Page 43 of A Dance of Lies

Poison.

Worry gnaws at my mind even more now. I don’t know what King Anton intends, but I suspect it has something to do with the promise he made. He wants to unearth my secrets. I clutch the stem of my glass, aware that every step leads me farther from Gustav.

Breathe,I remind myself.He might interrogate me, but perhaps I can learn something in return.

He releases my free hand, but still I follow him, finding myself in a narrow hall hedged in glass, the night sky dripping with stars above. The floor is pure, hammered gold, reflecting the color of my dress like a ripple of water.

I can’t help but compare Miridran with my home. Miridran showcases its wealth like a trophy, like each belonging is a prize meant for a pedestal. Illian’s palace was proof, what with the diamond-encrusted garniture and artwork alone. And while his brother is certainly of a different variety, the extravagance of this place is overwhelming, exaggerated at every corner. Miridranians follow the examples set by their kings. They spend their lives hoarding as much as they can, measuring success with riches and the size of their vaults.

I fell into that trap. Before Illian shucked me off like a garment he soiled, I collected paintings, jewelry. Trinkets. Anything I found tempting. Yet, in the end, my belongings offered me nothing when it mattered most.

Brisendale values a different kind of wealth.

Wealth is the protection of tradition, values, and people. Back home, there are no lavishly gilded palaces or treasure rooms stockedfull of jewels. We build fortresses. Barracks. Keeps. We craft weapons and armor and big thick walls. We make them with our strongest metals and stones until we’re sure nothing can break through. The Beast of the North, they call us—and not just because of our numerous armies but because the whole of our land is wrought in steel and stone like a mythical dragon with scales of bone.

I pause, noticing the way King Anton’s shoulders are shaking. A peculiar sound escapes him, almost like a wheeze before he clears his throat.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s laughing.

Atme.

And only when I resume my tread do I realize why. The wooden heels of my slippers clank against the golden floor like the clap of a gong. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed the music had faded away. A hot blush swarms my cheeks.

He is, of course, still grinning. “I’d pay for your thoughts just now.”

“I was merely admiring the view, Your Majesty,” I say, afraid of where he might be leading me.

“Ah, yes. I’ve been told I’m quite spectacular.”

He pulls me through another arch before I can reply.

We’re in a turret now, one open to the night. A gentle wind soughs through its columns, bearing the scent of sea and salt. At the edge is a cylindrical structure standing on wooden limbs, a tube at the top protruding eastward, toward the ocean. It almost looks like a spyglass, albeit much larger.

The king releases my hand. “There’s an eyepiece on the narrow end of the tube. Give it a try.”

Curiosity wins. Setting my glass on the ledge, I peer inside, only to find myself looking at . . . “Theheavens,” I breathe. “The stars, they’re bright—bigger and bulbous. And the moon—”

“Here,” he says, tilting the device down just so, to where the ocean fans out like crinkled silk. It comes into sharp focus, and I can see it up close. Sea-foam froths over the waves like lace, spumeshifting gently with the tide. Sprays of water gush over rocks. Night gulls flutter against its surface, dipping to wet their beaks.

“What . . .isthis thing?”

“I haven’t decided on a name yet. Nothing quite fits,” he muses. “Gustav wants to call it a Looker. Gustav is bad at names.”

“Even so, it’s astounding,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I feel similarly about your performance, Miss Moran.”

And there it is, the reason he brought me here. I straighten, releasing the contraption. “Then why am I not performing this evening, Sire?”

“Oh, but youareperforming.” He folds his arms, gray velvet pulling tight against his shoulders. “Right now. Are you not?”

I bite my lip, angling back toward the device. I know what he’s insinuating. But I say, “I’m meant to entertain through movement, not conversation.”

“I disagree,” he says, tossing me a lazy smile. “I think you’re equally skilled at both. Modesty is unnecessary here.”

“Is that why you invited me? So you could question me until you can fabricate answers where there are none?”

Bold. That was too bold.