Exclusive Excerpt + Q&A: A. B. Poranek Introduces Us to A Treachery of Swans

Author A.B. Poranek’s Where the Dark Stands Still deftly blended elements from Polish folklore with the familiar bones of Beauty and the Beast to create a complex and emotionally devastating tale that felt brand new. Now she is set to the same thing for Swan Lake with A Treachery of Swans, an evocative retelling that features complex, morally gray characters and a queer spin on the classic tale.

Set in a country inspired by 17th-century France, the story follows Odile, whose plan to restore magic to her kingdom is upended by a murder—a crime which forces her to beg for help from the young woman whose identity she stole. 

Here’s how the publisher describes the story. 

Can two girls—one enchanted, one the enchantress—save their kingdom and each other?

Two hundred years ago, a slighted deity stole the magic from Auréal and vanished without a trace. But seventeen-year-old Odile has a plan. All her life, her father, a vengeful sorcerer, has raised her for one singular task: infiltrate the royal palace and steal the king’s crown, an artefact with enough power to restore magic. But to enter the palace, she must assume the identity of a noblewoman. She chooses Marie d’Odette: famed for her beauty, a rumored candidate for future queen…and Odile’s childhood-friend-turned-sworn-enemy.

With her father’s help, Odile transforms Marie into a swan and takes her place at court. But when the king is brutally murdered and her own brother is accused, her plans are thrown into chaos. Desperate to free her brother, Odile is forced to team up with none other than elegant, infuriating Marie, the girl she has cursed…and the girl she can’t seem to stop thinking about despite her best efforts.

To make matters worse, there are whispers that the king’s murder was not at the hands of man, but beast. Torn between loyalty to her father and her growing feelings for Marie, Odile becomes tangled in a web of treachery and deceit. To save her kingdom, she must find the true path to magic…and find the real killer before they—or it—strikes again.

A Treachery of Swans will be released on June 24, but we got the chance to chat with Poranek herself about what to expect from the story—and snagged a sneak peek from the book itself!

Paste Magazine: Tell us about A Treachery of Swans! What can readers expect from this story and what do you hope they take away from it?

A.B. Poranek: A Treachery of Swans is a sapphic retelling of Swan Lake told from the perspective of Odile, the daughter of the original fairytale’s villain! It’s Gothic and moody, windblown and decadent, and takes its aesthetic inspirations from old theatre houses and 17th-century France, specifically the reign of Louis XIV.

 It is, first and foremost, a murder mystery, which is used as a vehicle to tell a more intimate story about trust and deception.

Paste: How would you say this that book compares to your (excellent) debut Where the Dark Stands Still? Are there similar themes or character arcs? Or is this a whole new kind of story? 

Poranek: While the novels are complete standalones, I would describe them as distant cousins. Both are intensely atmospheric, but while Where the Dark Stands Still was midsummer nights and woodland rot and a haunted, crumbling manor, A Treachery of Swans is cold palace halls, the whirl of ballgowns and blood spilled across marble. 

They do share storytelling elements: coming-of-age, romance and mystery, but the protagonists could not be more different. While Liska was gentle and intrepid and caring, Odile is an absolute menace, scheming and turbulent and chaotic. What both girls share, though, is stubbornness!

Paste: What made you want to base this story on Swan Lake? What is it about that story that keeps drawing audiences back to it in so many forms?

Poranek: I’ve always wanted to retell Swan Lake—I was first introduced to the story through the Barbie movie, and it was also one of the first ballets I ever watched live. It’s such a classic tale of star-crossed love and mistaken identities. 

I always found myself especially fascinated by the black swan: her fate seemed so cruel, to be a pawn in her father’s game, ultimately cast aside in favor of the classically pure white swan. I wanted to give her a voice of her own and reimagine the story from her perspective—with a little sapphic twist, as a treat!

Paste: Tell us about your two protagonists and the complicated relationship they share.

Poranek: Oh, I love talking about these two! Odile, the black swan, is my beloved gremlin girl, who many readers might find frustrating, especially at first. She’s one of those characters that requires patience as she learns and grows, but whose journey I am ultimately so proud of. She might be my favorite character I’ve ever written! Marie d’Odette, the white swan, is her opposite—tender and wise, but filled with turmoil, convinced she is doomed by the narrative. 

Their relationship starts firmly at the enemies end of the enemies-to-lovers spectrum, but grows as they begin to realize—reluctantly— that they complete each other: Marie’s softness and patience is exactly what Odile needs to begin to learn how to trust again, while Odile’s ferocity and stubbornness is what Marie needs to reclaim her agency after years of letting others control her fate.

