Page 37 of A Dance of Lies

“Why shouldn’t he be? And you are a princess for the evening, at his request. Might as well enjoy it.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I would.”

As if I can enjoy anything now.

But as the fabric tumbles down my legs, I realize Laurent is right. I feel like royalty. What I thought was silk is something even softer—a fabric I can’t name. Almost like gossamer, the brush of a butter-soft petal, it ghosts my ribs and waist before trailing off in a swirl of colors at my feet.

But there’s no way I can dance without ripping it straight up my backside. Despite its loveliness, a flare of annoyance simmers in my belly. How presumptuous of King Anton to tell me what I can perform in! But I dismiss the feeling. He’s a Crown. He can do whatever he wants.

I emerge from behind the divider, angling to give Laurent access to the back of my dress. “Would you?”

He secures the ties with steady hands before spinning me around. He must notice my unease because he takes my hands, squeezing his reassurance.

I watch his face, then, as he sees my scars. As he takes them in, one by one.

They’ve continued to fade, thanks to the salves, but they’re still there—ropes of raised flesh banding my wrists, evidence of the fetters that bound me. For the most part, I’ve been able to hide them with cosmetics, costumes, and bracelets. When Copelan noticed, I told him it was from a short, experimental time as an aerialist. He bought the lie.

I can tell Laurent itches to ask about them, but he doesn’t, and I’m thankful.

“It is an honor,” he finally says, “to be requested by the King of the East.”

“What should I expect?” I ask, pushing my next task to the back of my mind. I’m hoping he’s familiar with the youngest Miridranian king and his habits. Perhaps that’s why Illian wanted me to befriend him, I remember with a pang of guilt.

A soft chuckle. “His Majesty is . . . an unpredictable force, ever causing a stir with his antics, and those parties of his.”

So I’ve gathered, even from the staff. During the last Gathering, he hosted banquet after soirée after banquet. Kept half the palace awake until the wee hours of the morning, the other half slobbering-drunk along with him.

Yet this is the man who supposedly stopped the Razami war. Though, I’d peg it on bribery, if his actions last night with King Rurik are anything to go by, and only because he thought himself invincible, like the rumors claim.

“Even so, one must wonder if it’s mere frill. Decoration, meant to distract,” Laurent says. “Perhaps he merely invites others into his lair to study them. And you poked him, my sweet.”

His words loop in my mind as I ponder my reflection, a bitter taste on my tongue. I belong in costumes, not gowns. This one isn’t cheaply made, hastily sewn, rigged with pockets and ties. It fits like gloss over my imperfect flesh and I long to peel it off.

“Anything else?” I press Laurent, tussling with my errant curls, fitting them into a loose coiffure.

Behind me, he runs a hand down the length of his surcoat, idly fiddling with its brass buttons. “I was well into my twenties during his coronation, when he came of age. That was, ah . . .” He ticks off his fingers. “Eight years ago now, and I’ve spent considerable time with him since. He is a riddle even to me, and yet I can’t help but admire him.”

I pause. “You’re from East Miridran?”

“For some time now, yes. Longer than I would have originally liked.” At my curious glance, he explains. “I grew up in Serai, but my sister wanted to move here. She became a glass smith, apprenticing in Philam. Naturally, I couldn’t leave her.”

Philam, the port town just off the coast. We’d passed through it on our journey here.

“You have a sister?” I say, turning to face him.

“And two nephews and a niece, all of whom have threatened me within an inch of my life if I don’t bring them some kind of artifact from the isle.”

I spill a laugh at that, grateful for his distraction. I tell him I want to hear more about them, and he promises me he’ll indulge me soon. But as we ready to leave, I can’t help but ask, “The stories. Are they true? About His Majesty’s death?”

Laurent stills, almost as if he’s debating whether to answer.

And then he says, “It wouldn’t be the first time someone came back to life, if you choose to believe the tales of old.”

“Eremis and the Fate of Morta, you mean?”

“Indeed. You know the full story, then?”

“I’m not from the southern caves, Laurent,” I say, perching by the vanity. “The tale is common enough.”

“Sure, everyone knows the tale in its most basic form, but do you know how she got her revenge?” Laurent asks, giving me a sly grin.