Page 25 of A Dance of Lies

I dip backward, head lolling to expose my throat. He supportsme until I’m upside-down, my back a perfect arch, tendrils of hair grazing the floor. Then he’s over me, his breath hot on my neck, then my sternum, my stomach—

He wraps a hand around the back of my thigh.

Warmth skates over my skin as his fingers graze the soft skin behind my knee, lifting it to slide it over his shoulder. I take my weight onto my own hands, circling my other leg around his neck, and clutch my abdomen, preparing.

He swings me up in one quick motion.

Then I’m on his shoulders, his head against my stomach, and the air is thick, like fog.

I release the grip I have in his hair. He eases me down his chest until I’m sitting on his arms, my face in the crook of his neck.

For several seconds, we do not move.

Gently, he places me on my feet, steadying me when I sway. Then he unwinds my blindfold and stares at me. His mouth hangs open slightly, his locks splayed around his forehead. I’ve never done anything like that before. And his touch, the way it felt—

Heat licks my neck like the brush of a flame.

Until now, I hadn’t realized how much I craved someone’s touch. But I’ve been alone for so, so long. The only physical contact I’ve had since prison, besides Brigitte’s fleeting comfort, was when the physician and Brigitte’s attendants examined me with their rough, calloused hands. Even before, in Illian’s court, no one laid a finger on me save for his guards on the night I was arrested. And this . . .

It’s as if I’ve been sparked to life. As if I’ve awoken after years of slumber, feeling what I never thought I would again. I feel alive. Connected to my body. I feel every urgent beat of my pulse, a frenzy and passion that zings beneath my skin. In this moment, it’s even more prominent than my pain.

I feel wild, and brave, as if I could indeed jump from that cliff and survive.

I wonder if Copelan feels it, too.

I watch him watch me.

Thoughts pass through his gaze like sifting sand, and I wish he would release the words gathering on his tongue.

I let my hand fall to his chest, if only to feel the thundering heart beneath. He shudders beneath my touch.

But then he shakes his head as if to snap from a trance, rubbing a hand over his neck. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Practice rooms. Half past noon.”

My heart is still galloping when finally I reach my room, and it takes me several tries to fit my key into the lock. My body still trembles, too, from weakness and exhilaration both. I can’t erase the feel of Copelan’s hands on my skin or the gentle, warm strength that radiates from his presence. I shudder out a breath, and that’s when I notice it.

An envelope sits on my bed.

I trot over on sore feet. The air stills in my lungs as I collect it and tug out the soft parchment. It’s in King Illian’s hand, and my eyes dart to the docks beyond my window, only his ship still isn’t there. I glance down, clamping my lip between my teeth as I read his words.

Rest well, Vasalie. You look like you need it.

I eagerly anticipate your first performance.

Chapter Seven

Copelan and I practice for several hours over the next week. We speak not with words but through gestures. Dance. It seems more is said this way.

I’m getting to know him by the way he moves.

He is respectful, patient, but never shy, and he expects the same of me. I rise to the occasion. I let him test me, evaluate me. He finds all the ways I can bend and shape and balance; I am a doll in his hands.

He might not say it, but I know I don’t meet his expectations. Though I’m stronger than before, my strength doesn’t return in full. We’ve cut our practice short more than once when it vanishes altogether, the exertion sapping my stamina embarrassingly fast. A thought hovers in the back of my mind like a phantom: I was broken apart, and now I wonder if, despite my earlier resolve, some things cannot be repaired. But I don’t dare give voice to it. I want to believe that with enough work, enough practice, I can become again what I was.

But it’s my ideas that Copelan craves, so I don’t temper them. If my creativity can keep me in this game, I’ll give it freely. He approves everything I ask for: crushed diamonds, gold flakes. Pots forsteam. Rolls of taffeta, satin, tulle, and silk damask. Dyes—

which Laurent orders, who seems to relish my ideas just as much. He spends any spare time he can with me and the seamstresses, sewing and planning.

It makes Illian’s first task effortless. Laurent is as open and cheery as a bouquet of freshly bloomed daisies. If anything, he’s become a friend, and despite my guilt, I let myself enjoy his company. Together, we craft everything from costumes to fans to crowns fashioned from dyed, painted coral until the day of the Welcoming arrives at last.