Page 64 of A Dance of Lies

Then there’s the farthest throne, one that extends to the ceiling, its arms and legs coated in gold.

It makes Illian’s throne look like a footstool.

“I assume that’s yours,” I say, jerking my chin in that direction. When I glance back at Anton, he’s leaning against that column, a smirk as crooked as the crown set atop his sun-kissed face. Ishu plops down at his boots, bathing in a thin stream of sunlight.

“Ask what you will, Minnow,” he says.

I think of Gustav but refrain. I make my formal request instead, relaying what I need him to do. All the while, he regards me steadily, his lips twisting in thought.

“Consider it done,” he says, straightening. “There’s little I would not do for Her Grace, Queen Sadira, and her people.”

He says it like a warning.

Again, Laurent’s suspicions loop in my mind. I slip my hands behind my back so he can’t see the nervous fidget of my fingers. “Thank you, Sire.”

“A favor for an answer. Do you enjoy it? The dancing?”

“I—” My brows notch. “Yes, Sire.”

“Yes, yes of course. But what is it, specifically, that you enjoy?Whydo you dance?”

So simple a question, and yet he paces around me, like I’m a fly caught in his web yet again.

Or perhaps it isn’t so simple, now that I think of it. For so long, I told myself it was how I remembered her. Emilia.

But there’s more to it—more than I want to admit aloud. My fingers run idly along the edge of my tunic as my thoughts slip back through time. Dancing was easy at the Melune. Convenient. I liked the art of it, but that wasn’t what kept me practicing among the rafters or giving up all my earnings in hopes of making an impression. No, I kept going, kept pushing until I became the King’s Jewel, and even then, I didn’t stop. I told myself I was becoming powerful, influential. Untouchable, all so that if I ever sawhimagain, my father, he would look at me and the king by my side with every ounce of fear his cold heart could muster.

I liked how dancing made me feel, but passion didn’t come until later. And even then, it was born from a selfish desire. I was building myself up so that I might feel strong.

But what I’d really done was build a wall. A fortress like those back home. And I barricaded myself behind it, not so that I might be strong enough to face him but so that I wouldn’t have to. I enclosed myself between layers of stone so that I could pretend nothing outside of my little world existed. I could forget my past.

I succeeded.

And that’s how I failed Emilia.

I inhale slowly, pain crumpling my insides. Tears threaten, but I stave them off.

I feel the king’s gaze without looking up. He’s paused his pacing, standing less than a foot away, so close I can smell bergamot and oranges, see the sweep of his lashes. The indent on his bottom lip.

The subtle bob of his throat as he evaluates me, yet again.

He makes me feel bare—of clothes, of skin, of bones. Like I’m as transparent as his glass, and he’s searching for the components that bind me together.

I am saved when the door swings open. We both swivel to find Copelan stalking toward me. He sinks into a bow when he reaches us, turning his attention toward the king. “Your Majesty, I trust all is well? Laurent sent me in case I could be of help.”

Yet Anton doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Indeed, Master Reveler. Everything Miss Moran has requested will be done for her.”

I bounce my gaze toward Copelan, who looks between us as he rises, a slight twitch in his jaw as he manages a nod. “We will leave you in peace, Sire.” He takes my arm, tugging me rather forcefully toward the door.

Anton notices it, missing nothing. But all he says is, “Certainly. I’ll see you two out.”

By the time we return to the Dance Hall, the palace is dark from an afternoon storm, only a shimmer of torchlight illuminating the elongated room. I crack open a glass pane, letting in a cool wash of air.

When I turn, I feel Copelan’s question before he asks it.

He folds his arms, his white tunic bunching at the chest. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?”