Page 23 of A Dance of Lies

He’d taken her hand, thinking it was his own.

A chill passes over me, bristling the hairs on my arms. Illian had images of Morta all over his palace, but here she feels close, somehow. A phantom in the shadows, the silence her song. Idly, I press the pad of my finger to her billowy lips, a faint ringing in my ear . . .

The sound of movement jerks me from my trance, drawing my attention to a nearby hall.

I ease past the sculpture and peek around the bend.

And there, in a wide, abandoned room, is Copelan.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors encompass the space, reflecting his every angle, while sconces from the hall volley soft, fluttering lightacross the room. And he’s dancing, sailing across the floor, a ribbon banding his eyes—

Blindfolded. He’sblindfolded.Consumed in his own world. I can almost see it as he moves; he paints it for me with motion. There’s no music, no beat, but I hear it in his steps. It flows from his leaps, his pirouettes, and I’m left breathless and gaping as he works up a sweat, his shirt clinging to his well-cut frame.

He is a harmony, a song. A melody made flesh. And despite his elegance, the graceful way he moves, he’s powerful. A rare combination, and I have a difficult time keeping my mouth from falling open as he cuts into the air, lands on one foot, and spirals onto the other with perfect precision. Then, like a swan gliding across a lake, he drops to his knees, slides across the floor—

And lands right at my feet.

He must sense me, because he removes his blindfold.

For a moment, we simply stare at each other, unable to break away. He’s kneeling before me like a man about to propose, his gaze roaming over my face.

Then he springs upward and airs out his shirt, seemingly unbothered. “Can I help you, Miss Moran?”

Heat lathers my cheeks, but I swallow the lump in my throat and decide on honesty. “You’re . . . very good.”

“You should be with the others. Conversing.”

“I’m a soloist. I didn’t see the point.”

“A soloist unless I say otherwise,” he reminds me, swiping strands of damp hair from his forehead.

I step past him and into the room, his eyes tracking mine in the mirror. “Will I meet the other soloist?”

“Perhaps if you had stayed—”

I twist to face him. “It’syou,isn’t it?”

A hint of a smile plays on his lips, and I have my answer. “I suppose I should be relieved. Fewer performances to handle on my own.”

“You said something about performing together,” I say.

His lips quirk. “I’d like to combine our efforts during the six signature performances. With all the Crowns in attendance, the pressure is high and cutting tension is vital. We control that atmosphere, see. Dance, like music, is transformative—an emotional experience they can share as one. Through it, we can unite, we can soothe, we can excite. And as soloists, we bear even more pressure. But . . .” His gaze rakes down my legs, then up again, deliberate. “This assumes we can actually work together.”

“You think we can’t?”

“In order to work with a partner, you must have two things: trust and abandon.” He folds his arms. “Trust is established through time, but I worry, Miss Moran. Are you capable of it?”

My defense snaps into place. “Of course I am—”

“With your life? Truly.”

I open my mouth, but his question digs into me, seeking cracks in the wall I’ve built. Is the person I’ve become capable of trust? Before, maybe, but when I think of the word now, my insides knot.

But how much trust would be expected of me for something so simple as a dance?

Before I can answer, he jerks his head. “Come here.”

He isn’t far, perhaps four steps away. I take three, despite the way my chest feels like it’s caging a hundred fluttering birds.