Page 5

I duck after my father into his office, the heavy door thudding into place behind us.

It’s an odd room, squat and tomb-like, one side occupied by discarded theater props.

Old puppets perch crookedly on the stone mantelpiece, staring at a wooden elephant mounted on wheels.

A column of cracked plaster guards the shadowed corner, and on it hangs a wolf skin, its mouth drawn in a perpetual sneer.

On the other side of the room is an oak desk laid with unassuming papers: new scripts and finance ledgers and contracts. Nothing about it screams sorcery, yet the magic-scent is strong enough to make my sinuses burn.

Regnault strides behind the desk, tapping his sharp nails on it.

“We are running short on time,” he says, his voice low.

He unclasps the pendant from his neck and drops it into my outstretched palms. It hums, quietly powerful, against my skin.

I know that if I focused hard enough, I could summon up the intricate spell-threads wrapped around it by Regnault, making its magic visible to the naked eye.

“When you put this on,” Regnault says, “you will look and sound like Marie d’Odette. None will be able to tell the difference as long as you do not bleed.”

I close my fist around the delicate chain, the words sending a grim lurch through me. A reminder of just how precarious my disguise will be, of the danger I carry in my own blood. Regnault reminds me of it before every mission.

Remember, Odile, they must never see you bleed.

I recall another discussion from long ago. “What of Damien?” I ask. “He will be guarding the Dauphin. He’s grown up around sorcery—he knows the signs of it almost as well as I.”

Regnault’s lip curls, as it always does when I mention my brother. “You must not involve him. He cannot be trusted.”

I hesitate. “But with his connections, would it not be useful to—”

“It is out of the question,” my father interrupts. “Damien made his choice. If you cannot avoid him, you must eliminate him. He cannot be allowed to jeopardize everything we’ve worked for. Yes?”

“Of course,” I say automatically, because my father is always right, because that is what I should want.

“Good,” Regnault says, and the gleam of fondness in his eyes is enough to quell the faint twinging of my stomach.

“Now, the dress should have been delivered to Mademoiselle d’Auvigny’s quarters earlier today.

You will be spectacular, I am certain. And remember, the pendant does not affect clothing.

Whatever you are wearing when you put it on, you will be wearing when you take it off. Understood?”

I nod. Regnault straightens, looking down at me with an unreadable expression. He makes even the smallest action look regal, powerful , and I’m reminded that his ancestor is Bartrand de Roux himself. I find myself unwittingly mimicking his posture.

I can do this. I will do this.

“Find the Couronne du Roi, ma fille,” says Regnault. “Find it and we will set everything to rights. The time of sorcery is coming once more.”

“And you will teach me magic,” I remind him, fastening the owl-face pendant around my neck, feeling it send a pulse of prickling magic along my skin.

Regnault chuckles. “I will teach you that and so much more. Now go, and may the Good Mothers guide you.”

It’s long past midnight, and the Théatre du Roi is quiet.

It’s not an empty quiet, like that of an abandoned hall or a forgotten street.

No, it’s tense, watchful—as taut as a tongue holding back a curse, coiled like a secret begging to be spilled.

It’s the quiet of infidelity, of coins passing from nobleman to actress as he buckles his belt and she smooths down her skirts.

It’s the quiet of gossip, of noble girls huddled together in a gilt corner, vicious giggles discolored by the reek of alcohol on their breaths.

It’s the quiet of longing, of the greasy-haired servant scrubbing the parterre, cursing the supercilious nobles even as he fantasizes about stealing their places.

This is the quiet that is broken by the heeled footsteps of Mademoiselle Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny.

She glides down the staircase like an apparition, the veined marble kissing her skirts, candlelight draped across her pearl jewelry.

As always, she is the image of poise, a paragon of control—chin held high, collarbones bared, a liquid smoothness to every motion.

Her silver eyes sweep across the room like a rising tide, carrying their usual reticent haughtiness.

She has not changed, of course, since she was last seen in the loges.

Yet she is a lie.

Lying has always been as simple as breathing to me.

It’s how I first met Regnault, after all—as a snot-nosed five-year-old orphan huddled in the cold and begging for help, while my brother attempted to pick a pocket.

Damien was a bad thief, but I was a good liar.

It kept our bellies full, and it caught Regnault’s interest that day.

“Good liars make good actors,” he’d said to me as he rubbed off the mud I had smeared on my wrists to hide my shimmering veins.

“And I happen to run a theater house. So why don’t you come and work for me? You could be so much more than this.”

And he kept his word—I did become more. I became villains and heroes, princes and princesses.

I learned to dance and sing and stage fight, to draw attention and avoid it, to feign emotions and toy with them.

And after every play I would wander the galleries and the grand entryway, where a second theater took place—the social theater of the noblesse.

I would tuck myself into a shadowed alcove or mingle as one of the performers, observing their mannerisms and habits.

I learned how they twisted words into subtle betrayals, built scandal from rumors, and pried gossip out of one another like digging snail bodies from their shells.

Later I would practice curtsies in the dressing-room mirrors, rehearse different accents until they came to me with perfect ease.

So this is nothing new. Donning a mask, stepping away from my own dull skin and into a flamboyant costume.

It’s the easy part—it’s where I thrive. The only challenge now is keeping back the smug smile that begs to slip onto my lips.

Because all these vacuous nobles, with their frilly shirts and empty eyes, have no idea I intend to be their ruin.

