Marinette's fingertips brushed the fine blue silk and she swallowed heavily as she gazed in the mirror. She had handled dozens if not hundreds of dresses as fine as this one, but never had she gotten to wear one.
"How fortunate that we are both so unfashionably tall," Alya chirped as she tugged at the fabric around Marinette's waist. While she'd been quite dainty in childhood, Marinette had just kept growing like a weed long after the other girls had stopped, until it became evident she was taking after her burly father rather than her tiny mother. "It will lend our story more credibility. You are so pale, but between your raven hair and the height befitting House Césaire, we might just pull this off."
Marinette whimpered.
"Lady Alya, I can't–"
"Just Alya." The aristocrat kissed her cheek, eyes shining with glee. "After all, you and I are cousins now, no? We should be familiar with each other, Marinette."
This was madness. Start to finish, this entire plan was madness.
"How am I supposed to pretend to be upper class, Lady Alya? I – I will mess up and eat with the wrong fork and my accent will give me away and–"
"It's one night," Lady Alya said softly. Gathering the somewhat loose fabric around Marinette's chest – they might share a height, but Alya was more generously endowed – she carefully slid a thin pin through the expensive silk to mark where it would have to be altered. "Nobody expects bastard children to have perfect manners. And you'll be far from the only one. Half the Lords have offspring born on the wrong side of the marriage bed."
"Yes, but those bastards don't get to attend balls."
"They do when their father has a heart and decides to give them the chance for a better life." Alya smiled over Marinette's shoulder at their reflections. "They'll think you a social climber hunting a noble husband, and you won't be the only one. The celebration isn't so exclusive that they'd resent your presence." Hazel eyes hardened. "After all, the entire realm is celebrating the return of the prince."
Marinette stifled a wince at the reminder.
Scarcely twelve hours ago she'd been so furious at him.
But the prince was dead.
Sweet Chloe Bourgeois had been devoured and replaced with a harpy. And now they were doing the same to kind, gentle Adrien. A condescending imposter was besmirching his memory. Tears of anger and grief stung her eyes. She'd buried her hope and sealed it away months ago, but she'd dug it back up for his return. Now old wounds were ripped open, the pain as fresh as when she'd first heard the crown prince was missing.
"Alya, what makes you so certain that they'll make their move at the ball?" Judging by when she'd suddenly changed, Lady Bourgeois had been replaced for months.
"Because he's the prince."
Another pin slid into the dress, securing the new measurements. Alya had a quite practical skillset for a noblewoman. Even as sweet as she had been, the true Lady Bourgeois would not have been able to help adjust a dress, despite having seen Marinette do it for her a thousand times.
"So?"
"Changelings mostly target women and children," Alya said. "Rarely do they ever pick men who are expected to wield swords or tools, nor do they pick rulers. A noblewoman sequestered in the countryside can avoid ever touching iron, but the crown prince cannot. Brushing up against his honor guard's armor would break the glamor, as would wielding a ceremonial sword, let alone a real one. The sheer number of people a prince is surrounded with can't all be enthralled to cover suspicion. This ruse cannot be kept up for any length of time, so whatever it is they're planning, it will happen soon."
Alya's fingers grew still just as she fell silent. Then, in a grave voice, she added, "This is only a hunch, but… given the fae's recent movements, I believe they are trying to inflame tensions between our nations. What better way to start a war than to first raise a nation's hope, only to assassinate the prince at a celebration meant to honor his return? They'll pin it on Esparia, and then no amount of diplomacy will save us."
A shiver of unease ran down Marinette's spine. The Bourgeois estate – her parents, her friends, the village she'd grown up in – was so close to the border that it would surely be one of the first caught in the unforgiving crossfire of war. "How do we stop them?"
"First we intercept the Changeling at the ball. That will be our best opportunity to get close to him since he'll hopefully be mingling. I'll have thought of a cover story when we get there."
Marinette nodded mutely and let Alya take the last few measurements.
"So do you think you'll be able to adjust this in time? We won't be traveling during the night since there's ice on the road, so the journey to the capital will take us two more days."
"I will," Marinette murmured. She'd even manage in one, thanks to the practiced skill bestowed by countless fashion emergencies on Lady Bourgeois's part. The silk slipped to the floor and she gathered it in her arms, walking to the bed in the middle of the small inn's room.
