Page 80 of A Dance of Lies

I ignore the sultry dip in her tone, though my hands itch to pull Copelan away. Even if . . . even if I denied him and would deny him still.

It’s selfish. But he’s my comfort in this Fates-forsaken place.

It doesn’t matter, though, because she’s royalty and we are the sand beneath her feet. Neither of us can deny her anything.

“I’d be happy to oblige,” Copelan says, but I’m already walking away, pushing through hordes of glittering nobles, my neck damp, my lungs starved for air. I can’t seem to pull in a full breath.

The courtiers take notice of me. They grasp at my gown, my waist, my lower arms—a taste, a touch, whatever they can get in passing, bolder than those in Illian’s court when he wasn’t there to scare them off. Gossip trails my heels as I finally breach the exit, pilfering a glass of water as I go.

Out in the narrow hallway now, my legs turn leaden. I need to sit and rest. To collect myself, or collapse in peace, but my room feels miles away.

The last of my strength falters, my knees ready to fold. I grab for the first door I can find. Underneath, it’s dark, so I pray it’s empty. Turning the knob carefully, quietly, I slip inside.

Only it isn’t a room, but a library. Small, about the length of the dining hall, and twice as ornate. Foiled leather tomes crammed together across mahogany shelves, the ceiling embellished in matching fretwork. At the far end, a circular chaise basks in front of a large hearth that kindles a too-small flame.

And facing those flames is a straight-backed silhouette. In his hand is a silver glass, and he twirls the liquid inside slowly, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap.

I know that cap. The way it creases in the center, curving to a subtle point near the crown of the head.

Fear locks my muscles—and my lungs.

General Stova.

I need to run. To hide. But my feet are like stakes, planted in the ground. Unresponsive. He witnessed my performance. He saw everything.

He sawme.

But I remind myself, ardently, that he wouldn’t have recognized me. I’m not thirteen anymore.

Except I still feel as small. Smaller, even, than I used to.

Move,I beg myself. It isn’t time. I’m not ready. But when he rolls his shoulders, his emblem catching the light, the past flashes before my eyes: a gown, pink as petals; blood, red as rubies. A crack, a cry. Then the sound of Marian choking, the finger-shaped bruises now gracing her neck. My stomach turns to water.

I feel the cold of the glass in my hands.Break it,something inside me whispers.Break it; use it to slit his throat.He deserves to rot in a cell like I did, yes, but what if I could kill him now? He is alone, vulnerable. It might be my only chance.

A tremor wracks my body.

I try to move but can’t. He’s too quick, too armed, too strong, and I’m a fool to think I’ll ever be able to face him, a fool to assume I’ll find the courage I need.Never,whispers that dark, familiar voice in my mind.

Any notion of justice or revenge was but a naïve girl’s plea.

A shadow crawls along the floor. Another silhouette, tall and slender. I sense the presence hovering behind me, a thing of nightmares. The Fate of Morta, ready to claim me. Because my father will turn around, and he will find me, and she is here, waiting.

He angles his face, firelight teasing his jaw.

The glass slips from my fingers.

A hand snakes out from beside me, catching it before it hits the floor.

Chapter Twenty-One

Illian tucks the glass back in my palm, careful not to let our fingers brush, as always. “Miss Moran, is it? A pleasure to find you here.” He tilts his head toward the fireplace, where my father stands. “Say, and who is this? Ah! General, have you met our soloist?”

An unusual panache for him, a cordiality he rarely displays. It would strike me as odd if I weren’t struggling to keep my knees from buckling.

Slowly, General Stova angles our way.

The breath turns to sludge in my throat. I wait for the spark of recognition in his eyes, the moment his cool composure turns to fire.