Page 123 of A Dance of Lies

And releases me in a blink as he switches partners.

I am left breathless, my stomach aflutter. A lick of heat slides up my neck.

I lose sight of him soon after, couples whirling by. I decline the next courtier vying for a dance, charting a course for the bar. Filling a glass of water, I gulp it greedily, waiting for the twinkling in my vision to recede. When it does, I break for the exit.

My breath hitches when I find Illian blocking my path, his long fingers curled about a chalice.

A menacing calm cloaks his countenance, though he merely moves aside with a simple, “Evening, Miss Moran.”

I want to be relieved as he lets me pass.

Yet a frightening suspicion makes me wonder if tonight was less about his order and more about watching me.

The next three days before the final signature performance tick by, uneventful.

I spend each morning practicing, ignoring my exhaustion. I act as though I am not haunted by Emilia’s cries or the nightmare in which my father finally recognizes me.

I pretend away the pain in my body, or try, but despite that I feel it in every step, and I swear it’s growing worse.

Worse still is the tension between Copelan and me, as dense as a heavy fog.

In the evenings, I swathe myself in costumes and paints and perform where I’m assigned. First, for a Kasimi councilor and her wife, who dismiss me the moment I finish; second, for Raiden, the Prince of Zar, who falls asleep halfway through my dance. Finally, I perform for Queen Sadira and her sons. That evening, Prince Sundarcoaxes me into a game of chess, which he loses promptly, in such a way that tells me he let me win on purpose. More and more, he reminds me of Anton. It’s his charm, the smiles he can’t seem to hide, and his penchant for exquisite fashion.

It makes me remember that I haven’t seen Anton since the barge, or heard anything more about the proof he vowed to collect.

And the Gathering concludes in just over a week. Whatever move Illian plans to make, he will do it before then.

I can’t sit idly by when the stakes are so high. So I whisk on my cloak and make my way to the kitchen.

And slow at the sound of voices. I hadn’t expected so many at this time of night, and so I slip between familiar crates and pad toward the cellar door, only to halt at a flash of white-blond hair.

Copelan.

He’s leaning against a pillar, a confection in hand, talking with Laurent’s replacement—a stiff, older woman I have made a point to avoid. When Copelan angles away, I flit around the corner and out of sight, parting the cellar door as swiftly and silently as possible. In the tunnels, I pause only once, when I pass Illian’s quarters, but they are unlit. Dark.

I tread onward until I reach Anton’s room. I slide the pane aside, a demand on my tongue, only to freeze at the visitor standing wide-eyed at my arrival.

“Laurent,” I gasp.

I long to run to him, to fall at his feet and beg for his forgiveness, but I hold myself back. How he must hate me. How he must loathe my presence after what I’ve done—and rightly so.

Except he breaks into a wide, familiar grin. “Vasalie, my sweet!”

“Words can’t convey,” I rasp, “how sorry I am—”

“Sorry?” Laurent says. “I should be thanking you! His Majesty was guilted into not doubling but tripling my salary.AndI was given a suite in his palace. I requested a pet tiger—though even a lynx would do—but that’s still a work in progress.”

Tears burn behind my eyes as I dash over and fling my armsaround his neck. He smells like cinnamon and fresh rain. “I was so worried about you,” I breathe.

“I’m worried aboutyou,” he returns, gathering me into a gentle hug.

“I—How are you here? You should be far away . . .”

“His Majesty brought me back—with great precaution, I should add. He needed help constructing a gown.” He grins.

The Fate of Morta gown. My heart flutters. “If anyone saw you . . .”

“No one knows, nor will they find out. Unless you tell them, of course.”