Free The Swan Maiden by Heather Tomlinson

her—”
    The net flapped.
    Doucette surged toward the opening and freedom, but the younger boy shook his stick. “Get back!”
    â€œBoy. Lay down the cudgel.” The voice that spoke was as clear as snowmelt.
    Ravioun dropped the stick. Both boys bowed their heads, touched their hearts with their fists, and stood shivering in the cold water. Doucette peered through the mesh.
    â€œLady Mahalt.” The miller’s face had turned as white as his flour. “She’s yours?”
    â€œYou know the penalty for harming one of my swans.” Mahalt Aigleron shrugged her blue cloak away from the shoulders of her gown. A slender finger tapped the key strung on a ribbon around her neck.
    The man cringed. “Saint Armentarius be my witness, I didn’t see your sign.…”
    Doucette squawked at her rescuer.
    Mahalt limped to the edge of the pond. Like a bird’s dragging wing, the blue cloak hem brushed her fine leather shoes. Strangely, her awkward gait only intensified the elegance of her face and dress.
    â€œAs well I came,” she said in the same level, terrifying voice, “and averted a costly misunderstanding.”
    â€œYes, my lady.” The miller scooped up the sopping bundle of net and bird and water weed and set it at the woman’s feet. “Your pardon, Lady Mahalt. I never—”
    â€œGo,” she said.
    â€œMy lady.” He bowed. Then, seizing each of the boys by an ear, he hustled them into the mill. The door banged shut.
    The woman folded her arms.
    Doucette shifted her weight. She arched her neck and poked her orange beak through the net.
    Mahalt slipped off the blue cloak and held it open in front of her. “Change,” she said.
    There was no question of disobeying that voice. Doucette changed. Like the first time she returned to her human shape, she lay gasping for several moments before her skin felt the right size. When she could control her legs, she stood up and kicked the net away. Clutching her muddy swan skin, she draped the offered cloak around herself and curtsied as best she could. “Tante Mahalt. Thank you. I … I—” She stuttered to a halt.
    Her aunt looked like an older, colder version of Azelais. Silver streaked the two long black braids that shone in the sunlight, iridescent as a magpie’s feathers. Fine lines radiated from the corners of her dark eyes; the wine-red lips were set in a disapproving expression. Again, Doucette’s aunt touched the key strung around her neck. “Reckless girl, flying without a sign. You’re Pascau’s youngest?”
    â€œYes. I’m Doucette.”
    Mahalt’s eyebrows arched. “Where are Azelais and Cecilia? Did Sarpine keep them this year?”
    â€œNo, they’re riding with an escort of Father’s armsmen, as usual.”
    The dark gaze rested on Doucette with a palpable weight. “You’ve not come to me before.”
    â€œMother hid my swan skin.” Doucette studied her muddy feet. She felt grubby and small as she pleaded for understanding. “I have to learn magic, Tante Mahalt. Azelais and Cecilia have had all these years, and I didn’t—I have to know. Please, don’t send me home.”
    â€œNot until you’ve learned to take better care in your swan form.” Her aunt frowned at the discarded net. “If my sister-in-law hoped to hide your true nature forever, she deluded herself, and Pascau was twice a fool to humor her.” She fixed Doucette with a stern look. “Fortunately for you, I wondered why a lone swan hadn’t the courtesy to pay her respects. Without my intervention, you’d be dead or wed. Neither of the miller’s boys is a prize.”
    â€œYes, Tante. I’m sorry.” For no reason, Doucette thought of Jaume’s unexpected offer. Should she have stayed and listened? He could have taken her swan skin outright, but he hadn’t. And, unlike the