Page 47

Morning

The greatest challenge awaits me the next morning.

How can I act normal when my world has been turned upside down?

Yet when my father joins me for breakfast, I meet his eyes and make idle conversation while searching the corners of his too-wide grin, the sharp tips of his teeth, for a single clue I may have missed.

And yet his mask is pristine. Any madness from last night—any trace of the true Bartrand de Roux—is meticulously buried.

For once I am glad I am a good actress. Because I too can put on a mask.

I can smile in obliviousness, feign confidence.

I can ignore how badly I still wish to please my father—how I still bask in the smallest compliment, how I still look for his approval when I threaten a courtier who tries to question his position.

The day grows warmer, the dark snow melting into hideous gray stains on the pale courtyard cobblestones.

Its remnants pool beneath the shutters of windows, track all over the entrance hall on the boots of noblesse.

It is especially abundant on the heels of the square-jawed, handsome nobleman who demands an audience with the Regent and his “pet sorcier.”

I know immediately why he is here. From his features alone, I can guess he is the relative of the young messenger from yesterday. I know this also because as soon as he lays eyes on Regnault, he crosses the room and punches my father in the face.

The retaliating smirk Regnault gives the man oozes enough menace to make me shudder. “That’s not very polite,” he drawls.

“Bring back my son!” the man screams, turning on the Regent. “Tell this monster to bring him back, or you are asking for war with Marsonne!”

This is the first time I have seen the Regent look truly worried. “Calm yourself, monsieur. Your Henri was punished for assisting in desertion.” There is an edge of panic as he turns to Regnault. “But I agree. I think the boy learned his lesson, and the guards as well. It is time to turn him back.”

“I don’t know why you keep this monster around,” interrupts the newcomer. “I’d heard rumors, but I did not believe you would ally yourself with a golden-blood until I saw him standing here. And letting him wear the Couronne! Have you gone mad?”

Regnault’s smile tightens. The small shift in expression is enough to make my gut clench.

The Regent, oblivious to the danger, waves his hand placatingly.

“He is assisting me in bringing order back to the Chateau. It is only a temporary arrangement, I promise. Now…” He clasps his hands together, turning to Regnault, but the Regent doesn’t know he’s about to face a wolf preparing to dive for his throat.

“If you wouldn’t mind turning young Henri back—”

“Turn him back?” Regnault interrupts. “You think I am a dog to be ordered around as you please? To walk back on my actions like a coward because of some petty threat? No, no, not at all .” That maddened edge has returned to his voice, the one I saw last night.

“No, lovely Regent. But if you fear that this gentleman here is going to pose a problem, then let me solve it for you.”

Before either I or the Regent can even scream, Regnault has traced a pattern of spell-threads, and the nobleman before us has turned to gold.

A choked sound escapes me. Regnault glances in my direction, a devious light in his eyes, and I know he is looking for admiration in my face—for me to relish the cruel deed as much as he does. I force myself to smirk. In reality, I want to double over and vomit.

The Regent, however, does not hide his opinions. He spins on his heel, practically spitting. “What have you done?”

“Gotten rid of your problem,” Regnault says casually, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder. “Marsonne cannot go to war with us if there is no one to lead it.”

“He is the Duke of Marsonne! How am I supposed to explain this to… to anyone ?”

“Tell them he crossed the wrong man.”

The Regent wipes his mouth. “This is enough of your madness. So far I have been honoring our bargain, doing as you say, but if this continues, I will have you arrested and exiled. Your smug little daughter, too.”

Regnault stiffens. A flame lights in his eyes with such fury that I can almost feel the heat from where I stand. “What did you say?”

The Regent falters somewhat, and I can tell he knows he has gone too far. His gaze flicks in panic from the gold-encased nobleman to Regnault’s twitching fingers.

“I only mean,” he says, lowering his voice, “that you promised me a throne. But I cannot rule over ruins.”

“You think you are ruling at all?” Regnault barks out a laugh.

“If I could claim that throne now, I would. Unfortunately, I need someone of royal blood upon it to ensure some semblance of peace. But worry not. Once my plans are complete, thrones and crowns will be meaningless in the face of my new power.” He pats the man firmly on the back, his teeth locked in a vicious smile.

