Page 87 of A Dance of Lies

Different courts hold private after-parties, their carousing echoing through the glass and down the tunnel walls. The palace won’t sleep for a long time yet. The havoc from earlier was hardly a disruption.

According to Laurent, only Anton and his most trusted know these passageways. I’m relying on it. And if I’m caught, I suppose I’ll find out just how badly Illian needs me, or if I really am no more than a button on his doublet, showy but easily replaced.

Dizziness sways both my vision and my steps by the time I reach the eastern wing. Cold clambers through me, icing my very bones. But it isn’t much farther. Anton’s chambers are after Illian’s, so I just need to follow the outer curve.

Only, as I near Illian’s corridor, I can’t resist a peek. Is he celebrating his victory? Conspiring?

I let myself approach the glass above his hearth and peer inside.

He’s still awake, his quill fluttering across parchment, letters fanning across his desk. He pauses, blows on the ink, then compares it carefully to another letter.

Almost as if he’s attempting to write in someone else’s hand.

Satisfied, he cracks open a small leather box, retrieving the wax seal inside. I’m too far to make out the details, but not so far that I can’t tell the seal he holds is not his own. Because I’ve watched him sink his fat golden ring into blood-red wax to seal hundreds of let-ters.

I tuck away the information, about to leave when a voice announces, “Your Majesty, your guests have arrived.”

King Illian rises from his seat, stretching leisurely. He scoops the letters into a drawer before arranging himself on a chaise, permitting someone entrance. That ominous, tapered glass chandelier flicks razor-sharp shadows along his face. Behind him, the door is ajar, revealing a luxurious four-poster bed.

Two women enter.

The first is older, severe, her chamomile hair twisted into a tight crown, modest red garb clinging to her curves. After a reverent bow, she turns, offering both Illian and me a clear view of the second.

My breath hitches in my throat so fast I almost choke. I lend my weight to a jutting stone so that I don’t fall. Surely my eyes are deceiving me. Surely, because . . . it couldn’t be . . . I pinch my cheeks, but I am horrifically, indisputably awake.

The girl sashays forward, tossing her curls—curls that look so much like my own. Lips, painted like my own. Eyes, winged with kohl, just like mine.

Nausea bubbles up, lurching against my ribs.

Because she’s wearing my dress. The very costume I’d sewn myself with Annais’s help and worn mere hours ago.

Had Annais retrieved it? Brought it to this woman? Is this girlmeant to take my place? But I completed my task; I did what Illian wanted.

No, she couldn’t replace me. As much as we resemble each other, her face is rounder, her chin flatter. And she stands a little too upright; someone would notice. Copelan would never allow her to perform in my place.

I don’t understand. Or maybe I don’t want to.

Illian circles her like a vulture, chin propped on his hand. A curt nod, and he dismisses the older woman along with his guards.

Leave now,I beg myself. I don’t want to see this. Yet I can’t force myself away.

I need to know.

Illian comes to stand behind her, whispering something I can’t hear. She looks up, just as he gathers her curls in one hand, and—

Yanks her head back.

Drags his lips across her throat.

Unhooks the skirt.

Breathes my name.

I jerk away and cover my mouth, swallowing a pool of hot, burning bile. My tongue feels like ash in my mouth.

I wish I hadn’t come here.

I wish I hadn’t seen.