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Day

Today the priestess tells the story of the Little Saint and the Tarasque.

Perhaps it’s for the benefit of foreign visitors, or perhaps it’s a reminder, but I grit my teeth as she tells a bastardized version of the story, where the Little Saint prays to God, and God sends down three angels to assist her. Three Good Mothers.

There is another version of this tale. One that endured in sorcier families for generations, even when the rest of the world wished to forget it. In it, the Little Saint is called the Golden-Blooded Girl. And she is the first sorcier.

The legend goes that the original tarasque terrorized Auréal’s countryside, slaughtering and devouring peasants as it pleased.

Until a young girl, in her desperation, went to an old shrine in the woods and prayed to whatever god might hear her.

What answered was not a god, but one of the three spirits of magic who lived there: Morgane, the youngest and most human of the three, who had always been fascinated by the way humans transformed one thing to another—not with magic but by hand, from grain to bread or paints to artworks.

Morgane struck a deal with the girl: she would grant the girl magic in exchange for her most precious belonging.

The girl brought the spirit a ring of purest gold, given to her by her betrothed.

Delighted, the spirit spoke thus: “As this is your most treasured belonging, you shall be mine, as will all those who come after you.” Morgane returned the ring to the girl, and when the girl touched it, her blood was turned to gold, and she knew she would be able to call upon magic.

The spirit then taught the girl how to wield her new powers, weaving webs of magic to transform one thing to another.

How to bind those spells to gold objects, to use later as she wished.

“Remember,” said Morgane then, “this gift I have given you is limited to my domain of powers: it can only transform, but never create or destroy, for those are magics guarded by my sisters, too dangerous to be shared with mankind.”

And so the golden-blooded girl returned to the village to find the tarasque attacking her home, the body of her betrothed lifeless in its jaws.

Furious, she took her golden ring and turned it into a collar, and placed it upon the creature’s neck.

The beast was tamed, and it followed her like a calf: so the girl led it to the town square, where it was slaughtered by the townspeople.

I fidget as the priestess drones on. She preaches about the story’s morals, about bravery and faith and loyalty. In her version of the story, the Little Saint journeys to the capital, where she kneels before the King, reminding everyone that true power belongs to the crown.

In the story Regnault always told me, the moral was different.

“The Golden-Blooded Girl made one grave mistake,” he said to me once as I lay huddled on my thin, cold mattress, Damien snoring softly beside me. “Do you know what that was, little owl?”

“What?” I’d whispered back.

“She ought never to have killed the tarasque,” said Regnault. “She had all that power on a leash, ready to do her bidding, yet she let it go.”

I leave the chapel at a slow pace, eavesdropping again on Charlotte and her friends.

My seed has indeed sprouted roots—they’re already chattering urgently about how they might procure white gowns before tonight’s ball.

One of them wonders if she should dress up as a tarasque, shell and all, and I have to stop myself from snorting.

I play my game all day: I join one group of noblewomen for breakfast, then another for a session of embroidery in a blue-walled sitting room.

Each time I’m quiet, listening for the right opportunity to feign obliviousness and talk about the color I intend to wear that evening.

It’s the Dauphin’s favorite color. It’ll make him think of a wedding dress.

I hear it’s the next trend, and you know how the Dauphin loves to keep up with fashion.

I watch their faces go bloodless and panic enter their eyes before they excuse themselves and rush out of the room, presumably to go hunt down a white dress from the nearest city dressmaker.

When the time comes for the royal ball, I retreat smugly to my room. I unwrap the box on the bed, the one my father carefully orchestrated to have delivered last night, and pull off the lid.

Inside sits a simple gown of thick satin, black as ink or death or an owl’s wings at midnight.

I arrive at the palace ballroom theatrically late.

I pause in front of the doors, listening to the tumbling of music and susurration of a mingling crowd.

Instinctively I touch the owl-face pendant at my neck, and then smooth out the full, darkly iridescent skirts of my gown.