Paste: What element of this book excited you the most while you were writing it? Do you have a particular moment (or character) from this story that you can’t wait for readers to experience?

Poranek: I wrote the entire book for a very specific scene near the end involving a theatre dressing room and candlelight and wings. It’s the culmination of Odile and Marie’s relationship and has one of my favorite tropes in it! There’s also another element I haven’t talked about yet: a secondary m/m romance between a prince and his guard that I absolutely adored weaving throughout the narrative.

I’m so excited for readers to meet all of the characters and unravel this story along with Odile and her little found family!

And now , you can read first chapter of A Treachery of Swans for yourselves below.

SCENE I

Théâtre du Roi

Night

 They will tell the story, later, of the white swan and the black, but they will tell it wrong.

It begins as they say: A beautiful girl, pale as the moon, at the edge of the lake in the dark of night. And a sorcerer stalking from the shadows, foul-hearted and wicked, with the yellow eyes of an owl and fingertips coated in magic.

The prince will come later, as will the ball and the love story doomed by deceit. But for now there is a theater house, and there is a play, and there is a villainous girl whose story was never told.

First, allow me to set the stage.

The Théâtre du Roi is a grizzled, devouring edifice sprawled languidly at the edge of Lac des Cygnes. Tonight it is a well-fed beast, belly full of roaring noblesse and commoners alike, its candle-lit windows narrowed in satisfaction. It’s a Saturday, and on Saturday the Théâtre’s resident troupe puts on one of their legendary tragédies en musique, affairs of glittering splendor and dizzying dance and operatic, tear-wrenching song.

The play is drawing to a close, and I have been stabbed.

I rush from the stage with a torrent of applause at my heels, the warm slickness of blood sticking my doublet to my skin. The familiar stench of the dressing rooms welcomes me—cheap perfume and old sweat and something suspiciously like strong liquor, though the troupe has yet to locate the culprit behind that particular smell.

I yank the collapsible dagger from my chest and strip off the outer layer of my costume, a mass of heavy black brocade and pinned-on lace belonging to the play’s dramatically murdered prince. I wipe fat, insincere tears from my eyes. Sweat slips down my spine; my feet ache from the prince’s ostentatious pre-death dance number. Normally I’d be elated, adrenaline singing through my veins, a satisfied grin on my face. But not tonight. Tonight I have one more role to play, and it will be the most spectacular of my career.

There’s a swell of applause in the distance as the rest of the troupe finishes taking their bows. Normally, I would be up there with them, but I need a head start to locate the target of my mission. As I pull the now-pierced bladder of hog’s blood from beneath my shirt, the other actors and dancers come surging down into the dressing rooms, a blur of gaudy costumes and gaudier faces, wrenching off headdresses and masks and unfastening heeled dance shoes.

There’s an uncharacteristic, tense energy to it all, putting a rueful note in the usual backstage banter.

“Mothers be merciful, I nearly tripped over Guillaume’s train.” “Do you think they noticed that I started my aria off-key?”

“Forget the aria, Maurice nearly knocked me off that wooden horse. Then Henri started to giggle, and he’s meant to be playing a Corpse.”

I want to join them, to snicker and commiserate over stage mishaps or forgotten lines, but my stomach is too tight, my mind already on the task ahead. Tonight the theater’s audience is swollen to twice its usual size, filled with not only the usual attendees—court nobles and wealthy city merchants and any commoner able to scrape together enough to afford the Théâtre’s cheaper parterre tickets— but also nobles from across Auréal and beyond, dukes and duchesses and most importantly, their daughters of marrying age.

To them, our performance is only an appetizer, a prelude to tomorrow night’s grand ball—a ball celebrating the Dauphin’s eighteenth birthday, at which the realm’s future ruler is expected to choose a bride.

I pause by the cracked mirror of one of the dressing room’s mismatched vanities, wiping away the most garish of my makeup. My true features peer out from beneath—a sharp, boyish face studded with citrine-yellow eyes, nothing trustworthy about either. I leave some paint behind—dark shadows on my eyelids, golden glitter on my cheekbones. I slide my mother’s red-and-gold earring back into my right ear. I want to look dangerous—the kind of danger that tempts and seduces, that promises a thrill.

As I work, I catch more snippets of conversation

“Did you see the young Mademoiselle d’Auvigny?” says one of the men. I recognize the reedy tenor of Henri, the former giggling corpse. “She was sitting just to our right in the loges. No wonder they say the Dauphin is going to choose her.” One of the other men responds with what I can only describe as an infatuated moan, and I roll my eyes.

