Page 42 of A Dance of Lies

I don’t want to be the one who ends Gustav’s life. How could I? More so, how could I deprive his daughter of her father? A father who loves her, cares for her, worries for her—a sentiment more precious than all of Miridran’s gems combined. I’d have given anything for such a father.

What could Gustav possibly have invented?

But it doesn’t matter. Either I walk from this place or he does, and I don’t know him. Not really. I tell myself he would do the same if he were in my position. And who’s to say his personality isn’t a façade? Or this whole charade, for that matter? Besides, he’s a nobleman. His life is abundant in wealth, in joy. In love.

I deserve a chance at the same.

My time is running out. Soon, they will realize I’m missing. They will also know that I was here, unaccompanied, with his glass. So I weave together a plan, the only one I have time to make, and with that I make a choice.

I don’t pour the poison into the glass he left behind.

I pour it into mine.

Chapter Twelve

Gustav swings back inside the room, swathes of gossamer fluttering behind him. “Vasalie, won’t you join us?”

I force out a timid smile. “Apologies, My Lord. This is all so . . . overwhelming.”

He shakes his head. “Should be a more common occurrence, yes?” He swoops his glass from the table, then offers an arm to help me up.

I take it, my poisoned glass in hand. We ease through the curtains, but I halt on the steps, bracing myself against a column.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Colors splinter across every surface, dancing up the walls and bright as sunlight. It’s as if I’m peering at the world through a prism. I reach out, letting shades of light and color play across my palm, glittering like dew.

I feel like I’m in a dream.

Below, large cushions are clustered across the floor, everyone lazing about and gazing upward, as if picking out constellations in the night sky.

“Rather stupendous, no?” someone says, voice skimming my ear. I startle, only to find King Anton leaning against the other side of the column.

“What exactly is it?” I ask, steadying myself so as not to spill the wine.

Despite the flakes of color and light, it’s dark, and I can only vaguely make out his expression. “Look up. In the center,” he says.

I follow his direction. Above, several panes of sea glass hang suspended like an enormous wind chime.

“It’s refracting the light,” Gustav says, joining us. He gestures toward the wall, where two brass tubes, lit inwardly by torches, focus beams of light toward the display.

“Is this the invention?” I whisper, but Gustav shakes his head.

“Shh, here comes the best part,” King Anton says, teeth flashing.

It’s then that I notice the figures beneath, holding strings connected to the blades of sea glass above. They twist, angle, and the sculpture above twirls with them. Light bends around and around, a tessellation of kaleidoscopic shapes—

A scene builds along the walls before my eyes. It’s fuzzy at first, warped, but then it comes into focus until I can see it clearly: a range of mountains quilted in green, split by a curtain of water that pools at the base of a valley. Above, a swirl of clouds cuts into an iridescent moon. A breath looses from my lips.

Because this . . . it’s impossible. An image created withlight.I blink as if it might vanish, but it does not. The music swells, setting the scene, even as applause explodes around me.

“Come with me,” King Anton whispers into my ear. He grabs my hand as freely as I took his during my dance, the band of his signet ring like ice against my palm.

“Your Majesty,” I say, frantic, as he pulls me toward an archway at the far end of the room. I can’t abandon my task, can’t risk Gustav leaving. I had a plan, but—“I shouldn’t leave. At least, not without offering my farewell—”

His eyes cut toward mine, brow arching. I soften my features, hoping to mask my panic.

“I won’t keep you long,” he says after a moment, then tugs me along.

I have no choice but to oblige. He leads me underneath the archway, ease in his posture. At some point, he’d donned a fine, pewter surcoat belted at the waist. His dark hair looks effortless, his jaw smooth and angular, as if shaped by a chisel. He’s irrefutably beautiful in all the ways Illian is, which sets me even more on edge. Like a decorative cake, strung with pearls, layered in gold leaf. Inedible. Poison, should you try.