“Mademoiselle d’Auvigny!” A shrill voice cuts across the hall. I don’t have to turn to know it belongs to one of the pink-cheeked, swaying girls nursing wineglasses in the middle of the entrance hall, squinting under the light of the crystal-hung chandelier.

I give her a profoundly disinterested smile. I don’t have to fake this one.

“Hey! We’re talking to you!” The girl growls in frustration, unbridled in her drunken state. The odd pale brown mass of her hair makes me think of a disfigured turnip.

“Do you think she can hear me?” Turnip Hair asks her companions.

“Maybe she’s too daft to understand,” sneers the one on her left, who has what seems to be a decapitated peacock jutting out of her hat.

She starts toward me, nearly sloshing wine across her violently green bodice.

“Hey, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny, where did you go?

We were just discussing your interesting choice of gowns. ”

I pause mid-step, a vindictive spark lighting inside me.

I may resent Marie, but faced with these vapid socialites, I suddenly want to defend her.

Still, if there’s anything I know about Marie, it’s that she’s not easily driven to anger, so I force myself—with torturous effort—to remain calm.

“I was exploring,” I say mildly, and my words come out in Marie’s warm coastal lilt.

It’s the first time I’ve spoken in this disguise, and the new, deeper tone of my voice is unsettling.

“Exploringggg,” says Green Dress, rolling her eyes.

“Bet you got lost, silly. Oh, Charlotte, do you think that’s the reason her mother locked her up in that tower?

” She leans in closer to me, a fat emerald swinging from her neck.

I resist the urge to snatch it as she drawls, “Do you get lost a lot? Is that why?”

Turnip Hair smacks her friend, nearly spilling her drink. “Quiet. That’s all just a rumor.”

A rumor, but it piques my curiosity, and I file the information away for later. Green Dress, however, gives an affected sniffle. “Oh, you poor creature,” she says with the glee of a wealthy lord throwing breadcrumbs to a beggar. “No wonder you’ve been away from court for so long.”

“My mother says that’s because of some scandal,” Turnip Hair corrects her. “Something about a necklace.”

Just like that, I can feel the weight of diamonds heavy around my throat, the brush of Marie’s fingers as she closes the clasp. A delighted laugh. They suit you.

No. I shove the memory back furiously. I will not feel remorse.

Turnip Hair is still staring at me, bug-eyed. “Do you think the Dauphin still remembers you? You had quite the story once upon a time. The Lonely Prince and the Swan Princess. It was cute, I’ll give you that.”

“Ah,” I say, privately fantasizing about setting her vegetable-adjacent updo on fire. “Thank you.”

She gives a nasal laugh. “You’re shy, aren’t you? I like that. You know what—when the Dauphin chooses me, I’ll make you my maid.”

The audacity. My growing anger turns from a simmer into a boil, and some of it must show on my face, because Turnip Hair gives me a sympathetic look.

“Oh dear. You must be wondering what I mean. Where are my manners? I’m Princess Charlotte Louise, second daughter of the King of Lore. But you couldn’t tell, could you? I’m told my Aurélian is flawless.” To her friend, she adds, “I’ve been practicing for darling Aimé.”

As they share a giggling exchange, I bite the inside of my cheek.

My confidence is suddenly shaken—I did not expect a princess of Lore to be here.

Our northwestern neighbor, Lore was once at war with Auréal and is notoriously disdainful of any people but its own.

Turnip Hair’s presence must be an attempt from Lore to bridge that divide—or, more likely, to curl their claws into yet another kingdom.

That alliance will likely be a tempting proposition to the Dauphin—perhaps more tempting than finally stabilizing the restless Auvigny, which with its unique dialect and enduring wealth has never been quite at home under Auréal’s broad wing.

I force my lips back into a gracious smile. This complicates my plans, but it does not change them. The Dauphin is famously rebellious—I will simply have to use that to solidify myself as the perfect candidate. The game isn’t over yet.

In fact, it’s just beginning.

“Well, it was delightful meeting you both,” I say to the noblewomen, curtsying cordially and giving them a cheery smile, hoping that they can see the barely veiled threat behind my eyes. “But I do have to go. It’s been such a long night.”

With that, I march for the grand double doors, determination bubbling in my chest.

The city-facing side of the Théatre du Roi is fronted by a flagstone courtyard, guarded by wrought-iron gates that will be locked once the theater empties for the night.

There, several carriages and their bleary-eyed coachmen still stand, waiting to collect any straggling noblesse.

Behind them, the lights of Verroux cluster together like frightened fireflies.

I get into the foremost coach, lifting Marie’s frothy skirts gracefully, ignoring the night’s chill. The coach’s thick-limbed stallions stomp restlessly as I sit down.

“To the Chateau?” the coachman asks.

I give him a curt nod.

A snap of the reins and the coach is turning sharply away from the city, leaving the Théatre in the dust and angling toward the forest that surrounds the palace grounds.

My chest tightens at the sight—with every stride, the horses pull me farther from home toward a palace that too often fills my nightmares.

You see, that’s the thing about the Théatre du Roi: it’s nothing but a thin layer of icing slathered over a rotting cake.

A commoner walks in, seeing gilt splendor and immaculate grandeur, to watch a play depicting the King as noble and honorable, comparing the Dauphin to the sun, and ending in victorious, patriotic, and horribly sappy fanfare.

Once they leave, they believe that the Chateau across the great expanse of Lac des Cygnes is the same.

That beyond the lake lies a resplendent palace ruled by a righteous man, a king worthy of praise and loyalty.

But I have been there, and I know that could not be further from the truth.