Page 111 of A Dance of Lies

Not the way it felt.

Because it wasn’t real.

It wasnotreal.

He gets dressed, but not before I catch a glimpse of his physique—lean, muscled. Not that I needed to see it after I felt it on top of me. “We need to get going. In case brother dearest decides to come back,” he says.

I nod, using my still-shaking fingers to arrange my hair into a braid.

Anton, finally seeing me, smirks. Just a little, his lips tipped up at the edges. “I suppose we got what we came for, however unseemly,” he says. His hair is still mussed, tangled.

Unseemly.I don’t know what to make of that.

Words gather inside my mouth, but I don’t know which to spill first. I want to ask about what we just saw, what it means. What he plans to do about it.

I want to know how Illian and my father met.

I want to know if the grins, the smirks, are just Anton’s way to get me to do what he wants. If I’m being used by yet another Crown as a play for power. But if it brings me answers, or my own bit of power . . .

Mistress Sezar’s voice breaks our trance. “They’ve left,” she says, cracking open the door. “If you hurry, you can sneak out the back and reach the docks before they do.”

“I need to get back,” I say, “before he finds me missing.”

Anton frowns but grabs my hand, pulling me out the door.

Water laps over the edges of the boat as we row back to the island. Cool water pools around my ankles, but I hardly notice. I’m consumed by my thoughts. My anger. Now that I’ve had time to compose myself and process what happened, I’m steam in a kettle, ready to scream.

A king. Illian plans to help my father become aking.

No. I won’t watch it happen.

“I’d hope,” Anton says, breaking the silence, “that we are, at the very least, allies after that. Common enemies, and all.”

Allies? Is that what we are? I feel like I’m swimming in sand.

Allies.But it doesn’t matter what he calls it, because even if he’s using me, I will help him. Whatever it takes to knock my father to his knees.

“They deserve to burn,” I breathe, fingernails digging into my thighs. I picture my father and what he did. I see Emilia’s face, alreadylifeless, right before he swung her over our balcony, let her tumble down the mountain below. And Illian, what his guards did to me, the way he watched them break me, silently—and the way he’s watched me ever since he plucked me from his souls-forsaken prison. The way his breath felt along the back of my neck when he spoke my last task . . .

“They deserve to burn,” I say again. “And I want to strike the match.”

“Good,” Anton says. “Then it’s time we talked.Reallytalked.” He heaves the oars, pushing us over a larger wave. Clouds thick as quilts drift over the moon, bathing us in shadow, the calm seascape now stirred by a current of wind. “My brother is a powerful man, and he’s been playing this game for a very long time—perhaps longer than you realize. Until now, he has failed in his endeavors—because every time, he mademehis first target of disposal.”

I don’t understand. “He . . . tried to dispose of you?”

Again, that devious tilt slants his lips. “Oh, you’ve heard the story. Everyone knows about my supposed death.”

Philam’s night bells chime as if in emphasis, ominous in the gloom. Mist sprays my tongue and coats my skin.

“Mount Carapet,” I say. “You—you fell.”

“Shoved,” he clarifies. “By my doting older brother, at the ripe age of sixteen.”

The story is true, then. Only, Illian was the cause.

Even so, whether Anton fell, or Illian pushed him, he is here. Alive. “How—”

“Did I survive? I woke on a jut of rocks along the mountainside. His men were searching for me, so I smeared my own blood along the rocks at the bottom near a waterfall, so they would assume he succeeded. A week later, I gave him a pleasant little scare at my own burial procession.” He sighs. “But he had crafted such a convincing show, mourning in public for days after my so-called demise. I realized that, should I try to expose him, I would have no proof to back my claim, and so I remained silent. Learned to watch my back.