"…Marinette, are you well?"
"No," she said flatly. "But I will be. It's a lot to take in."
The redhead opened and closed her mouth, then smiled tentatively. "If you have any more questions, please do not hesitate to ask. I know this must all be a terrible shock to you. Thank you again for choosing to help me."
Marinette smiled crookedly. "Well, someone has to avenge Lady Bourgeois. Might as well be me."
But that wasn't why she'd said yes. Why she was leaving her parents behind to worry about her fate.
How often had she dreamed of dancing with the prince? Childish daydreams of him one day showing up at the Bourgeois household and carrying her off on a white steed. Passionately arguing before the king that he wished to marry for love, not duty, and that he had chosen this humble servant girl.
…so stupid.
They'd shared the duration of one visit, that was all. She hadn't even known what he'd looked like as an adult. Yet she had recognized him at once, despite his face's newfound sharp edges.
Except that hadn't been him. Just an imposter.
Because Adrien Agreste was dead.
A decade spent with Lady Bourgeois and only a summer with him, but the unspoken truth hidden in Marinette's heart could not be denied. It was him she was aiming to avenge.
Chat's eyes were wide with horror as he stared at this latest tribulation. Why? Why did humans have to have these rituals?
"Your Grace?"
He could groom himself on his own, thank you very much. Chat was quite fastidious with his hygiene, there was no need for any of this. What remained of his natural musk was perfectly fine.
"Is the temperature too low?"
Maybe? He would have to touch it to find out. No matter how hard he'd tried to subtly plead otherwise, his servants had made it clear that this would be necessary in preparation for the feast this evening.
Suppressing a whimper, Chat Noir edged closer to the water. Steam wafted through the small room, tiny droplets collecting on his bare skin. Digging a dull fang into his bottom lip, he allowed his big toe to dip in.
Hm. Warm.
Experimentally, he let his foot sink further down on the step. Chat Noir stood frozen, then slowly took another step down the stairs leading into the pool, until hot water splashed around his waist.
This was nothing like the rivers and lakes he'd grown up with in the Underhill wilds. No cold that bit his skin even through his fur, no raging torrent threatening to drag him under. Just… pleasant. Like burying himself under a thick blanket, one of his new favorite pastimes. For all their flaws, humans made exquisite blankets.
Chat Noir made his way to the edge of the luxurious bath and curled up, all but his head submerged. He sighed happily, rubbing his back against the ceramic tiles.
That was when the servants dumped a vile concoction on his golden mane.
His nostrils burned, and he hissed, unseeing and disoriented, while strong fingers dug into his shoulders to keep him still.
"Apologies, Your Grace, I did not mean to have the soap seep into your eyes. Please hold still."
Fingers kneaded his scalp and Chat Noir roared in outrage. "Get out!"
A shocked gasp followed by pleading. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, is it the head injury? We–"
"I said get out," Chat snarled. "I'll do it myself."
Whatever it might be.
But they had no right to touch him like that! Only his Lady was permitted to stroke his hair and pet his fur! He sank deeper into the water, growl turning into a gurgle as the servants fled. When they were gone, he dunked his head underwater, gasping as he came back up for air.
Still the cloying smell remained, masking all other scents. It was unnatural, sickly sweet and far too overpowering. Already he struggled with this form's weakened senses, but this soap blocked even what little remained.
He wouldn't have to subject himself to this for every celebration, would he?
"Lady Alya of House Césaire, and her cousin Lady Mariposa!"
Marinette's fingers dug into the fabric of her luxurious dress until her knuckles whitened as she dropped into an elegant curtsy, mimicking Alya's. The Esparian noblewoman winked at her, a confident smile playing with the corners of her lips. How? How could she be keeping her cool like this when their plan was utter insanity?
They'd be lucky to escape with their lives.
One noblewoman and one imposter rose in perfect synchronicity as the arrival of the next set of guests was announced to the court. Marinette kept her gaze firmly on the ground. Tripping down the stairs while all the aristocrats were staring at her was just the sort of thing she was at risk of doing.
"Keep your head high, sweet Mari," Alya murmured out of the corner of her mouth. "These people feast on weakness."
That wasn't very reassuring!
Oh Gods. What was her father's name supposed to be again?
