling him everything. About the Couronne, about my father’s plan. About how I could save him from madness, how I plan to bring magic back.
But at the end of all this, I want the power Regnault promised me.
I don’t want to bow like the Golden-Blooded Girl before a king.
And though a foolish part of me—the part that let Marie place diamonds around my neck, the part that thought my brother would stay by my side—wants to trust Aimé, I still bear the scars from old burns.
So I tell him nothing. I sit beside him and let him rest his head on my shoulder, while somewhere in the distance a mourning dove cries out. But while my body is still, my mind can’t seem to quiet. I am already deciding on my next move.
The Step-Queen’s secrets prove difficult to unravel.
That day and the next, I attempt to locate her study, to no avail.
Many of the Chateau servants are new, it seems, and unaware of its existence—she spends most of the day surrounded by her court ladies, they say, moving between sitting rooms and tea rooms, seemingly no different than the rest of the noblesse.
It is only the evenings that she spends alone.
I bide my time, hiding in the shadows near the north wing.
Near sunset she arrives, walking with purpose, a whirl of mourning black and blazing sapphire.
I try to follow, but I am too slow—she’s already been swallowed up by the crooked maze of hallways.
By the next day, the first wedding guests arrive. The Dauphin rises early to arrange a welcoming feast for them, the Step-Queen hovering by his side. “Your medicine,” I overhear her whispering to him. “I’ve brought it for you.”
Perfect. I ensure I sit beside the Step-Queen, and when she is distracted, I slip the vial from her skirt pocket.
Midway through the meal, she realizes it’s missing and excuses herself promptly, whispering something to Aimé before she leaves.
I wait a moment before following. I see the hem of her skirts disappearing around the corner and rush after her, only to be blocked by two of the newly arrived guests.
One of them—a young man who seems to have antlers protruding from his skull—mutters something in irritated Orlican.
I ignore him and shove past, picking up my skirts and following my quarry.
The Step-Queen passes the chapel. She turns down one dark hallway, then another.
Past a group of murmuring servants, an empty drawing room full of glass-eyed hunting trophies.
Finally her footsteps slow. I hear the click of an opening door, and then silence.
I peer carefully around the corner to see a black door of unassuming ebony, and—
A shadow seizes me. I’m shoved against the wall. Cold fingers close around my throat, the metal press of rings jutting into my windpipe.
“I always knew there was something strange about you,” the Step-Queen snarls. Her flat teeth gleam yellow in the muted light, the sharpness of her perfume needling my sinuses. “And finally I catch you red-handed. Now tell me what you’re plotting.”
“Plotting?” I school my expression into one of angelic innocence despite the panicked thundering of my pulse. “Madame, I’m not plotting anything. I swear it.”
Her fingers tighten, making me wheeze. “Do you take me for a fool? I know you’ve been following me.”
“I was, but—” I press my back farther into the wall, trying to loosen her hold. I’m acutely aware that if she manages to draw blood, she will uncover my ruse. “I only wanted to—to return this to you.” I shift enough to slide my hand into my pocket and palm the vial of potion. “Here.”
Upon seeing the vial, she pulls back somewhat, her eyes narrowing. I know what she’s thinking: If I’m truly plotting something, why admit to having the potion in my possession?
“I found it on the ground,” I say, holding it out to her. “I know it’s the Dauphin’s medicine, but I thought it best to give it back to you, since you’re the one who gives it to him.”
The Step-Queen scowls. For a moment I fear she will not take the bait. But after a furious pause she releases me, snatching the vial from my outstretched palm. Immediately I scramble away from her, but she steps in front of me, blocking my escape.
“Once a thief, always a thief,” she says, pointing a bony finger at me. “Know this—I see through this facade of yours. You’re still trying to sink your claws into something that does not belong to you.”
Her words might as well be a confession. She’s after the crown, just as I thought, and she sees me as a rival.
“I truly don’t know of what you speak,” I say with as much honesty as I can muster. “I was merely trying to help.”
“Save your lies for my foolish son,” the Step-Queen growls. “And remember this: I am watching you. One step out of line, Marie d’Odette, and I will ensure you’re sent back to Auvigny in shame.”
By that evening the Step-Queen has made good on her promise. I catch guards shadowing my every step, trailing me around the Chateau like phantoms. I curse my incaution. I should be better than this—Regnault would be disappointed in me.
But I refuse to be outsmarted.
I hatch a new plan. A plan that, to my great disappointment, will need the assistance of the one girl I cannot seem to stay away from.