Page 39 of A Dance of Lies

Beyond the quiet, marbled entrance are multiple arches, the largest of which opens to an amalgamation of twinkling lights and lively chatter. A vivacious melody dances about, intercut with peals of laughter. Strung crystals drip from a frescoed ceiling like shards of severed moonlight, and underneath, a long table is spread with copious heaps of food. I press my hand on the doorframe to steady myself, until a courtier swings past, pausing when he notices me.

“You must be Miss Moran,” he says, a glimmer of teeth flashing between a broad yet gentle smile. “We are so honored to have you. Please, come with me!”

The courtier offers me an arm, and I stare at it a moment until I realize he means for me to take it.

I feel small the moment I do, next to his tall, willowy frame. Then he leans in, his kind, amber eyes brimming with excitement. “Consider me your biggest fan,” he says. “We all saw you at the Welcoming, and I said to myself, ‘Gustav, you haveneverseen a real show until this moment.’ You have altered my very existence, you know.”

I still at that, until I realize no lust gleams in his gaze as he beholds me. Not once do his eyes dip to my mouth or skim the curve of my neck or chest. Perhaps I am not his preference, except . . .

His compliment seems more innocent than that. Genuine, even as he ushers me along. I utter my thanks, unable to trust myself—unable to rein in my curiosity, too, as I study him. He must be higher nobility, if his waistcoat is any indication: a maroon silk ensemble cuffed in gold that favors his olive skin and dark head of curls.

“Have you ever been to a king’s banquet, Miss Moran?”

“I haven’t,” I lie. I’ve been to more than I can count, though this feels different. So unlike the stiff formality of King Illian’s court.

“Ah, see, you were supposed to say yes, so that I could then tell you why this one is far superior.” He’s grinning ear to ear, no doubt hoping I’ll inquire further.

I can’t help but indulge him. “All right, why’s that?”

“May I call you Vasalie, my lady?”

“Oh, I’m not a lady—” I begin, but Gustav drops my arm and whistles. My throat constricts as an enormous heap of white fur slinks from the shadows, one claw-edged paw at a time. I shrink back, but Gustav puts a reassuring hand on my arm. “Vasalie, meet Ishu. Ishu, Vasalie. Don’t worry, she’s quite friendly.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or the tiger.

Because that’s what I’m gaping at, I realize. And a humongous one at that, shimmering white with soft brown stripes, a maw full of dagger-thin teeth and eyes as blue as lapis stone.

Gustav threads a hand through the beast’s fur, proceeding to press a kiss to her head. “She’s practically a large pillow. Don’t be afraid,” he says, scrunching her cheeks. “Come on, give her a pat.”

Tentatively, I let my fingers graze the tip of Ishu’s ears. She watches me languidly, her eyes half-lidded, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s enjoying this.

Or perhaps it’s that she isn’t threatened by me, and why would she be? One swipe of a claw and I’d bleed out. But . . .

“How?” I breathe. Tigers are not indigenous to Miridran.

“A gift from Queen Sadira, from the first time His Majesty crossed the border. She was just a cub then, so cute. Though she was quite the terror, chasing the guardsmen around. She even took a chomp out of Anton’s pants once, right in the bum,” Gustav says, a laugh slipping out. “But now she’s just lazy, aren’t you, Ishu, dear?”

A gift from Queen Sadira, after King Anton talked her down from a war. What had he said to her? What had he promised? My mind scrambles, but I can’t take my eyes off Ishu. “She’s . . .”

“Breathtaking?” Gustav guesses.

“Yes, and so much more.”

“She demands to greet each guest individually, you see. Otherwise, you would be an intruder. That’s why she’s here in the entry-way. Royal watch kitten.”

Ishu shoves her wet nose into my dress and nudges up against me, knocking me into Gustav’s side. Panic seizes me. I worry she’ll somehow sniff the vial I have hidden, but Gustav pushes her back. “Away, Ishu. Others want to greet Miss Moran as well.”

Ishu retreats into her alcove obediently, albeit with a groan, plopping down on a pillow larger than my bed. Even so, she doesn’t take her eyes off me.

Our foray into the dining room garners less attention.

I expect to find King Anton at the head of the table. Instead, he’s lounging about in the center, relatively unassuming. A loose, dark tunic rests against his chest, gaping at the center to reveal a wedge of smooth, sun-bronzed skin. The top of his hair is gathered into a small knot, revealing just how sharp the sweep of his jaw is. And while a few ridiculous bangles adorn each arm, he hasn’t bothered with a crown or waistcoat.

A small affair indeed,I scoff inwardly, because no less than twenty of his courtiers surround him. Or so I assume, until I take a closer look.

On his right sprawls the Queen of Razam herself, a flute balanced between her fingers, her head thrown back in a fit of laughter.

Here, there is nothing of the knife-edged woman from the Welcoming. She tilts her glass to her lips as King Anton leans in, whispering something into her ear. Then, to my bemusement, wine sprays from her lips at whatever he said.