Page 71 of A Dance of Lies

A familiar voice dips into my ear then. “No matter what, donotlook left.”

An irresistible impulse urges me to do just that, but the tone of the warning stops me short. Instead, I track my gaze to my right, where Anton leans against the precipice, just over my shoulder. I bob a short curtsey.

He merely offers me a tight grin. “Evening, Minnow.”

“Your Majesty,” I say. Of course he would be here to greet hisoldest brother on his arrival. Illian, on the contrary, is nowhere to be found.

“Why,” I ask, “can I not look to my left?”

For the first time, perhaps ever, his smile drops, and it’s then that I catalog the difference in his appearance. His dark hair isn’t wind-swept; rather, it’s tied back in a knot at the base of his neck, a few, purposeful strands waving loosely about. Every last button on his fine, soot-black, sleeveless jerkin is secured, his toned arms free of his usual stacks of bracelets. And he carries no chalice, his breath untainted with wine.

It’s as if he’s an alternative version of himself tonight, proper and refined.

“Vasalie,” he says softly, “you should leave. I will call for the Master of Revels; he can perform tonight in your stead.”

Vasalie.

Not Minnow, not Miss Moran. An uneasy feeling tightens my stomach, but I am not here by choice. “Your Majesty, I cannot refuse my post . . .”

He shakes his head. “You are leaving.Now.”

“But I—”

He takes hold of my wrist, pulling me with him. “I’m not giving you a choice.” I’ve never seen him like this. The urgency, the concern . . .

Two guards slam the doors in our face.

Noise, music, chatter—it ceases.

“Leaving before the festivity starts, Anton? So unlike you.”

King Estienne’s voice is low, like Illian’s, but harsher. Almost as if he spits his words.

All at once, Anton drops my arm and smooths the crease from his brow. His usual, relaxed smile snaps back in place as he pivots to face his brother. “Festivity?” He glances about, a single brow arched. “If you promise to start it, I promise to stay.”

A thread of tension quivers in the air.

It breaks at the flash of teeth. “A fine point,” King Estienne drawls.

Then he spurs from his throne and stalks toward us.

I hear it, then. A slow drip, one splash after another, however faint. Like a leak in the ceiling, falling into a half-full pail. I angle my head, but Anton steps into my line of sight. “Don’t look, Vasalie,” he whispers, his gaze fixed ahead. “Not for my sake, but yours.”

King Estienne takes notice of me then, slipping his hands into the pockets of his doublet. “Ah, the dancer I’ve heard so much about, no? They told me what she did, brother. I’d have loved to see it. You, a spectacle.”

“I’m always a spectacle,” Anton says, offended. He edges in front of me, almost as if he’s trying to hide me. But his brother slinks around him easily.

“You were running off with my entertainment, weren’t you? Tsk, tsk.” He looks down his nose at me.

“Can you blame me?” Anton slings an arm over my shoulder. “I’ve always had a thing for dancers.” With his other hand, he flicks my nose.

I bite the inside of my lip, resisting the urge to glower up at him for that.

King Estienne watches us, thoroughly unimpressed with me if the downward curl of his lips is any indication. “What is your name, dancer?”

“Vasalie, Your Majesty,” I say, forcing the tremble from my voice. “Vasalie Moran.”

I pray he doesn’t ask where I’m from. I don’t know the adviser Illian paid to recommend me, only that he’s from Central Miridran. If King Estienne inquires further—