Page 42

By the time I manage to find my father, the palace is writhing with activity, noblesse crowding together in the hallways, slowly filing down to the chapel where the wedding is to take place.

I find my father in the grand ballroom, directing sweat-soaked servants in arranging crystalline bowls and glassware and shouting for last-minute changes.

I blend in with the other servants—he doesn’t notice me until his eyes snag against mine, black catching gold.

“Is it done?” he asks simply as I approach, nodding approval to a servant showing him a bottle of wine.

“Yes,” I reply, keeping my voice hushed. “Though I am not certain if he drank it. His betrothed was present—I had to leave promptly.”

His brows furrow with displeasure. “Very well. I will find out later and adjust the plan as necessary. Your tasks are complete until the ceremony—find a way to be in the chapel and wait for my signal.”

I incline my head and turn to leave, then pause. “What will happen if Marie drinks it?” I ask worriedly.

“Nothing,” Regnault replies. “Now go.”

I give him a small smile before bowing and leaving the room. The hallways are swamped with guests, the air thick with perfume and anticipation. Normally this sort of chaos would inject energy into me. Instead, I only feel twitchy.

I have to trust that Regnault told me the truth about the blue petals—that whatever the herb is, it will not harm Aimé. But if it isn’t harmful, then what is its purpose?

I reach the chapel and slip inside, blinking at the blinding whiteness of its innards.

The room is still mostly empty—a few guests murmur in the shadows of a column, and before the altar, a lone maid is busy arranging flowers of glittering diamond and ruby and gilt iron.

Her movements are listless, her eyes bruised and weary. I wonder when she last slept.

I move silently along the far wall until I reach the stairwell to the tribune.

Even the sight of it sends my heart rattling—the last time I was here, I was running from a monster.

If I look closely, I can still make out the faint grooves where its claws struck the marble.

The stained-glass window I shattered seems to have been hastily replaced with clear panes.

Forcing my eyes away, I then make my way up the stairs to a discreet spot behind a column, one unlikely to be seen from the nave, though I can easily think of an excuse if I am noticed.

Slowly guests begin to be ushered in—Aurélians and foreigners alike, a mass of gold and burgundy and obsidian bunching together in the pews.

Their whispers swell and clash like waves against a shore, filling the cavernous space.

Musicians file in and begin tuning their instruments.

Finally three priestesses enter from behind the altar, the one in the center wearing a glittering chasuble of pure white, the two flanking her dressed in red and carrying incense.

Smoke fills the chapel, sickeningly sweet.

Music begins to play. The murmuring crescendos, then drops entirely to a hush as Aimé enters the room.

His doublet today is white damask, edged with golden cord.

He stands on the first step of the altar, his face pale but determined, his hands clasped behind his back.

Something about the tightness of his knuckles and angle of his fingers makes me think he’s trying to keep them from shaking.

The music changes to the traditional wedding melody, and immediately all the guests rise to their feet.

The doors open once more, a grandiose flourish like the bow of a performer. In the same moment the sun finds the chapel window, pushes through to alight on the figure walking through the doorway.

Marie d’Odette looks like a lonely goddess, incandescent and melancholy, as though she has been seized from the heavens and brought to the mortal earth against her will.

She wears a gown of shimmering satin, with delicate silver embroidery forming the shape of overlapping feathers along her bodice.

Pearls glint in her hair and at her neck, and a white mantle of feathers rests on her shoulders.

There are more feathers swooping around her head, arching over her ears in a champion’s wreath.

My chest lurches in furious longing. At the altar, Aimé’s eyes light in wonder. His throat bobs as he takes in his betrothed, and all I can think is, That should be me. Then the Dauphin’s gaze—and the gaze of everyone in the room—drifts to the object in Marie’s hands.

The Couronne du Roi.

My heart jumps at the sight of the bejeweled golden circlet.

The light seems to shy away from it, leaving the piece of jewelry in shadow, a smear of rusty ink against its lambent surroundings.