"Dearest uncle Javier was charming, brave and a noble hunter. Ten years ago, he sacrificed his life to slay a Foghen, one of the most avaricious and dangerous fae beasts in existence. He was also known to chase anything in a skirt. Nobody will doubt that he might have left behind an illegitimate child or two. He even had blue eyes, just like you. We'll say you get your pale skin from your mother's side. It's rare, but our clan has many shades."
Still, as per Alya's instructions, she forced her chin up, channeling all of Lady Bourgeois's haughtiness.
Oh.
Nobody was looking at them at all. They'd arrived late, as was the fashion, and the first dance was already in full swing. Under the watchful gaze of the thin man sitting on the raised throne, colorful couples were whirling to the lively music.
And beside him, wearing a silver coat embroidered with the black sigil of his House, stood the prince, hands folded behind his back in a loose warrior's stance. He was holding himself utterly still, watching the crowd through narrowed eyes – and being watched in return.
He leaned to whisper something in his father's ear.
No, not his father. Because that was not Adrien. Marinette swallowed heavily.
"Lord Lahiffe, heir to the earldom of Stonegarden."
Marinette's head whipped around as the familiar name was announced. "Alya," she hissed, fingers digging into one of the redhead's white sleeves. "Alya, we have a problem."
Not once losing her serene smile, Alya laid a steadying hand on the small of Marinette's back, leading her to a shadowed corner of the hall. "What is it?"
"Lord Lahiffe – he knows me, Alya! Chloe was his betrothed before he… before she…" Marinette trailed off as puzzle pieces slid together. With the flood of information she'd processed within the last few days, not everything had yet sunk in.
Marinette had always liked Lord Lahiffe. Not all nobles were kind to servants, but he was unfailingly gentle and polite. Even though they'd not been friends, their stations too far apart for that, she'd nonetheless been disappointed to hear of his cruel behavior.
Except what if he'd not been lying when maintaining his innocence? Lady Bourgeois's imposter was the liar here.
"Before what?" Alya asked, shaking Marinette out of her thoughts.
"The Changeling spurned him." Marinette whispered urgently. "But he used to be a frequent guest at the Bourgeois manor. He was always very friendly, the kind of noble who pays attention to the servants' names and faces. Lord Lahiffe will recognize me when he sees me."
"Then we just stay out of his path. There's hundreds of people here, he won't look that hard at every noblewoman he passes." Alya peered at her with a mix of curiosity and concern. "…I had no idea people could change their color so rapidly. Breathe, sweet girl. Don't forget to breathe."
Breathe. Yes. She could do that. Held an amazing eighteen-year consecutive streak she did not intend to interrupt now.
Alya brushed a stray few hairs behind her ear. "And if the worst comes to pass, I'll distract him. It's not that hard to draw the attention of men."
Marinette swallowed heavily. "…best friend."
"Hm?"
"He was the prince's best friend. We – if we want to get close to Prince Adrien, he might be our path. Yours, I mean. I can't go near."
Alya's pale eyes glittered with interest as she turned to subtly examine him. "You'd think the prince's best friend would be surrounded by people eager to gain his favor."
"Lady Bourgeois spoke very unkindly of him. I think she might have damaged his reputation." Marinette paused. "Perhaps deliberately."
"When was this?"
"About six months past?"
"After the summer solstice, then. He might have noticed the change in his fiancée." An excited note entered Alya's voice. "This might mean he's as resistant to enthrallment as you are. I'm going to talk to him, see what he knows."
Marinette made a distressed sound in the back of her throat. Don't leave me!
Alya patted her shoulder. "Just smile prettily if anyone talks to you. That's all they expect of Ladies anyway. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious and I'll meet you back here soon." The noblewoman offered an encouraging smile. "Don't look like that. You slew a vicious fae beast with one swing, you can handle a few aristocrats. Trust yourself. Your earrings will protect you."
In a swirl of white silk, she disappeared, red locks bouncing as she veered off on a wide arc to make it not quite so obvious whom she was stalking.
Marinette whimpered, fingertip brushing her sapphire earring.
The white butterfly fluttered its wings as it landed on one of the earrings, glowing bright before dissolving into it. "Here," Lady Alya said. "When you sense a battle approaching, simply cry out for the butterfly's aid and it will imbue you with power."
"Should I… shouldn't I train with it before the ball?"
