Page 31

I sleep until it is nearly noon, until the slam of rain on my window and the knock of a maid forces me, groaning, back to my feet. The stiffness of bandages on my arm draws me up short. The previous night comes rushing back to me—the thorn, the well, Marie.

“A moment!” I call to the maid.

I peel the bandages off and toss them angrily into the room’s chest, ignoring the way my stomach lurches at the memory of torn cloth and a burning touch.

I’m relieved to see the wound beneath has closed itself smoothly.

I cover it with face powder and dab more onto my wrists, then wrap the wound in lace and ribbon, hoping it will look like a quirky choice of accessory.

Only then do I let the maid in. Once I am dressed, I pull both journal and yellow flower from beneath my mattress and slip them into the pockets tied beneath my skirts.

I think of showing Aimé the yellow flower, telling him my concerns.

Then I pause. What if I’m wrong? What if the Step-Queen is truly helping Aimé, as he claims, and all I do is cast suspicion on myself for following her around the Chateau grounds?

I consider my options as I head down the stairs, still unsure whether I should angle toward the library or the Dauphin’s chambers.

Before I can make a decision, I notice a familiar silhouette in the entrance hall and freeze in my tracks.

Regnault stands in the middle of the chamber, his black cloak brushing the marble, auburn hair slicked back and raven-feather mask shining in the daylight. He is speaking with the Regent, and given that a servant is hurrying away with a small trunk of belongings, I assume he has just arrived.

For no reason I can explain, my heart begins to pound uneasily.

I have not seen my father since before I tried to unravel his spell on Marie.

What if he feels that something is amiss?

What if he’s displeased by the way I have handled our plans?

Worse, what if he realizes I have been… fraternizing with not only the Dauphin but Mademoiselle d’Auvigny, who for all intents and purposes should still be spending all her time as a bird?

The men are deep in conversation—I consider ducking into the shadows and skirting around them, or doubling back and going a different way. But I don’t get the chance to move before my father’s eyes land on me.

It’s like being pinned by an arrow. His gaze glitters, sly and unyielding.

My heart begins to pound harder, my knees feeling strangely weak.

The wound on my arm throbs urgently. I try to calm myself.

I wanted this. I orchestrated this so we could work together.

Regnault is the only person who truly understands me, after all.

So why do I feel afraid?

My father opens his arms. “This must be the Dauphine-to-be!” his voice booms, animated and charismatic. There is not a trace of familiarity in his actions. He greets me with a bow and a flourish, in character as the peculiar theater master. “You have been the talk of the court, mademoiselle.”

The Regent notices me, and his lip curls. “Yes,” he says, hardly trying to hide his disdain. “This is she. She is, ah… eccentric .”

“I must introduce myself, then,” my father says, giving the Regent another, shorter bow. “Excuse me while I speak to the Dauphine about her wishes for the upcoming wedding. Monseigneur, do send for me if you have any further questions.” He rubs his hands together, striding toward me.

I realize with a start that I have reached the bottom of the stairs.

I did not even notice I was moving—it is as though a force has pulled me, against my will, toward Regnault.

My father takes my hand and kisses the back of it, the image of a gentleman, but when he looks up, his eyes flicker with wicked intensity, landing on the owl-face pendant.

“P-pleasure to meet you,” I stammer, barely remembering to play along. My father beams gallantly and lays a hand on the small of my back.

“Why don’t you show me around the palace?” he says. “I must become familiar with the space if I am to organize this grand event.”

I know there is no refusing. I let Regnault escort me from the room, trying with all my strength to hold my composure.

Regnault’s smile drops as soon as we are out of sight. His hand retracts from my back, and he scowls down at me. “I did not think we would see each other again so soon. And without the Couronne .” The last words are razor-sharp, and I feel them like the skim of a knife against my skin.

I look at my feet, hidden beneath heavy bronze skirts.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I—” But how to explain this?

That instead of finding out where the Couronne lies, I have been busy attempting to solve a murder and prove my brother’s innocence?