I clench my hands, swallowing back eager hunger.

It’s here. The only object powerful enough to summon back Morgane. So close, and yet so far from me.

Marie walks down the aisle, dainty as a doe, her steps so light that they can barely be heard despite the trapped, breathless silence.

Sunlit smoke curls around her in a hazy shroud.

As she crosses the great expanse toward the waiting prince, I cast my eyes about for my father.

I spot him near the side of the chapel, standing among the lower-ranked courtiers.

His lips are curled upward in a not-quite-smile, the look of a wolf scenting prey.

I lean back, biting my lip. What is he planning?

Ahead of me, Marie finally reaches the Dauphin.

The musicians stop playing, but one of them seemingly misses the cue, because he plays a millisecond longer than the rest, eliciting a few amused chuckles from the crowd.

Aimé turns red—his hands are definitely shaking as he kisses Marie’s cheek.

Marie smiles kindly and raises the Couronne to place it on his head.

Queen crowning king. An ancient tradition.

Aimé licks his lips nervously and takes Marie’s hands. I notice her running her thumbs over his knuckles, a soothing gesture. My stomach knots in what I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.

The priestess begins to speak, and my attention immediately falters as I realize she has quite the speech to go through.

Restless, I let my hands drift to my pocket, and I find myself fidgeting with the dried petals of the yellow flower, crushing them between my thumb and forefinger.

I remember the pages of the Step-Queen’s notes and hope that Aimé has at least stopped taking her potions.

I pull my hand from my pocket; a few crumpled petals are dusted on my fingertips. I shake them off and notice a faint scent in the air, barely there. It smells familiar, muskily sweet, but it takes me a moment to place it.

Then I realize: it’s nearly the same as that of the substance that flaked off the Step-Queen’s dagger. The one that had destroyed the owl-face pendant’s spell.

Ahead, the officiant priestess is droning out vows, and Marie and Aimé are echoing them in subdued voices.

Wrongness creeps up on me. Something squirms in my memories, begging for attention.

The Step-Queen’s notes in her journal: lower dosage ineffective, led to disastrous results.

Aimé’s scream. The monster appearing right after, with no Aimé in sight. The words I need it for my nerves.

Whatever substance the dagger had been coated in, it had been made from the same yellow flower as Aimé’s potions. If a small dose was capable of destroying a spell as intricate as Regnault’s, what could a higher dose do, taken daily? Could it suppress someone’s magic altogether?

I realize now why the blue petals had seemed so familiar. Because I’d seen them before, when I was flipping through Medicinal Applications of Sorcerous Elixirs. Bluefang, the flower had been called. A universal antidote.

Horror suddenly clogs my throat. I know what my father’s plan is. I know what the Step-Queen’s potions were for—they were not meant to harm the Dauphin after all.

They were meant to suppress something inside him.

I straighten in alarm. At the altar, Marie and Aimé are done repeating their vows, and the officiant has procured a long dagger from a pillow of velvet.

As per tradition, she will cut the palms of both the betrothed, and they will press the weeping wounds together to signify an unbreakable bond—eternal dedication.

She snatches Marie’s palm roughly and drags the dagger across it.

Marie winces as crimson blood wells from the wound, while the priestess moves on to Aimé’s hand.

I start forward, adrenaline screaming through my veins, but in the same moment I feel the prickle of heated eyes on my face.

I turn to see my father watching me. He shakes his head minutely—a warning. Get in the way and there will be no coming back from this.

Conflict judders through me, and I hesitate for a heartbeat. Too long. Too late. The priestess runs the dagger meticulously over Aimé’s palm.

There is a second of silence while blood gathers at the edge of the wound.

Then the first droplet slips out onto Aimé’s flesh, glittering in the brightness of the chapel.

A disbelieving murmur crawls through the crowd. Several people crane their necks as if they can’t quite tell what they’re seeing. An old woman gasps, clutching her shawl.

“By the Mothers,” she says, her voice carrying over the din. “His blood is gold.”