The fae hunter shook her head. "No. The first transformation is critical and it can't be wasted on a practice run. It will lock your form and your powerset, changing shape in accordance with your current situation and emotions. Ideally, you should transform with bravery in your heart. That will yield the strongest form."
"But I was terrified when I was sneaking up on that Changeling."
"And yet you did not think to run away. That is bravery, Marinette. Don't worry about training or practice. These powers will be made from your essence and shaped by your will. Using them will come as naturally as breathing." Alya was quiet for a long moment. "Try to avoid using negative emotions as the catalyst. The result of that is usually… not pretty."
But how would her earrings protect her from the nobility? She couldn't very well do magic battle with anyone who dared approach her. Oh Gods, she was beyond doomed.
"My Lady," a smooth voice said, and Marinette's head jerked up.
A nobleman with bright turquoise eyes was smiling at her as he swept into a bow.
"Forgive me for my abominable manners. I know we've not been formally introduced but when I saw your beauty, I simply had to ask you to dance this next waltz with me."
Marinette squeaked. A faint blush the color of his hair appeared on the man's cheek.
"I'm the baron of Kutzenberg, though you may call me Nathanael. What shall I call you?"
"Marin – Mariposa! I'm. I'm Lady Mariposa."
"Mariposa," he said, his smile broadening. "What a lovely name."
"Just – just Mari is fine."
"Mariposa," he said decisively. "An elegant name for an elegant Lady." Then he held out his hand, inviting her to join him.
She shrank away, shaking her head. "I'm afraid this Lady isn't very elegant on the dancefloor."
"That's alright. Neither am I." A nervous chuckle escaped him as his blush deepened. "I really didn't think this through, to be quite honest with you."
"Then let us agree to just stand here and sway with the music."
"I can do that."
Marinette caught herself returning his shy smile. Perhaps talking to aristocrats wasn't so hard after all?
"Your accent is interesting, where is it from?"
Doomed.
Marinette's diction was an utter mess. Between her mother's foreign tongue, being raised amongst servants in the countryside and yet spending most of her days as a Lady's maid, her accent did not neatly fit anywhere. She enunciated her vowels as the upper class did but had little of their refined vocabulary.
But Alya had said this would be to the advantage of her cover story.
"I hail from Esparia. Which is to say, my father does."
"Ah." For a heartbeat, his mouth pinched in displeasure. "Well, your grasp on our language is quite good, then."
"Thank you?"
"So you're here to celebrate our prince's return?" His eyes were narrowing, and Marinette straightened her spine. Had tensions between the two countries escalated so much already that random Esparian noblewomen were met with such suspicion?
"Indeed I am." She flicked her fan open, covering the lower half of her face. Alya had told her this would aid the illusion of composure. "What a joyous occasion for all of us."
Marinette's gaze darted to the throne and–
Oh no.
Where had the prince gone?
They were supposed to keep an eye on him!
"Now if you'll excuse me, I have – things. To do. Dancing and revelry and such."
He arched an eyebrow. "Non-elegant dancing, I presume?" He gave a stiff bow. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Mariposa."
Ah. Right. She had just turned him down on that offer. Faint guilt pricked at her as the nobleman strode away. It was probably for the best, but still – that had not been well done on her part at all.
Focus.
Marinette let her gaze roam the room. Prince Adrien was tall, his profile should be visible above the crowd. But he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he'd stepped outside for some fresh air? Did fae need refreshment?
She made her way to the balcony leading to the gardens. The cold bit at her skin, her dress so sheer and fine it offered little protection. No wonder nobody stood outside, the winter was barely past its zenith.
But Marinette welcomed the brief reprieve from the crowd, leaning on the stone railing to gather herself. A flash of pale movement caught her eye and she straightened her back.
The prince sat on a bench near the entrance to the maze, gazing into the darkness of its winding depths.
"Lure him away from people if possible. The less thralls he has at his disposal, the better. I can plant false memories if needed, but only a select few. The least controversial death for him would be to tragically succumb to the injuries of his imprisonment. I'll make the physicians attest to that."
This was her chance.
She brushed her thumb over her earring once more, just to reassure herself it was still there. Alya had said she'd sense its activation, so hopefully Marinette would not have to fight him alone for long.
Gathering her skirts, she descended down the stairs.