“I would caution you not to question my methods again. And even more so, I would caution you to keep any mention of my daughter out of your filthy mouth.”

With that, he strides off. As he walks past me, he crooks a finger in my direction. “Come, Odile. Let us stroll the gardens— our gardens—before dinner.”

I trail after him, part of me still stunned, still ecstatic, that he defended me so fervently. A month ago, it might have been enough for me. But now all I can think of is how I plan to betray him, and what he might to do to me if I am caught in the act.

I wait until Regnault has retired for the night before sneaking back down to the Step-Queen’s study.

The rooms have been locked, but I doubt anyone has been brave enough to touch their bizarre, sorcery-soaked contents.

My assumption is confirmed when I pick the lock and step inside, finding everything exactly as it was the last time I was here—including the traces of my own blood, dried and glimmering on the floor.

The sight sends a phantom pang of pain through my ribs, and I rub the still-healing wound as I pull out the satchel I have brought with me.

I take out Medicinal Applications of Sorcerous Elixirs and seek out the recipe I discovered while flipping through it last night—an herbal mixture that makes one drowsy when burned.

My father is too suspicious to drink anything given to him by another, even me, but this…

this might work, if I play my cards right.

I find the ingredients I need in the Step-Queen’s arsenal. Thankfully, it is not a complicated recipe, and within an hour I am holding a small fistful of brittle leaves. I tuck them into my sleeve and head to Regnault’s rooms.

This time there is no invisible force pushing me to the door, no voice in my mind. I simply knock and enter to find my father in simple breeches and loose shirt. Only his mask remains in place. He looks smaller like this, more human somehow without his layers of black and gold and feathers.

“Odile,” he greets me. “How are you feeling?”

The question takes me aback—he’s never asked me such a thing before.

“F-fine,” I stammer, wandering over to the crackling hearth.

I stretch my hands out in front of it, glancing at my father over my shoulder as he crosses the room.

Once his back is turned, I shake the herbs out of my sleeves and into the hearth.

I keep talking, trying to keep his attention only on me.

“Perhaps… perhaps I’m a little shaken, I admit.

” A lie in a truth. “Everything is happening so fast.”

“It is what must be done,” Regnault says, turning to face me again. “You understand why I did it, yes? I must eliminate anyone who threatens our position.”

By turning them into statues? I want to ask, but I keep quiet. Already I can feel the herbs taking effect as they burn, releasing their fumes—my eyelids grow heavy, and I notice that Regnault’s are doing the same.

“I…” I yawn. “I do believe I’m going to retire for the night.” I turn away from the hearth, and after a moment’s hesitation, I walk up to him and kiss him on the cheek, like I’ve seen daughters do to their fathers. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, little owl,” he says, his eyes already closing.

When I return, Regnault is asleep. He did not even make it to his bed—he’s sitting on a couch, his head lolling back.

A book lies cradled in his lap, pages fluttering softly, as though he had still attempted to read before falling asleep.

He looks vulnerable in sleep, and seeing him like this nearly makes me question my resolve.

This is the man, after all, who coaxed me out of a Verroux gutter, who held my hand and whispered promises of power.

He is Bartrand de Roux. He wants to trap the Good Mothers and seize their power for his own.

He is slipping into the Couronne’s madness.

But he is also my father. If I go through with this, I will never have a father again.

I swallow past a lump in my throat. Reach for Regnault’s head, gingerly slip my thumbs under the rim of the Couronne, warm from the heat of his skin. Its magic skitters down my arms. I hold my breath. Begin to lift up the crown.

Regnault reaches up and seizes my arm.

“How dare you.”

Ice fills me, freezing me in place. I stare down at my father’s eyes, thunderous and unforgiving, obsidian shards poised to pierce into my soul.

I snatch my hands away. “Papa, I—I thought—I might take it off—you were asleep, and it looked uncomfortable—I—”

“What a miserable lie,” he snarls, his grip tightening on my skin, his nails digging in. “I thought I taught you better than that. Did you truly think something as paltry as a sleep charm would work on me?”

He drags me toward himself, buries his hand in my hair, and pulls me down so that I can feel his hot breath on my cheek. “I’m almost impressed,” he whispers. “After all, I taught you this. To steal, to betray. I made you, and this is how you repay me.”