Page 68 of A Dance of Lies

For a blink, terror roots me to the ground. But then my brain catches up and I slink behind a stack of crates.

My father is not a particularly tall man. He’s average in height and build, but it’s his carefully crafted tone, the sheer confidence he wields like a king would a scepter, that makes it feel like he’s towering over the room.

“Who,” he says, thrusting up a serving tray piled with haunches of meat, “is responsible for this?”

Even his voice, deadly calm as it is, projects.

The cooks, all eight of them, pause, knives mid-slice, pots boiling over.

And then I watch with mounting dread as Marian returns from the pantry. Unaware, she flits past him, a garnished platter in hand.

“You,” he calls, halting her. “What is your position here?”

Marian blinks once, twice, before registering the emblem on his shoulder. “General,” she says. “My apologies. I am in charge of the cellars, stocking and managing their contents.”

“Then who is in charge of the food?”

His gaze rakes the kitchen, but no one answers, like prey frozen in the path of an arrow notched.

He whirls back on Marian. “Your name?”

My chest tightens, my heartbeat a hammer.

Don’t tell him.

“Ma—” She stops abruptly, then says, “Maria, milord.”

Because if she were to tell him her real name, and he were to investigate . . . I shudder.

“What seems to be the problem, milord?” she adds calmly, but I can see the tension in her hands, knuckles white from gripping the platter she arranged for me.

He studies her, and I wonder what he sees. She’s my height, my age. We could be sisters. And her scars do not detract from her beauty. They merely serve to highlight the strength in her eyes.

Eyes that are golden-brown, just like mine.

Does he think of me, here and now?

I wonder, then, how long he searched for me. What havoc he might have wreaked once he realized I was gone. Did he cry for me, even once? Or am I nothing to him but a lost mare, good only for fetching a price?

“Come here, Maria.”

Come here, Emilia.

Marian approaches as nervous whispers swarm the kitchen. My father shoves the meat-laden tray at a nearby guard, but not before grabbing a haunch. His weathered fingers pull at it, dig right into its dry flesh. “Do you see the problem, Maria?”

Do you see the problem, Emilia?

“Do you think my men are dogs?” He makes a sweeping gesture at them. “That they are capable of prying apart leather with teethsharp as knives? Or perhaps that they might beg for any scrap you offer in this Fates-forsaken kitchen?” he says. “Or maybe you thought us incapable of distinguishing days-old hog meat from that of a fresh boar?”

Do you think I’m a fool, Emilia? Did you think I would not notice the closet empty of clothes? The missing jewelry? The coins that disappeared from my vault little by little?

A sound like wind rushes through my ears.

“No, milord, please,” Marian says. “I can have a fresh meal prepared and served to your wing within the hour . . .”

My father’s eyes glaze over, frenzied as they are, and I know . . . I know where he is.

Only you noticed too late, husband. She is gone, forever out of your reach. I’ve made certain of it.