“The King’s death complicated things,” I say at last, forcing myself to look my father in the face.

“But I managed to convince the Dauphin to move the wedding up.”

My father crosses his arms. “So this was your doing?”

“I told him it would take the people’s minds off the recent tragedy,” I say, allowing a tentative grin. “And of course, I planted the seed for the Dauphin to hire you. He thinks it was all his idea.”

Regnault’s lips quirk up briefly, but his gaze doesn’t change: cold and scrutinizing and finely honed. I fidget, increasingly nervous.

“D-did I do well?” I realize, too late, how pathetic that sounds. How desperate.

Regnault considers my question. “Is that all you have managed to accomplish since I sent you here?”

“I—” My pulse quickens again. My hand drifts to my pocket, to the flower and journal.

“There’s, um, there’s this.” I slip out the yellow-petaled flower and present it to him.

“I found the Step-Queen gathering them. In the garden. I think they… they might be important somehow.” I don’t show him the journal—I don’t want to risk him taking it away.

Regnault’s face betrays no emotion. He doesn’t take the flower from me. “Is this all?”

I make the biggest mistake possible—I hesitate. Regnault’s eyes narrow immediately, a predator spotting its prey. “Odile?” he says, both question and warning. “Is there anything else you want to show me?”

“I am working on something. I will tell you… later.”

“Odile, what is it?” he demands. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing! I swear it!” I try to step away, unable to bear his looming presence any longer. “I must go, I need to—”

Before I can move any further, Regnault reaches out and snatches my arm—my injured arm—his fingers digging in.

The bolt of pain is so sudden I cry out, tearing my arm away.

Regnault’s eyes widen in realization. “Are you injured ?”

“N-no,” I stammer. “No, I was just surprised—”

“Marie!” A familiar chipper voice reaches us, cutting off whatever my father was going to say.

It takes all my willpower not to collapse in relief as Aimé appears at the end of the hallway, petticoat breeches rustling as he approaches.

I hurry away from Regnault to loop my arm through Aimé’s, plastering a pleasant, demure smile on my face.

“Ah, mon amour ,” I greet the Dauphin sweetly, my heart still rattling. “I was just talking with Monsieur Regnault about the upcoming wedding. He has some truly excellent ideas for dessert.”

Regnault’s eyes flicker as he quickly reins in his fury at me, concealing it from the Dauphin.

Part of me can’t help but gloat at having weaseled my way out of answering his questions.

I press closer to Aimé’s side, and he gives me a surprised look.

I realize there’s a concerned shine to his eyes—he must have heard my shout when Regnault grabbed me.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I nod with as much conviction as possible. “Just tripped on my dress. Monsieur Regnault is such a gentleman—he helped me back to my feet. Why don’t I leave you two to speak?” I gesture between the two of them, eager to make my escape. “I’m meant to meet some of the court ladies for tea.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Aimé says tactfully. “And Marie?”

I pause mid-step. “Hmm?”

“Meet me in the Queen’s tower at three. There’s something I want to show you.”

I try to catch Aimé’s eyes, trying to discern what this something could be, but he is already looking toward Regnault, giving me an opening to leave. I take it, picking up my skirts as I go.

I do not, in fact, have tea with the court ladies.

Instead, I hide in the empty library, trying to calm myself after my encounter with my father.

I scavenge for books and manuscripts detailing Aurélian flora, searching desperately for anything that might resemble the odd, wrinkled flower.

I find no answers—but I do find myself staring at pictures of beautiful, colorful blooms that have not been seen in Auréal for two hundred years.

I trace my fingers over a dainty painting of a rose the color of ripe peaches, and for no reason I can explain, I imagine how lovely it would look tucked into Marie’s hair, pink against silver.

And if you would simply tell me the truth, the whole truth, about what you’re trying to do here, I could be your ally.

I groan and shut the book, rubbing my eyes. Marie, Marie, Marie. Why can’t I stop thinking about her?

Because you want her, whispers a treacherous little voice in my mind.

No, I tell it. I want to hate her.

