Page 49 of A Dance of Lies

“Vasalie,” Laurent says, tugging my hands from my face and giving them a gentle squeeze. “I take care of my staff. No harm will befall you while I’m here.”

His promise is so sweet my heart aches. I cling to his hands, then pull him into a hug. His scent—cloves and juniper—envelops me in a cocoon of comfort and warmth. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have a friend. I haven’t had one in a very long time.

Because Copelan isn’t a friend. Time with him is like scaling a cliff, navigating rocky terrain in hopes of a rewarding view. Andoften I find it, high on his shoulders, his hands tight on my waist. But I don’t understand the thing between us, the feeling I get when he’s around—aside from his frustration and my fear and all the ways they tangle together.

I pull from Laurent’s embrace, a reminder of why I’m here souring my stomach. Whatever friendship exists between us, it’s a lie. I don’t deserve him.

He hands me a lukewarm cup of tea, a slight grin on his lips. “Copelan has agreed to help watch over you. Just in case.”

I choke on my tea.

That’s the last thing I need. He’s already upset with me, not to mention suspicious—especially after my behavior in the garden. “That isn’t necessary,” I say. “I—”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Laurent says.

I breathe out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “He won’t be happy about this.”

“I’m not.”

I go rigid at the sound of Copelan’s voice. And it should come as no surprise when I find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sporting that ever-present scowl.

Laurent chuckles at the terror on my face. “Do you feel well enough to walk?”

My hair is a mess of tangles. Swiping it back, I inhale steadily and try to rise, but it’s like I spent the night with my head in a cup, drinking until my veins pumped wine.

Laurent steadies me. “Let her rest for a few days,” he tells Copelan. “That’s an order.” I’m not sure which of them has more authority in my case, but with Laurent’s tone, I doubt Copelan will argue.

“I’ll take her to her room,” Copelan says. His expression is stern, almost menacing.

I frown.

He isn’t going to do what I think he is. Surely he isn’t.

“I’ll make it on my own,” I start, but he leans down, scooping me into his arms. All at once, his scent overwhelms me—musk, sandal-wood. I hate how comforting it is, now that I’m so accustomed to it. To him.

Even so, I protest his carrying me, which he ignores as he marches us through Anton’s chambers. Voices fan out, and then the king himself is standing there, blocking the entryway, divvying instructions among his guards.

His eyes lock onto mine and my face blazes with heat, as if I’ve somehow been caught in a compromising position.

“She agrees to your terms, Sire,” Copelan says, dipping us both in a quick bow. “She will keep silent. Won’t you, Miss Moran?”

I don’t miss the warning in his voice.

“Yes, Your Maj—”

Copelan sweeps me past the guards and through the doors, then through one arc pass and another. I feel like deadweight in his arms, but he parades on as if I’m as light as a wisp until finally we reach my room. He swings open my door, deposits me on my bed, then yells to someone outside. “Bring chamomile tea and bread, maybe some fruit.”

But I just want to sleep.

The bed dips as he sits beside me. “Tell me this is a coincidence,” he says, searching my face. “Tell me you had nothing to do with the poisoning.”

I tense but cover it quickly by adjusting the quilt. “Why would you think that?Howcould you think that?”

“I don’t know, Vasalie.” He threads a hand through his now-mussed hair. “First, you cause a scene on the Welcoming night. You tell me it’s because you needed to take arisk,and I want to believe you, but then, in the garden, you force me to hide you from a foreign general, no less, and refuse to tell me why.”

“He has nothing to do with this!”

“What is it, Vas? Did you steal from him? Offend him? I shouldmarch you right to him and get the truth from his own lips. I will, if you don’t talk!”