Scene XXI The Château
I wake late the next morning, groggy and sticky-eyed and taut with nerves.
The events of last night are still stark in my mind, as is the knowledge that Damien is running out of time.
But I cannot set my plan in motion until nightfall, and for it to work, there is one more person I must recruit: my father.
I wind through the Chateau halls in search of him.
More guests seem to have arrived today, clad in the latest lacy fashions, dripping with jewels and self-importance.
Before them, the Chateau has put on its own luxurious mask: every candle lit and banister polished, plush carpets rolled out over cold marble, and a sudden gush of crimson-clad servants flooding the halls to attend to every guest. It’s all a veneer, a thin varnish.
The guests seem to sense it—there is ever an edge of paranoia in their eyes, ever a pause in their step as they turn a corner, as though there is a monster waiting unseen on the other side.
They eye the Chateau like vultures might a corpse—skittish and mistrustful, yet eager to pluck every last morsel of gossip from between its rotting bones.
I find Regnault in a drawing room, speaking to several courtiers, gesturing grandly as he entertains them with some story or jest. The gathered noblemen stare at him, transfixed, and when he finishes the tale, they all burst into raucous laughter.
My father, I remark, seems to have seized control of the court’s ravenous chaos.
Even as theater director, he was always careful to maintain the good regard of the noblesse.
Now he has been awarded new authority, new importance, for the time of the wedding, and he is using that to ingratiate himself with them.
He is able to endure their patronizing amusement in a way that I never could, presenting himself as an attraction, a jester.
It’s a clever sleight of hand—the more they enjoy his presence, the more they seek him out, the more power he gains.
I curtsy as I walk up to him, all too aware that we are both playing parts and that I must maintain my guise of Marie. “A word, monsieur?”
Regnault dips his head and leads me to a quiet corner. There I tell him a lie: I need him to organize an event tonight, a distraction, so I can investigate a clue that might help us steal the Couronne sooner.
It’s a small lie—a half lie, really—but when Regnault nods and agrees, something inside me shrivels in shame. I have never before told so many lies to my father, hidden so many truths from him. I can only hope that in the end it is all worth it.
That evening after nightfall, the court and the guests and anyone of importance are called to attend an elaborate many-course dinner.
Minutes before twilight, I open my window to an ashen, windswept November sky, dark clouds reflecting the dwindling sunset like cinnabar flame.
Against them a single figure appears: a white swan approaching from over the lake, graceful wings flapping with smooth, steady strokes.
As she approaches, she halts midair, and for a moment she is motionless, the last ray of light against a gathering dark, every feather dyed by dusk.
Then she folds her wings and dives through the window.
Before her feet can touch the ground, a burst of golden light swallows her body. Moments later, Marie d’Odette drops daintily to her feet, flexing her shoulders as if to fold invisible wings. Her eyes open slowly, gray as a storm-tossed sea.
“Good evening, sorciere,” she greets me softly. There’s an uncharacteristic, nervous edge to her voice.
I throw her a grin. “Evening, princess. Welcome home.”
She smiles wanly but doesn’t reply. Her gaze skips across the dark room as though she expects it to tighten around her like a snare. I’ve never seen her so skittish, so reluctant, but I don’t remark on it. I don’t have Marie’s talent for comforting words or, as she put it last night, affection.
“Are you ready?” I ask instead, gesturing to the pile of silver satin lain out on the bed.
She nods, a strained motion.
Marie carefully removes her peasant’s clothing until she’s in nothing but a lacy chemise, a cold tongue of wind slipping through the window to lap at the hem.
I help her into the gown. It should be simple, familiar—I did this many times when we were girls.
Yet now I am too aware of it, of her —the thin layers of silky fabric between us, the tantalizing slope of her collarbones over the low-cut neckline.
The pale divot between them where I could press my lips.
I wonder what it would feel like to ruin her, to tangle my legs with hers and stain her pristine, pallid perfection with my darkness.
I clear my throat, ushering the thoughts away with haste.
“The plan is as I told you last night,” I say, to distract myself from the proximity of her skin as I tug on the ribbon lacing of her bodice.
“All you have to do is keep Anne de Malezieu’s attention, and make sure she stays in the dining room for as long as possible.
I will do my best to be swift, but no matter what I find, I will return here in two hours. ”
“What if Anne leaves before then?” Marie asks.
“She shouldn’t. She’s the Dauphin’s stepmother, after all—she’s expected to be present and entertain guests. But if she does decide to leave, you must stop her. Ask her about her earrings. Spill wine on her dress. Challenge her to a duel. Anything, just keep her in place.”
