Page 79 of A Dance of Lies

Illian.

I shove him, nearly losing my balance. “Leave,” I croak. Illian could come looking for me. He might already be on his way, ready to punish me for Copelan’s actions, and if he found him in my room . . . “You must go. You can’t be here.”

“Vasalie,” Copelan says, stepping toward me, but I veer out of his reach.

“I—I can’t do this, can’t—”

“All right. Okay.” His face is red, flushed, and he’s looking at me like I slapped him. “I get it. I understand. It will not happen again.”

“You don’t understand,” I try, but his jaw is locked tight as he whips around.

“Copelan,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t hear me through the slam of my door.

An hour later, when I return to the Hall of Thrones, claps resound like the snapping of bones. At first, I don’t realize it’s for me, but then I see Copelan lingering in the center, a forced smile apparent on his lips. He extends an arm in my direction.

I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t wash you from my skin.

Dread twines through my already nauseated stomach. I shoulder through the crowd. Copelan’s indifference cracks as I take his hand, but he fixes it quickly, draping an arm over me. I feel like I could collapse. As usual, adrenaline is the only thing keeping me upright.

Praise soaks over us until we’re drenched from it.

Then the shouts begin.

“Are you courting? How long?”

“Kiss her again!”

“A love story in our midst!”

We’re just another spectacle, a form of entertainment. Copelan politely tells them we’re exhausted, but they grow rowdier, yipping around us like dogs begging for treats.

“Did you meet here?”

“Has he taken your virtue?”

“Give us a spin!” someone yells—a man in a crisp Kasami uniform with medals on his shoulder. Beside him, his partner, another handsome courtier, says, “Dip her!”

The room is a whorl of silk and sound. It’s all happening so fast I can’t think clearly, let alone respond. But the voices fade when I find King Illian skirting the edge of the crowd.

A dark velvet waistcoat hugs his chest, embroidered with red garnets along the hem. Black opals shine from his rings. He looks like a villain from one of Emilia’s fairy tales: dark, sinister, yet surprisingly stoic, any trace of fury carefully veiled. Beside him, Princess Aesir of Brisendale whispers in his ear, but he isn’t listening.

He’s watching me.

“Please,” I say over the furor. “Copelan and I are friends; it was merely part of the show. We’re thrilled you enjoyed it.”

A disappointed hum settles over the room, but only for a moment. People squeeze in, shoving more questions in our path as we try to escape: how we came up with the dance, what the powder is, who made our outfits. Copelan has the grace to steady me as I sway. “Let’s not overwhelm Miss Moran.”

Overwhelm is an understatement, when I’d sell my soul if only I could be left to sleep for a year straight.

We almost make it to the exit when Princess Aesir moseys into our path.

Tonight, her ivory locks are gathered to one side, and a red dress splits down to her navel like the cut of an unripened plum. “So then,” she muses, a delighted grin spreading her lips, “that means you’re free for the taking, no?”

Copelan and I both drop into a bow, after which he cuts me a cool glance. “Indeed, Your Highness.”

She twists an errant lock of hair between her fingers. “Perhaps, then, I might steal you away? I have a list of . . .requestsI’d like to present you.”