Page 55 of A Dance of Lies

A sick feeling swarms beneath my skin, though I’d known this—whateverthisis—was coming.

“He will find himself rather overwhelmed, what with the requests about to come in. Requests for performances, banquets, and so on—and of course you understand that, for him, it means arranging the entertainment, the food, the livery, the seating, the music. Even the decor, down to the last candlestick. And while he might handle most of it, he’s understaffed in . . . certain areas.” Illian cants his head toward me, a half smirk hugging the corner of his lips. “You, charming Vasalie, get to be his savior by offering him the services of a very special tailor friend of yours who can help—so long as he brings her in.”

“But the restrictions,” I say. No one can enter the isle after theGathering has begun unless they secure all the courts’ permission. It’s for everyone’s protection. “He won’t do it. And even if he would, he wouldn’t hire just anyone—”

“Oh, I think he will. Just give him some sob story or another about her. Annais is her name. Do what it takes, Vasalie; I need her here. This is your next task.”

“And even if I convince him to break the rules, what then? How would she get here?” The Gathering is nothing if not heavily guarded.

“I’ve made your job easy. She is already aboard my ship, waiting for you in my cabin. An easy fetch.”

My insides twist. “We can’t just waltz through the front entrance—”

“Laurent knows this palace as well as anyone. That is, in fact, the point.” He strides toward the door, then pauses. “You have two days.”

And then he’s gone.

PART TWO

King of Glass

Chapter Fifteen

The next day, I find Laurent in the dining hall swarmed by stewards, cooks, sacristans, heralds, even performers—poets, bards, and dancers alike. Distress strains his features as he attempts to dole out orders, barely audible above the crowd.

It’s just as Illian said.

After settling an argument between two cooks and firing directions to another group, Laurent is approached by the seamster on staff. He reviews a pattern for three dresses, one for each of the triplets I’d seen during the auditions. He marks it up, scratches out accessories they don’t need—the train, the gems. “We don’t have time,” Laurent tells him.

I sit on a bench, an apple in hand. I work my way slowly through it amid the commotion. Convincing him might be easier than I’d anticipated.

It takes an hour for everyone to clear, each set in their tasks for the day, and finally, Laurent is alone. He turns to me, exasperated.

I force a chuckle. “Whatwasall that?”

He sinks to the bench next to me. “A certain royally spoiled king has requested athemedperformance to showcase all of our ‘rich’ Miridranian history, presented in musical form, to Brisendale duringa private banquet that takes place across not one, not two, butfournights. That means new backdrops, meals, costumes, everything. We have three seamsters, and I’m one of them. I won’t have time to eat, let alone sleep, and eventhatwon’t be enough.” He swipes a hand over his forehead. “We require several days’ notice for something of this caliber for this very reason, but I’ve been told that I either accommodate them or lose my position. I’ll never be invited back.” A laugh. “I should retire this instant out of spite.”

“What would you do,” I ask, “if you retired?”

As soon as the question leaves my lips, I regret it. I shouldn’t want to know. I can’t get even more attached. But he told me once he was offered the position by Anton himself after years of overseeing a theater in Ansa, East Miridran’s capital city, so there’s a part of me that’s curious if he’d want to go back.

He sighs. “I couldn’t. The salary I make here sustains my family for the next few years. My sister is still an apprentice, and my nephews and niece rely on me. And if I lose the position, I would be the talk of the north. No one would hire me.” He buries his face in his palms, letting out a groan. “Fates have mercy. I’m going to end up a seamster to some old courtier who wants big, feathered hats and fancy britches. My nephews will call me Uncle Underthings.”

“Laurent,” I say, glancing about to ensure we’re alone. “What if I could get you help?”

“Can you sprout extra arms?”

“You know I’ll help, though I’m quite slow. The thing is . . .” I brush an errant hair off my forehead. “I know someone. A tailor. A good one, and perhaps—”

“Impossible.” He shakes his head. “You know the rules.”

“I know, Iknow.But . . . she’s a friend. She’s sewn hundreds of costumes before. And she’s fast. We would keep her quiet. I’ll even pay her from my own wages. I don’t have family; I don’t need the money, and she doesn’t charge much.” The lie is acid in my throat, but I ignore the burn. I can’t let my guilt win out.

He clasps his hands together for a long minute, staring at them.I put a hand on his shoulder. “I just want to help,” I tell him again. “I know; I understand it’s a risk.”

“This woman,” he says. “How long have you known her?”

“A long time. And”—I pause, swallowing—”she needs the money, and a place to escape. She’s in a bad situation. Her husband, he . . .” I trail off, letting the insinuation play out, carving my nails into my palms as the seconds tick by, each one an accusation.Liar, liar, liar.