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But my mind refuses to be still. I think of a white swan flying in a dazed panic toward a glossy black lake. I think of spell-threads glowing between my father’s fingertips. And I think of a heavy, bejeweled crown clutched in my hand.

When sleep claims me, it is like drowning in the dark.

Morning comes, a solemn gray smog that seeps through the cracks in my curtains. I wake slowly, unwillingly, rolling over to press my face deeper into the delightfully soft pillow.

Soft … wait. My makeshift pallet at the Théatre has never been soft.

It strikes me all at once. Where I am, what I must do.

With a groan, I force myself to sit up in my bed.

I might have allowed myself to indulge a little longer, but it’s a Sunday, which means the noblesse will soon be gathering in the chapel for morning service.

I don’t care for prayer, but this might be the perfect time to implement my plan—and my revenge—so I can’t miss it.

I ring for a maid to help me dress. Normally, a woman of Marie’s standing would be expected to travel with at least one lady’s maid of her own, if not several.

But King Honoré inherited his father’s paranoia, and he allows no unfamiliar staff to stay in the palace.

Even the Chateau’s own staff is scarce—fewer people in the grounds means fewer people whose intentions he needs to question.

A minute passes before a maid comes into the room.

She might be my age, but it’s hard to tell—part of the uniform of the Chateau staff is a golden half mask, its swirling design bringing to mind a skull.

It covers the upper half of her face, from her brow to the bridge of her nose.

I want to wince in sympathy. I’ve worn one of those masks before, and I know they offer limited peripheral vision.

It was the Spider King, in his madness, who first mandated them.

And his son, in his cowardice, has upheld the tradition.

The girl remains silent as she curls my—Marie’s—hair into tight ringlets, secures it in a refined chignon, and helps me dress.

I choose a gown that is simpler than the previous night’s, in a shimmering satin that is the same silver as Marie’s eyes.

The skirts are full and pleated, tangling impractically around my ankles.

I curse them with every step as I exit the room.

I’d forgotten just how sinister the Chateau Front-du-Lac truly feels.

The Spider King’s magic lingers in these walls, in these floors.

It is old now, decaying, and as it fades from the pieces it once enchanted, they seem all the more unsettling.

I pass the statue of a man that bows to me, its movements jerky and startling.

I spot a tapestry of a caged bird that still sings, though its song has withered away to a strangled whine.

I even walk by a painting of the Spider King—he looks eerily like the Dauphin, in the way a hideous, powder-winged moth might resemble a butterfly, and his enchanted blue eyes track me down the hall.

By the time I arrive at the chapel, several noblewomen are already there, gathered in front of the doors. I recognize Princess Charlotte Turnip Hair of Lore and her friend Green Dress, who has mercifully opted for a more subdued shade of her favored color today.

“So bizarre that they would choose this hideous creature,” Charlotte is saying loudly. “Why not something more noble, like a lion or a bear?”

I follow their gazes to the source of their discussion: the tarasque engraved upon the heavy iron double doors.

The beast’s short snout is opened in a snarl, its six feet poised to attack and inlaid-ruby eyes seeming to glow.

There are more jewels embedded in its tortoise-like shell, glittering in the faint morning light.

“It’s from a legend,” I say, putting on Marie’s reserved persona once more to address them. “The Little Saint and the Tarasque. The tarasque represents power untamed. Surely you must be familiar with it, considering it’s one of Auréal’s most famous stories?”

Charlotte flushes. “I—I am. I simply forgot.” She tugs on Green Dress’s hand. “Come, let us go inside. I want to see what these funny little Aurélian chapels look like.”

There is a guard standing by the doors, a musket at his side. He too wears a skull mask, silver instead of gold, and it gleams dully as he pulls the doors open and ushers us inside.

I suck in a breath at the sight that greets us.

Entering the chapel is like stepping into the belly of a pearl.

It seems carved entirely from one slab of white marble, floor and columns and vaulted ceiling all blending together like a swan’s feathers.

The room is lit by two golden braziers shaped like tarasques standing on their hind legs, their too-wide maws holding flames.

They have leashes at their throats, golden rope trailing into the hands of one of three towering statues upon an altar.

There they are. Les Bonnes Mères. The Good Mothers.

They tower all the way to the ceiling, peering down in thunderous judgment, haloes blooming behind their heads.

The leftmost, the spirit of life, is made of white marble.

She has a human face, and holds a swaddled baby, balanced carelessly in one arm.

The rightmost, the spirit of death, is chiselled of black stone.

Her skull-face is partially obscured by a mourning veil, and one of her hands is raised, brandishing a sickle.

The golden statue standing between them is perhaps the most ghastly of all: half the flesh of her face is peeled back, revealing the bone beneath, and her hands—one human, one skeletal—grip the leashes of the tarasques before her.

I give her a minute nod. This is the spirit of transformation, the only one of the Good Mothers to give humanity her name.

Morgane, guardian of Auréal and patroness of sorcery.

“But where is my darling Aimé?” Charlotte complains, breaking through any semblance of peace the chapel might have held. “I heard he’s here every morning.”

“Oh, he’s up there!” another girl exclaims, pointing overhead. They all crane their necks in unison.

Indeed, the Dauphin leans motionlessly on the balustrade of the chapel’s tribune, weary-eyed, clearly still shaking off the effects of last night’s revelry.

Behind him, to my dismay, stands Damien in his blue guard’s uniform.

He doesn’t wear a mask, I note sullenly. He must have gone up in the ranks.

I avert my eyes quickly and follow the other noblewomen to their seats, Charlotte giggling as she says something to her companions. I lean closer, listening. “He’s so handsome in this light,” she’s saying, brushing back brass-colored ringlets. “Looks almost like an angel himself.”

“He’s very pious,” I agree shyly, seizing the opportunity to set my plan in motion.

“When we were children, he would pray all the time. His favorite color is white, you know, because it’s the color of devotion.

I’m thinking of wearing white to tonight’s ball, actually,” I add innocently, like an afterthought.

“Maybe he’ll pay more attention to me that way. ”

“That’s ridiculous,” Charlotte says. “White is entirely out of fashion.”

I shrug. “I suppose so. But it’s his favorite. I think he would appreciate that, don’t you?”

A priestess walks in shortly after, and the service begins, droning prayers begging the Mothers for their return, calling upon Morgane’s forgiveness for the crimes of Bartrand de Roux.

I don’t participate—I know paltry prayers aren’t going to bring Morgane back.

She must be summoned by a sorcier, and Regnault is the only one left who knows how to do so.

Behind me, the noble girls have begun to whisper among themselves, debating the importance of dress colors. I smother a smirk behind my hand—I’ve successfully planted my seed. Now, I have to let it grow.