“You going to try to seduce her, Henri?” someone teases. “You think I can’t?”

“I think you have the tact of a dazed fruit fly,” replies the former. “Besides, you remember that ridiculous piece of gossip from years ago, the one the court ladies so loved? I had to listen to Madame Bérengère prattle about it for hours.” He raises his voice to a mocking feminine squeak. “‘They say when the Dauphin first saw Marie d’Odette on the edge of Lac des Cygnes, he thought her an enchanted swan maiden! Sparks flew, flowers bloomed, the Mothers considered returning, and the Dauphin nearly married her on the spot.’”

“Please, we all know the Duchesse d’Auvigny spread those rumors,” Henri replies sullenly. “Laying her claim on the Dauphin, the ornery hag.”

“My point is you have no hope,” his companion replies, still in squeaky falsetto, prompting a smattering of snickers.

Smiling, I slip from the room, snatching a clean black-and-gold doublet from a rickety chair as I go. Marie d’Odette d’Auvigny, only daughter of the family ruling Auvigny province, has certainly made an impression. That has always been a skill of hers, after all. Even I hadn’t been immune when I’d spotted her watching from the loges. The beatific Swan Princess living up to her name—magnanimous and pale, with a gown of silver-blue lapping at her shoulders and lace frothing at her collar; her hair the color of moonlit sand, piled high and studded with pearls.

My chest bubbles with anticipation. If I play my cards right tonight, that gown, those pearls, and that hair… they will all be mine.

I quicken my pace, pulling on the doublet and checking the powder on my wrists, ensuring none of it has rubbed off. The backstage stairwells are dark, stifling things, curling upward as if through the throat of some great beast. Even here, encased in somber wood, I can hear the crowd: the chatter of nobles mingling after the performance, the stomp of feet across the parterre as commoners head back into the city.

All of it is broken by the sudden clack of heeled shoes descending the steps, a familiar voice consuming the dark.

“Yes, of course I will remember. Goodbye, monseigneur.”

I straighten instinctively as my father swoops into view.

It’s like being mobbed by crows—a descent of darkness, a flurry of a black silk cloak, a glimpse of keen eyes and a face wreathed in feathers. Known only by his stage name, never seen without his ornate, owl-faced mask, Regnault has always been mystery incarnate—not a man, but a character, breathed out of the sumptuous stage décor and exuberant melodrama of one of his troupe’s grandest plays. Yet tonight there is no mirth, no elaborate jest, in his glittering eyes.

“Ah, there you are.” His voice is resonant even at a whisper, filled with a performer’s charisma. “Are you ready?”

“Y-yes.” I wince at the tremble in my voice—somehow he always makes me feel like I’m five years old again, begging for scraps in an alleyway. I clear my throat. “Yes, Papa, I’m ready.”

Regnault clasps a talon-like hand on my shoulder. “Good. Remember, I will be waiting by the lake. Should anything change…” 

“It will not,” I reassure him, keeping my voice steady. “I will not fail you.”

My father’s thin lips slide up, curling into a too-wide grin that most would find unnerving. I used to try imitating that smile when I was younger, practicing in front of any mirror I could find, though I never quite managed to perfect it.

“You know,” he says, touching his knuckle to my cheek, “I finally believe that.” His gaze softens briefly, and I can’t help but revel in the expression. This is a rare side of my father, a thing to be hoarded and treasured. “There is a reason I took you in, little owl,” he adds. “Do not make me regret it.”

And there it is, that reminder of doubt. Regnault doesn’t yet trust me fully. He is holding back, rightfully so, waiting to see if I accomplish this final mission, the one he raised me for. The task that begins tonight: Gain the trust of Marie d’Odette. Take her place. Seduce the Dauphin of Auréal and fool him long enough to steal the Couronne du Roi.

My stomach squeezes. What could possibly go wrong?

Regnault’s eyes roam over my face. “I can see you are anxious to begin,” he remarks. “Go, then. I can hear the others coming.”

He bends to kiss the crown of my head. As he does, a necklace swings from the collar of his doublet. My eyes are drawn to it: it’s a thing of fine gold, composed of a brittle chain and a pendant molded into the face of an owl. At its appearance, the scent of iron and sage fills my nostrils, a prickle of static scattering across my skin.

Sorcery. I grin at the feeling. I still remember the rush of stealing that pendant, three weeks ago.

Regnault had given me the mission after we finished a performance of Le Maître de Malvaine. There is a custom, at the Théâtre, for the actors to mingle with the noblesse after every performance, the most popular receiving praise or expensive gifts from wealthy patrons in exchange for… ah, favors. It always pained me to watch as the other actresses simpered for attention, allowing themselves to be dragged into shadowed corners by jewelry-dripping noblemen with greedy mouths. I avoided such encounters—unless, of course, Regnault asked it of me.

