Page 82 of A Dance of Lies

My eyes burn with my feeble response. “What do you need me to do?”

A serpent’s smirk lifts the edge of his lips, and he whispers my next task into my ear, soft as a lover’s caress.

My feet are heavy as stones. A cool, nighttime wind soughs past windows, loud as a scream. It numbs my cheeks, my fingers. I wish it would numb my heart.

With Illian close on my heels, I emerge once more into the Hall of Thrones, this time under the gilded architrave, the doors slung open to reveal the soirée beyond. But I feel his departure a moment later, just as I feel the pair of eyes that settle on me.

Not for the first time, Anton scrutinizes me with a gaze that sees too much. Even as courtiers congregate around him, vying for his attention.

Tonight, he is adorned in his usual frippery: a dark, velvet jerkin with mauve shoulder seams that arc like scythes, stacks of rings banding his fingers. Even the boots that reach up past his knees are embellished with threads of red and gold.

To his right, Gustav clanks his chalice with a woman in an intricately laced indigo gown that lays beautifully over her deep, ambertonedskin. “Aha! You see, Your Majesty; Lady Reila agrees.” Grinning broadly, his gaze travels over his shoulder.

And catches sight of me.

“Miss Moran!” he shouts, ambling over. “How are you? You look well. And that performance! Once again, you have deprived us of words.”

I hope my smile doesn’t look strained. “I’m relieved to see that you’re well,” I tell him, and mean it.

He links his arm with mine, drawing me toward Anton and his company. “Come, let me introduce you around . . .”

“Oh, no—” I attempt, but he insists, unencumbered in his joy. My eyes skip around nervously. There’s still no sign of Laurent, and my signal has not yet occurred. Even so, nerves stir in my chest like a swarm of wasps. It takes all my strength to stay upright, to not puke on my gown.

Inhale, exhale—I force the commands onto my body.

The light from our performance is unchanged; we remain bruised in shadow, a blue like that of the sea at dusk, while gold falls softly onto clusters of guests now indulging in a dance. It’s there that I see Copelan, effortlessly guiding the princess into a waltz, the crowd forming a radius around them.

But there’s no room in me left to care, so I force my gaze away.

“Miss Moran,” Anton says by way of greeting, and only then do I realize I’ve missed the rest of Gustav’s introductions. I sink into a bow, but Anton’s already strolling off, a new escort on his arm, while Gustav and his friends pepper me with questions about the dance, our inspiration. Answers fall from my lips, but I barely consider them.

I find myself looking for Anton again, and too easily, I find him. He’s not far, lingering by a pillar near Prince Sundar, who illustrates some tale or other before his brothers and the queen. Anton’s escort laughs and whispers in his ear, but he merely peers off in the distance, seemingly at nothing.

But he feels my stare, his eyes gliding toward mine.

It’s then that I notice just how tight his jaw is, how different he seems. How disturbed. Gone is the lazy grin. Gone is the spark in those dancing, viridescent eyes, and in its place, there’s something dark, born of shadows. I can almost feel it from here.

Does he sense what I’m about to do?

In this moment, my instincts fall away, and I want him to. I don’t care if he’s good or not, I care only that he opposes Illian.

I want him to stop me.

Save me.

Seeme.

Gustav notices me staring and squeezes my arm gently. “It isn’t you.”

“Pardon?”

“His mood.”

I pause, swinging my attention back to Gustav. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitates, then tugs me a few feet from his group. “Do you believe in prophecy, Vasalie?”

Emilia had—though only if they had been confirmed. And there hasn’t been a confirmed prophecy in over a hundred years. Then I recall the prophets Laurent spoke of, the ones taken captive, and realization dawns. They must have found them. “There’s been a prophecy. A confirmed one. Hasn’t there?”