Then I get to my feet.

I search until the brass clock on the far wall strikes three. Then I replace my books, abandon the dusty room, and ask a guard for directions to the Queen’s tower.

The Queen’s tower is one of the few places in the Chateau I did not go to as a servant—no one did, as it was unused, said to be haunted by the Queen’s ghost since her death.

Though I don’t believe the stories, I approach the first stair cautiously, growing bolder only when I hear humming carrying faintly down.

I recognize Aimé’s boyish lilt and the high-pitched notes of the musical piece he played last night.

Curious, I begin my climb. The Augier tarasque is painted in vivid colors on the tower walls, its long tail coiling downward, the wrinkled length of its neck extending overhead.

At the very top of the turret is a room, the tarasque’s head snarling from the keystone.

The door is cracked open, letting out a waterfall of pale light.

Beyond, I glimpse a grand room, perfectly circular, white tarps settled over the furniture and a massive, canopied bed.

On the bed sits Aimé, a book open on his lap as he waits, staring out the window.

This is one of the few rooms that looks out not over the lake, but across the brown, bare woodland that strangles the front of the Chateau.

There, humps of distant mountains peer over a clot of bleak, leafless trees and a winding carriage path.

A few dried leaves have become trapped on the window’s sill, and they rasp wetly against the panes.

“Good afternoon,” I greet him, keeping my voice hushed. Something about the room makes me think of a mausoleum, as though a word spoken too loud might indeed awaken a restless ghost.

The Dauphin starts. When his gaze snaps to mine, his eyes are haunted, murky instead of crystalline. He hastily wipes at tears on his cheeks, his expression growing sheepish. “Apologies,” he says. “I didn’t hear your approach.”

“I walk quietly,” I admit. “You look troubled. What is it?”

Aimé sighs. I realize, suddenly, just how weary he looks—how the bruises under his eyes seem only to have darkened, how his cheeks grow more gaunt by the day. I think of the yellow flower, of the potions, and wonder: Is it just exhaustion? Or is there something more to all this?

“Damien,” Aimé says finally, startling me further. “I—I mean, the guard. The one they arrested. He’s been transferred to the city prison.”

My chest suddenly feels caught in a vise. A surge of guilt fills me. I’ve been so caught up with Marie and Bartrand de Roux’s journal that I nearly forgot my original goal—absolving my brother. “What…” I swallow. “What does that mean?”

“They’re going to try him,” the Dauphin says, staring at the book in his lap. “I do not doubt he will be found guilty, because my uncle needs a scapegoat. And he will be executed before the wedding.”

“Before the—” My breath catches in my throat. By moving up the wedding, did I inadvertently condemn my brother? “Why? Why now? Why not wait until—”

“Because a wedding needs guests,” Aimé says quietly. “And most nobles are too frightened to return after my father’s death. They need to know they are safe. And what better way to do that than to show them the murderer was caught and hanged?”

Aimé wrings his hands, and I resist the urge to grab him by the lapels and shake him with all my might. “Can you not do anything?” I demand. “You’re the Mothers-damned Dauphin!”

“I tried!” he shouts, and the sound is so fierce that I back away, mollified. “I tried. But my uncle is right, Marie. The people are afraid. They need someone to blame. The only way I can save Damien is by finding the true killer before the wedding.”

“All right,” I say, trying to project assurance into my voice, though it rings false and grating in my ears. “With that, at least, I think I can help.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I found something in the gardens. But you’re not going to like it.”

“There are few things I like these days, it seems,” Aimé says, forcing a laugh. It comes out strangled. “What is it, then?”

I take a breath. “The medicine Madame de Malezieu gives you. I don’t think… I don’t think you should drink it anymore.”

Aimé blinks. “What?”

“I think it might be poison.”

He laughs in confusion, an edge of panic to the sound. “Why would you say that?”

I steel myself, softening my voice as much as I can before delivering the realization that has been haunting me since Marie and I found the flower.

“Because I believe Anne de Malezieu is trying to kill you.”