Marie shoots me a sceptical look. “Challenge her to a duel?”
“Be creative!” I say cheerily, tucking the ribbons away and stepping back.
“Oh, and try to avoid my father. I doubt he will be present at the table—he’ll likely be busy coordinating the staff.
But if he is there, and he asks you what you’re doing, tell him the plan has changed.
Tell him you have everything under control, and that you will explain tomorrow. ”
Marie nods, understanding. “He’ll think I’m you.”
“Yes. And everyone else will think you’re you.”
“Of course.” She takes a steadying breath, her breasts swelling against the firm constraints of the bodice. One of the blue ribbon closures along the front has come undone, and I resist the urge to reach for it, to get close to her one last time. Marie ties it herself, then squares her shoulders.
“Very well,” she says, heading for the door. She reaches for the handle, then pauses, looking back at me. “What happens after tonight, Odile? What happens to… to this?” She gestures between us.
This. Memories of the previous night, of the soft brush of her hair against my cheek. Mothers, how did I let myself become so distracted? “ If I can find evidence of the Step-Queen’s plot,” I say matter-of-factly, “we tell the Dauphin the truth.”
Marie raises her eyebrows. “All of it?”
I nod, reluctant, but for once in my life, honest. “All of it. Now go.” I shove her shoulder so that I don’t have to witness the proud, pleased edge to her smile. “Go pretend to be me pretending to be you, my silver-eyed muse.”
“You’re absurd,” she tells me.
“I’m an actress, mademoiselle,” I reply, bowing dramatically. “It’s a mandatory affliction.”
Her only response is a laugh, birdsong soft as she slips out the door.
I wait until I can no longer hear voices or footsteps echoing down the halls before I slip from the room.
I put the owl-face pendant back on as I walk—it will be easier to explain myself if I’m caught, as long as someone hasn’t just witnessed the real Marie d’Odette in the dining room.
With the attention of the whole court on the dinner, the remainder of the palace has grown tight and sinister, as though I am walking not on marble but on thin, creaking ice. My stomach twists with anticipation.
I follow the path the Step-Queen took the previous day until I reach the obsidian door where she cornered me. I survey it carefully: there’s a keyhole in the very middle of tarnished bronze, and little other decoration to speak of.
I kneel in front of the keyhole, pulling out my trusty pins and slipping them inside. After some fiddling, it clicks open easily. The metal around it seems to shimmer, but I blink, and all looks normal. A trick of the light, I decide, and push open the door.
Magic-scent hits the back of my throat with such force that I barely manage to mute a cough against my knuckles.
Beyond the doors lies a threadbare room, smaller than I expected for a queen, with furniture scattered about it haphazardly, all of it archaic and worn and splashed with strange substances.
The air seems strangely foggy, and the scent around me changes, taking on a sour, fermented edge.
On a distant bookshelf I notice rows upon rows of vials and bottles, all containing liquids of different colors. I approach them carefully, my breath quickening. One of the jars has been left on the edge, carefully screwed tight, set aside as though it has been recently opened.
Within the jar are the strange flowers from the forest, all crushed together, their soggy corpses piled against its walls. Around them, a watery liquid turns a sickly, eerie yellow.
Nearby is a writing desk, set under a narrow window with the crimson curtains drawn tight.
Upon it lie stacks of papers—notes, I realize—and I gather them up with jittery excitement.
There are dates written on the tops of pages, and I find the more recent ones, scanning them quickly.
Fragments of words catch my eye: subject is beginning to show signs of toxicosis…
lower dosage ineffective, led to disastrous results…
improved with reduced psychological symptoms… completely undetectable…
Poison. The Step-Queen has been experimenting with poison.
I set the papers aside and reach for a heavy book bound in red leather lying just beneath them.
My heart skips when I read the title: Medicinal Applications of Sorcerous Elixirs.
Something inside me vibrates urgently—this is it; I know this is it.
I open the book and begin to flip through it.
I go through pages of recipes, of pictures of herbs and flowers and mushrooms I have never seen.
Witherwort. For prolonging the effects of a potion.
Wolf-lily. To enhance a sorcier’s power.
Bluefang, a universal antidote. And then…
There it is. The yellow flower from the forest, though the illustration clearly comes from a time before Bartrand de Roux’s betrayal, because it is not small and wrinkled but gloriously blooming, leaves outspread like a sun’s rays.
This is it. This is the proof I need.
But before I can read a single word, an unpleasant, reedy voice rings through the room: “I think that’s rather enough, don’t you?”