That night, he’d come up behind me right as I had stepped off the stage. He’d bent to murmur in my ear: “The Ministre d’État is wearing a pendant of goddess-gold. I want you to get it for me.”

I am never one to refuse a challenge. After the curtain fell, I had allowed the King’s minister to corner me in this very stairwell, his breath stinking of wine and his brocade robes drenched in sweat. I’d endured his wandering hands while I’d draped my arms around his shoulders, easily slipping the pendant from his neck. Then I’d fled, mumbling some excuse, feigning a shy young girl too flustered by the attention of such a great man.

Regnault’s eyes had shone with excitement when I’d placed the pendant in his hand. “This is it,” he’d exclaimed, holding the pendant to the light. “With this, I will finally have enough magic for the spell. And when this is over, we will never have to scavenge again. We will have all the magic we desire, and I will teach you all I know.”

Now, Regnault’s eyes find mine, and I wonder if he is remembering the same moment I am. After a second, he tucks the pendant back under his collar. “The tests are over, little owl,” he says quietly. That nickname falls, weighted with burden, between us. “Do this and we will bring magic back.”

With that he turns away, cloak billowing around him. As soon as he is out of sight, I gulp in a deep breath, my pulse pounding.

Do this and we will bring magic back. A reminder of the true stakes of this mission. The Couronne du Roi, the King’s enchanted crown, is the only goddess-gold object that contains enough magic for Regnault to summon back Morgane. To force the kingdom’s once-patron to return and lift her curse from our lands.

A clamor sounds behind me, jerking me from my thoughts. I’ve tarried too long—the rest of the troupe is coming. I turn and hurry up the remaining steps, squaring my shoulders and putting on my signature devil-may-care grin as I emerge into the gallery.

It’s always unsettling to be above the stage and not upon it, looking out onto the echoing vastness of the auditorium. The galleries spill before me like a bloom of fresh blood, every loge sheltering a row of chairs drenched in crimson velvet. Sconces shaped like hands grip ruby-red candles, and gold shines from the balcony railings. It’s a stark contrast to the dark of the parterre below, where the commoners are still filing from the room in a stifling herd.

The noblesse peer down at them from the loges, gossiping shamelessly and sipping from crystalline flutes. In a way, they are no less garish than the troupe in their costumes, faces powdered white, heads crowned in perukes and ostrich feathers. Dark fabrics have become popular as of late—deep emeralds and muddy blues and even true blacks dominate, making the crowd appear as if they are gathered for mourning. Mourning what, I couldn’t tell you— probably the death of fashion.

There’s a flurry of activity behind me as the rest of the troupe catches up, spilling out at my heels. Many nobles rise to greet them with delighted cries, as though spotting their favorite animal at a zoo.

I step to the side and pause, casting my gaze around for my prize. It’s not hard to locate Marie d’Odette—she stands out from the crowd in her pale hues, a wash of watercolor against a world of somber oil paint. Anticipation rises within me, and I plunge into the crowd, skirting by actors and dancers and noblesse.

A gaggle of noble girls, chortling over sloshing drinks, momentarily obscures Marie from my sight. They are close to my age, and I guess they are also candidates for future queen, hoping to catch the Dauphin’s eye tomorrow night. As I slip by, one of them snorts loudly, her watery eyes landing on me. “Look, that one’s dressed like a boy. I bet it’s because she makes such an ugly girl.”

I tilt up my chin and throw her a derisive glare. I long to start a fight, but that would risk my mission. And Regnault’s plans are more important than my honor—more important than anything else.

Still, the damage is done. When I look away from the girls, Marie d’Odette has vanished. Muffling a growl of annoyance, I pick up the pace, threading between the crowd until I spot her again: she is stepping through one of the arched exits connecting the loges to the entrance hall, fastening a ribbon-trimmed cloak around her narrow shoulders.

Marie d’Odette has changed. Gone is the girl I remember from my youth, the troublemaker with a fawn’s exuberant gait, who bounded more than walked as she pulled me around the Château. Now she practically glides over the marble, as precise and graceful as a dancer. There is no emotion in her face, no wonder in her eyes. It’s enough to fool nearly anyone into thinking she’s just another noblewoman. Perfectly proper, contemptuously cultured. 

But I know better—it’s all a mask. And I’ve seen her take it off. 

