Page 18 of A Dance of Lies

“Copelan,” I repeat. It’s an old name with both Miridranian and Brisendali descent. I know this because my father had me study names and origins. “It means ‘an abundance of passion.’ “

In some contexts, it’s closer to exuberance, but I don’t tell him that.

Emilia once said that people loved to hear their name spoken aloud; it was her secret to garnering favor. For a glimpse, he appears puzzled—a reprieve from the severity of his gaze. I take it as a win.

Retrieving the mat from my bag, I unroll it across the floor. It draws a furrow from Copelan’s brow, and more so as I unclasp the buttons on my coat, revealing snow-white gossamer that grazes the floor in feathery tufts. I’d sewn the skirt myself, with Brigitte’s help. It’s inexpensive, light, and flows weightlessly around me like dandelion fluff in a delicate breeze.

“ ‘The Set Alune,’ please,” I request of the harpist. It’s a common ballad, sung to children mostly: the story of a flightless bird who fashions wings from water. Yet another sigh reveals just how unimpressed Copelan is; I can almost hear his thoughts:Too safe, too common.But I won’t doubt my decision.

I find my center of gravity and breathe.

The music commences in a flurry of rising chords. Dizziness sets in, but I take one step, two, then run until the seventh beat. On the eighth, I throw my momentum into a jump, arms splayed like a bird attempting to fly—

Only to tuck inward and allow myself to fall gracefully onto the ground. My head swirls, but I curl in on myself, palms flattened against the mat. Rising in a show of defeat, I give another half-hearted leap, and another, until I am down a final time.

I lie there, the anticipation building, then turn my attention to the ground around me. Rotating onto my back, I glide as if I’m floating through water. Tendrils of flour, now staining the rich blue of the sea, slip from my hand in ripples.

I gather my strength and pull to my feet, twirling onto the edge of the mat. Pain lances through my nerves, but I push it aside.

I wait for my moment, the harmony building into a finale. I stride forward, my secret already in my palms, and with every ounce of determination I possess, I spring upward. Arms spread, I releasethe flour, and with no short amount of satisfaction, I see the Master of Revel’s expression drop into awe as my powder fans into large, billowing wings. And even as I land, the outline of my triumph lingers in midair a few beats before settling into a soft cloud around my feet.

I breathe out. My heartbeat stutters and my vision swims with stars, dizziness pitching against my mind for a long moment until it clears, but I feel something more that I haven’t in years.

Pride.

I impressed him. Even more, I remembered what it’s like to tell a story without words. It was something Emilia taught me from her time as an actress—something I implemented when Illian finally allowed me to coordinate my own routines. The first tale I danced into existence was of a white fox whose fur never grew the lovely golden brown and red hues of autumn, like his friends, and so he set forth to collect color from the Mystical Wood. Illian loved it so much, he asked that I teach it to a nearby arts academy, and since then, they perform it every autumn’s solstice.

I remember wishing Emilia could’ve seen it. She would have clapped the loudest, would’ve dragged every acquaintance she ever made to a showing. Twice.

There was a time when I loved to dance because it made me feel close to her. It was under the lights of a stage that I kept her with me.

I exhale, turning the lock in my mind, the Master of Revels coming back into focus.

His lips tighten as he watches me. Then he bends, examining the powder.

“It will stain,” I say.

“Then you’ve ruined your outfit.”

“A story worth telling warrants a little destruction.”

As soon as I say it, a bout of nausea grips me, nearly making me lurch as I recall a similar phrase that once left my father’s lips.A lesson worth learning surely warrants a little destruction.

He’d said it after a banquet, when I hadn’t eaten the delicacies the king’s adviser had prepared. My father had been away for months at an encampment—souls, I’d missed him—and all the excitement and nervousness had stolen my appetite. But he’d been furious with me. It was an insult capable of jeopardizing his standing, he’d told me, as the newly appointed general of Brisendale’s army. I hadn’t understood, and so when we returned home, he’d taken my blue-crowned finch from its cage, placed it in my hands, and told me to squeeze, because the only way I’d learn was if Ifeltthe consequences of my actions.

But I couldn’t do it. Not with the ruffle of wings filling my palms or the tiny chirps slipping between the gaps of my fingers. So he did it for me. Grabbed my hand and mashed it with his own. I can almost feel it now—the soft crush of bones, like brittle twigs. The ooze that seeped onto my palm.

I curl my fists, trying not to sway.

“So this is the reason for the mat,” Copelan remarks.

I nod, forcing my thoughts to the present.

“What exactly is this?” He dips the toe of his boot along the scattered flour.

“My own concoction.” It isn’t a lie. Before the journey, I experimented with it, adding powdered dye and finely ground crystals. “I call it ‘Dust of the Moon.’ “

His brow lifts, disappearing into his hairline. “Moon dust?”