Page 54

The way to the temple is long and cold. Aimé and I plunge into darkness in a dizzying spiral, water soaking through the backs of our clothing. The walls ripple around us, the silver bellies of fish flashing in the gloom. What little light there is begins to wane the farther we get into the depths.

After what seems like an eternity of tight-throated panic, the tunnel spits us out onto a hard, flat floor of slippery stone.

I lose my grip on Aimé, catching myself on my hands and knees.

Aimé is less lucky, and he lands on his side with a grunt.

He lies there wearing a martyred expression, his eyes unfocused.

It takes a moment for my head to stop spinning. When it does, I stumble over to the Dauphin and extend my hand to help him up.

“Are you all right?” I say worriedly, referring both to our fall and to my performance earlier. I had not been kind to him, but that was precisely what he’d asked of me. Do what you must to make it convincing, he’d told me as I tied his wrists together before we entered the forest.

He seems to understand. “Quite all right.” He pats me on the arm reassuringly. “Say, mademoiselle, have you ever considered a career in acting?”

I give him a shove, rolling my eyes, then turn to survey our surroundings.

We are standing at the edge of the drowned temple, a ruin of pale stone tangled in pondweed and surrounded by columns, some crumbled, some still standing upright, as though the structure simply slipped into Lac des Cygnes’s waters.

The lake’s surface is far above. And yet somehow the temple remains dry, water surrounding it but seeming to shy away.

The air smells ancient, of must and decomposing reeds and things long drowned.

In the very middle of the temple stands a grand altar. Once upon a time, it seems to have borne intricate carvings on it, but most of them have been eaten away by water and time. Still, I can make out the three Mothers depicted on one side, their arms intertwined.

I walk up cautiously, Aimé trailing behind me. Across the altar spans a starburst of fissures, as though it was struck by something heavy.

“Do you think this is where Morgane appeared?” Aimé asks, tracing one of the cracks.

“It seems so,” I say, holding out my hand for the Couronne. Aimé passes it to me, his jaw tight with nerves as he watches me place it in the very center of the altar.

“Morgane, let this work,” I murmur, reaching to my belt for the dagger with Regnault’s blood on it.

My fingers close around empty air.

“No.” My heart drops into my stomach. “No, no.” I pat my pockets, looking around frantically. Nothing.

“What is it?” Aimé asks worriedly.

“The dagger. The one with Regnault’s blood. I must have…” In that moment I spot the dagger lying at the very edge of the temple, where the tunnel mouth ends. I rush toward it, dread filling me. “Please, Morgane, please —”

But before I can reach the dagger, a horrifyingly familiar, black-cloaked figure emerges from the tunnel.

He steps out of it casually, nothing like our uncontrolled plummet downward, as if he is merely walking into a sitting room.

He is no longer bleeding—his sleeve and pant leg are crusted over with golden blood.

My pulse begins to pound. I bite my lip, praying at least that the dagger by his feet goes unnoticed, but of course, of course, because the Mothers must hate me, his attention falls immediately upon it.

Aimé grabs me before I can lunge forward. I’m forced to stop, to watch helplessly as Regnault crouches by the weapon and picks it up. He turns it over with a languid motion, then sticks it into his belt, his eyes taunting and vicious as he regards me.

“How kind of you, my darling daughter, to bring my sacrifice all the way to the altar.”