Floor-length, it fits like a glove—before having it delivered to the palace, Regnault had enchanted it to adjust to the wearer’s shape, saving me the hassle of hunting down Marie’s measurements.

It’s done in the most recent of fashions, elegantly simple, the front adorned only with a strip of metallic black lace.

The neckline is low, exposing my shoulders and collarbones, and the sleeves end at my elbows in lacy pleats.

It’s a striking design, guaranteed to make an impression.

I raise my chin. I’m eager, not nervous. I don’t get nervous before a performance.

One of the footmen by the entrance grunts meaningfully, his eyes glinting with impatience. I give him a curt nod. At my signal the doors are pushed open, and the footman announces Marie’s name in full: “Mademoiselle Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny!”

The ballroom grows suddenly hushed and still. All eyes turn to me, and my pulse rises in wicked delight. It worked. My plan worked.

It is as though the ballroom has been covered in feather down.

There is nothing like the power of a rumor, it seems, because nearly every courtier and foreign noblewoman has somehow managed to procure themselves a gown that is white, or at least as pale as possible.

I pity the poor seamstresses who must have scrambled to put them together.

The ballroom itself makes me think of a yawning mouth, the parquet a stretch of crimson and as glossy as a wet tongue.

Carnelian columns flank arched windows, and crystals drip from the chandeliers like beads of saliva.

The red and white roses painted across the vaulted ceiling are enchanted, blooming and wilting and blooming overhead, their thorns a cage of teeth.

The sight dizzies me as I step into the room, my skirts pooling around my feet.

I meet the gazes of the noblesse around me, watch their expressions flicker between affront, dismay, and fury as they realize they’ve been tricked.

Princess Charlotte, wearing a puffy cream disaster, looks like she is deciding whether to burst into tears or flames.

From the opposite side of the ballroom, the Dauphin is staring at me in utter disbelief.

He’s wearing the Augier colors of red and gold; at his side is the Step-Queen in her signature sapphire, her raven hair bound up so tightly, it looks painful.

A little black-haired boy dressed identically to Aimé is clinging to her skirts.

Then I notice the man standing behind them and freeze.

For a moment King Honoré of Auréal does not notice my arrival, caught in a heated discussion with a nobleman at his side.

He may be a monster, but he hides his malice well—he is unremarkable in appearance, with the same shorter stature as his son but graceless, a golden peruke unspooling over broad shoulders.

He shares the Dauphin’s freckles, but on him they look like sickly splotches.

When his discussion partner breaks off at my arrival, the King follows suit.

His gaze, when it lands on me, is as twitchy and dark as a blackfly.

I wish I could swat it away. Looking into those cruel black depths, I can almost feel the cold, sticky filth of Verroux’s streets squelching under my bare feet, the bony hands of beggars snagging on my skirt.

My hand grips Regnault’s as he leads me out of the city slums, my brother trailing behind us.

You were not meant to be this, Regnault tells me quietly.

You have no idea what they took from you.

What d-do you mean? I’d hardly been able to pronounce the words, my teeth chattering.

He’d clutched my hand tighter, looked down on me kindly. Magic, little owl. They stole your magic.

Magic. My father’s voice lends me strength as my heels strike the crimson parquet, reminding me who I am, what I am capable of.

Magic. The noble girls in their fluttering white dresses part before me like fresh snow meeting a flame.

Magic. The Dauphin steps toward me as though entranced, shrugging off the Step-Queen’s hand as she tries to hold him back, ignoring the King as he growls a low command.

Magic. Aimé claps, killing any lingering murmurs and music. He spreads his hands wide, a benevolent grin splitting his face. “Beloved guests, I do believe it’s time for me to choose my first dance partner of the night.”

He whirls on his heel with a flourish, throws his head like an unruly stallion. When his eyes find mine, they’re the eyes of a rebellious child reaching for a rose, willfully ignoring the thorns poised to draw blood.

“Marie d’Odette, would you do me this honor?”