Page 29 of A Dance of Lies

I don’t think about the ramifications of what I’m about to do. I don’t think about how daring to touch a Crown is forbidden, even without the mess of silver dusting my hands. I don’t think about how I’m about to pull a Miridranian king into a Brisendali dance—an offense in itself—or how Copelan warned us against involving the audience. All I can see is King Illian’s handwriting, his instructions, and I act.

Don’t be deceived, oh king, for the sun comes with golden rings.

This was meant to be Copelan’s role.

I grasp King Anton’s fingers and tug him up.

Amusement dances in those kohl-lined eyes, and for a moment, I am lost. Such a striking shade of green, somewhere between peridot and jade. But I snap from my trance and ferry him into the center of the floor, ignoring the bevy of gasps and whispers. He follows me with easy grace, as if he, too, were made for the dance. And, as if sensing my trepidation, he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

A bit of boldness returns.

I relish it, sliding my fingers along the sharp angle of his jaw, leaving a trail of silver. I feel the room tense around us, holding its breath.

My heart is a thunderous thing.

But then he grins, and I know I’ve made the right choice. I release his hand and circle him, arms raised, millen spilling until we are blanketed in a dense, pearlescent veil. Quickly, I slip a small sack of dust into his palm, subtly guiding his thumb to the release string. I whisper my request into his ear. He gives me a flash of brilliant white teeth. I can’t help but smile back, elation swelling in my chest like a whorl of incense.

The cloud falls into a nebula that wafts about our feet. I arch backward, his hand supporting my lower back, the other hovering over me as if casting a curse. I let my head loll. He lowers me to the floor, then frees a large, billowing halo of golden dust that explodes outward—the warmth of the sun, the frost king’s curse.

Before it settles to the floor, I dash behind the divider and out of sight, leaving King Anton standing before the crowd, plated in gold like the sun itself.

Chapter Eight

Only after I use the washbasin in my room to scrub the millen from my skin do I return to the Dome Hall.

This time, a black tulle skirt wraps my waist, a simple, laced chemise tucked inside—leftovers from costumes we decided not to use. Despite my efforts, a slight sheen of silver still shimmers against my skin, especially along my eyes and cheeks, where I tried to leave my makeup intact. Tonight, the talent is to join the after-party, and according to Copelan’s rules, we’re allowed to converse with anyone who approaches us. The opposite, of course, is forbidden.

But I haven’t yet completed my task.

The weight of my actions squeezes my lungs, shortening my breath. I could have found another way. I should have waited until after the dance, captured his attention here at the party somehow. Anything would’ve been better than pullinghim,a Miridranian king, into a foreign country’s dance. And Brisendale, of all nations, whose king is notoriously short-tempered and very likely to take offense.

Then there’s the fact that I robbed Copelan of his role.

Thankfully, by the time I slip back into the throng, the tension has evaporated, the atmosphere wreathed in a cheerful, inebriatedsort of merriment. I’d left after our opening act, as a vocal ensemble wove through a myriad of Brisendali ballads while the millen was cleaned. After that, another troupe was to perform. Now, upon my return, a harpist’s melody strolls about, sweet as ripened lychee. Copious amounts of wine flow from decanters; trays of miniature scones flutter by. All the guests have intermingled—including the Crowns.

I pilfer a flute from a nearby server if only to have something in my hands. I couldn’t imagine consuming it, what with my growing fatigue and the way my muscles quiver and burn. I’d never make it back to my room.

I keep to the edge of the Dome Hall. Even so, several eyes drift my way and linger. Then, my gaze snaps to Illian’s, as if he’s tugged on some invisible rope yoking us together. But he merely gives me a passing glance before turning to Princess Aesir, the Brisendali princess and King Rurik’s daughter. She’s reclining beside Illian on his divan, her chin poised, her white-blond plait draped over a pale, bare shoulder.

It’s been ten years since I’ve seen her, and even then, it was only from a distance; though we were close in age, my father was too worried about my lack of decorum to let us interact. But she’s recognizable all the same. Tall, regal. Lush red lips like a drop of blood against snow. Frost-blue eyes that mimic her father’s. She, too, glances in my direction, then angles her chin back toward Illian. They share a peculiar smile before engaging in a lively debate with two Brisendali nobles. I take the chance and dip from view, escaping to the other side of the room. I must stay focused.

Couples thread together for a dance. I ease through them, aiming for the veranda where I locate King Anton alongside his courtiers, each one draping over him like vines on a trellis. A lazy smile shows just how much he’s enjoying it.

A hand snags my arm.

I swing around to find Copelan’s accusing glare, his copper-flecked gaze as hard as steel. His fingers tighten around my wrist,and with his other hand he plucks my flute from my fingers and clanks it on a nearby tray. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Morta’s teeth, Vasalie, I should—” He bites his tongue, realizing the scene he might create, the unwanted attention. He yanks me into a dance—an excuse to draw me close enough to hiss, “I should send you packingright now.” Unlike me, he’s still in the costume I robbed him of performing in: the iridescent silk wrapping his torso, the gold headpiece banding his brow.

“I—” My words falter as I grapple for an excuse. His eyes rip into me, searching. “I’m sorry. I thought—” No, Ididn’tthink. I acted rashly.

“You thought what?” He whirls me into a spin, then jerks me close again, breath hot against my ear. “You thought you could ignore my rules? Thought you could steal the show for your own glory? Is that it?” His grip tightens on my waist.

“No! That isn’t—”

“And him of all Crowns, Vas. Do you not know how dangerous that was? He’s the most likely to—”

A deep voice cuts into our quarrel, thick with a northern accent. “Master Reveler, is it? Pardon, but I’d like to steal a dance.”

Copelan and I swivel.