During the play, when attention was on the stage and she thought no one was looking, she’d raised her hands, long and dexterous, to the railing of her box and begun fluttering them to the rhythm of the music. There’d been a frantic sort of longing to it, as though she might leap over the railing and spread a pair of pearly wings, alight among the dancers, and join them in a caper.

She may act like she’s a forlorn deity, but even goddesses have desires. And I intend to exploit this one.

I pause just behind her and set my feet apart, putting my hands on my hips. “Leaving already?” I call out, adding a petulant note to my voice.

Marie turns, and I suck in a breath. She was always striking in appearance, but now she looks revoltingly good. Her formerly cherubic face has taken on a celestial regality, her cheekbones high and her silver eyes knowing. Her full lips, once always twitching into an eager smile, are now shackled into an expression of demure politeness.

When she sees me—when she recognizes me—they part in surprise. 

“It’s you!”

Her voice is surprisingly low—soft in a way I don’t remember, lilting and polite in a way that sounds feigned. I can’t help the flash of resentment that the sound of it sends through me. For an instant I am thirteen again, humiliation heating my cheeks as a pair of hands lifts prismatic diamonds from my throat. Come away. You’re going to get your dress dirty.

I shove the memory back, ignoring the taste of betrayal it leaves behind. With meticulous precision, I curl my smile into one of friendly mischief. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” I make a show of inspecting myself. “Ah, yes, so it is. Unfortunate.”

Marie blinks at my antics, disbelief still in her eyes. “Odile,” she says, as though I’m some sort of fairy-tale creature come to life. Then she collects herself, shaking her head minutely, scrubbing any excitement from her face. When she next speaks, it’s courteously subdued. “I—I thought I saw you onstage, but then I thought I was imagining it. When did you join the Théâtre?”

“Oh, some time ago,” I say vaguely—a lie in line with all the others I told her once upon a time. “But tell me, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny—what are you doing here all alone and forlorn?”

She frowns. “I am not forlorn.”

I cross my arms. “It seemed to me you were making a rather swift exit. Some might even call it an escape.”

A smile tugs at her lips, but she quickly smothers it. “I protest. I was making my graceful and very distinguished retirement. Which I should probably resume.” She dips a shallow curtsy and continues toward the entrance hall.

“Wait,” I call after her. “Can’t you postpone said retirement an hour or two? I have an offer for you.”

Marie hesitates, and I hold my breath. To my relief, she glances back at me.

“I . . .” She pauses, eyes flicking up and down the corridor. Ensuring that no one is witnessing her continuing to interact with a lowly peasant, I’m certain. But we’re on our own for the most part—the noblesse have either gone into the main hall to gossip or hidden themselves in the more private loges.

Slowly, Marie allows a glimmer of curiosity to enter her eyes. “What is the offer?”

“Remember how you always used to wonder what the backstage of the Théâtre was like? What if I showed you around?”

Immediately, she shakes her head. “Oh, no. Thank you, but I cannot.”

“Certainly you can.”

“No, I mean . . . Things have changed, Odile.” She looks away, lacing her fingers together nervously. “I cannot simply run off anymore.”

I’m losing her. I can’t let that happen. “It’s really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you know,” I say impishly. “Usually we only give tours to our most generous of patrons.”

That makes her eyes narrow. “But I haven’t paid you at all, so why are you offering me this?”

I have to hand her this: she’s not as naïve as she used to be. “Out of self-interest,” I say honestly—hide a lie in a truth, Papa always says, and it’s harder to find. “Everyone is whispering that you are the one most likely to be picked by the Dauphin tomorrow.”

But at the mention of the Dauphin, Marie’s expression flickers strangely. “I suppose so,” she says, looking away.

I don’t have time to contemplate her reaction. “Well, just in case, I’d like to win your favor. Every actress wants a wealthy patron, after all.”

Marie laughs, but even that is strained—as though she might be punished for anything too expressive. “When did you become so sly?”

 “It’s a vicious world out there, Mademoiselle d’Auvigny. I’m clever when I have to be and run away when I can. So”—I hold my arm out to her in a gentleman’s fashion—“what do you say? Can you truly refuse a little bit of freedom?”

That seems to finally do the trick. Marie glances toward the exit, then to me, then toward the boisterous crowd in the distance. A light appears in her eyes, hesitant yet hungry, and I know she’s fallen into my trap at last.

“I suppose…” Marie places a skittish, silver-pale hand on my arm. “I suppose I could, if it does not take too long.” 

“I will keep it brief, I promise,” I say, holding back a smug, triumphant smile. “Believe me, Marie—you have no idea what’s in store for you.”

A Treachery of Swans will be released on June 24, but you can pre-order it right now. 

Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB