Page 20 of A Dance of Lies

I tap my finger against a globe. It swings, triggering an echoingchime. I startle like a thief caught stealing, but no one notices save for a frowning maid, who flits by with a stack of towels in her arms.

I call out before she can round a corner. “Excuse me, Miss . . .”

Pausing, she sweeps her gaze over her shoulder, meeting mine. It catches me off guard, because Illian’s servants never dared. “The Head of Staff,” I ask. “Where can I find him?”

She jerks her chin to my left. “A right at the end of the hall, last door.”

“Thank you,” I say, but she’s already gone, another swarm of servants shuffling by in livery just like hers: loose linen tunics and pants underneath a beige apron, tied at the waist.

Following her directions, I step aside more than once as groups of guards pass by. They come from all over the northern continents, each donning armor and weapons unique to their nation. But it’s King Anton’s soldiers who capture my attention. Despite their sea-green cuirass and baldrics, they wear light-refracting masks, each clutching a large glass-edged halberd, not unlike a reaper’s axe. Anton’s particular contributions, I’ve heard, to spare the east from expensive metal, armor, and weapons imports.

The hallway quiets around the bend, allowing me a chance to catch my breath until the sound of voices slip underneath the farthest door.

“. . . and see to it the prophets are brought to me first.”

“. . . won’t arrive for another few days, if the correspondence is to be believed . . .”

The door itself towers above me, a framework of gold hexagons bordering fragmented cobalt glass, and the handle is an ornate sword. I wrap my hands around its hilt but pause, peering through the crack.

Two figures hover over a large desk. The first is hooded in a blue, threadbare cloak. The other is angled away from the door, his cream uniform reminiscent of the maid’s, though blue and gold embroidery notates a higher rank. He must be the Head of Staff.

“Here’re the last of the letters,” he says, gathering a stack of envelopes. “On your way to Philam, then?”

“No time like the present,” says the hooded one. “I’ll dispatch them to my contacts in the north.”

“I could always send someone on your behalf.”

“Nonsense. I need the fresh air, and it’s more urgent if it comes from me. Besides, I’ll be discreet.”

“With all due respect, you have not been discreet a day in your life.”

“All the more reason to practice.” With that, the man in the hood pulls the stack into his hands, then pivots toward the door.

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I sweep back, but there’s nowhere to hide. The door whips open, and there he is, pausing at the sight of me. Though I can’t see his eyes, he has a regal air about him, a confident posture that feels almost overbearing. I can’t help but bristle, more so as his lips quirk—a quirk that spreads into a saccharine smile as he calls over his shoulder, “Seems you have a guest, Laurent. And an interesting one at that.” Then he ambles past, whistling, his cloak a whisper against the polished floor.

I remember too late that my skin is still dusted with blue millen.

“Don’t be a stranger,” the Head of Staff—Laurent—calls out. “Do come in.”

Cheeks aflame, I ease into the office. Laurent is bent over his papers, organizing them into different piles. “What can I do for you?” he mumbles nonchalantly, then lifts his head, a warm smile on his lips.

Something about him puts me instantly at ease.

His eyes are silver yet soft as a cloud, a contrast to his cutting cheekbones and jawline. His hair is shaved, his skin smooth and deep brown, and if I had to guess, I’d place him in his late thirties. And despite his dignified, gold-threaded uniform, he has an eclectic presence about him that draws me in. A bronze ribbon coils up one arm, while a silver torque wraps his throat. Mismatching earringsdecorate each ear, and I briefly think about how much Emilia would love them. She used to collect unique jewelry.

His brows climb as he surveys me. “I assume you’re looking for the bathhouse?”

“Actually, sir, I had hoped to inquire about ordering supplies. I’m a performer, you see. A dancer, specifically.” It’s not entirely a lie. While I brought as much millen and dyes as I could, I will eventually need more.

But mostly, I needed an excuse to meet him.

“What sort of supplies?”

“Millen flour, primarily. I use it in my dance.”

“Ah.” He looks intrigued. “You must have just come from the auditions. Part of a troupe, I presume?”

“A soloist, actually.”