Page 75 of A Dance of Lies

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

I have no right to defend them after what Ididn’tdo, and yet . . . “Some are practically children, others elderly! And souls, what if they were hungry? Desperate? What if they weren’t all guilty? I don’t know—I don’t know!” My vision tunnels. Blurs. “Not all criminals are evil.” I bet most aren’t, in fact. “And none—none—

deserve this.”

“I shall be nothing if not a cordial host.”

“A demanding one, you mean.” Oh, the way rage boils within me, the way I long to shove my knee in his most tender spot . . .

“I am offended,” he says, pointedly not. “I wine and dine my guests; rarely do they want for anything.”

“Except freedom.”

He takes my chin in his fingers, tilting it this way and that. “You would know a thing or two about that, I assume.”

I open my mouth, then snap it shut.

He leans in. “Speechless? Yes, I tend to have that effect. Now leave, Vasalie. If Estienne calls for you, I will tell him I sent you away. YourMaster,” he drawls, “shouldn’t have sent you here to begin with.” Once again, he ushers me toward the door.

My Master.

The Master of Revels, he means. I think.

After tearing off my gown, I retrieve the pin from my hair, watching the reflection of a flame lick along its golden surface.

My fingers close around it, squeezing until it scores a red mark against my skin.

I don’t know how to process what happened this evening. I don’t know what to do with the emotions that push and pull against my rib cage; I feel as if they’re ripping me to shreds. I’m exhausted, ashamed. Relieved. And there’s hatred still—for myself, for Estienne, for Illian. My father. The Crowns. The courtiers.Anton.He protected me. He stopped a war. The queen admires him, and yet he didthat.

In this moment, I hate him the most.

Because I almost had faith in him.

Because I want, so badly, to believe he is different, and yet every encounter with him leaves me confused, frustrated.Breathless.

Because I don’t know whether he’s the safest of them all.

Or if he is, by far, the most dangerous.

Chapter Twenty

The morning of our second signature performance comes before I’m ready.

I take extra care in my preparations, gliding kohl along my eyes in heavy strokes, tapering it with a flourish at each crease. I shimmy into my costume. Annais helps me lace together the nude, satin bodice. The bones inside are thin, flexible, allowing me to move freely, and on top is a sheer gossamer, shimmering with azure stones, like beads of water pearling atop my skin.

The skirt has a similar effect, dark satin scrunching into ruffles on each of my hips, intended to look like storm clouds. It stops beneath my thighs, bare skin peeking through, and Annais ties another piece around my waist—tendrils of crystals that swish and dance like rain as I walk down the hall. Matching strands glitter against my half-pinned hair.

Down a narrow corridor, I find the back entrance to the Hall of Thrones. Inside, the usual array of Crowns and courtiers await, but outside, Laurent sections the performers into groups, each behind their own divider. There’s a platter of plucked pomegranate seeds, sliced amlas, and a selection of cured meat, which I avoid, but at least I see Marian come and go, a smile on her face.

I don’t know how she does it.

The triplets perform first. They mime a Razami children’s tale while a storyteller narrates, though perhaps mime is too simple a word, what with their acrobatics. Through the curtained doorway, I catch glimpses of their act, but amid their performance, Copelan arrives.

Until now, I hadn’t seen his costume. His eyelids shimmer with gold; his hair is swept elegantly off his face. Tan breeches hug his legs, his neck looped with a brass carcanet.

And he’s shirtless.