Page 114 of A Dance of Lies

“Trust me,” he says.

With no short amount of frustration, I turn my focus to the scent corralling me.

“Warmth,” I rasp. Musk. Something else I can’t name. “Clove.” But my chest grows tight, as if it’s about to cave.

My weight rocks sideways, but strong arms catch me. I feel myself being hauled up, carried—

Quivering curtains slink back, then a vortex of sea-kissed air whisks about, tossing my hair. I’m settled onto a wide balustrade, one hand cupping my waist. The other settles against my cheek, and only then do I feel the line of tears tracking down my face.

“Let’s try it here. Something else, now. Tell me five things you can touch. Describe them.”

Dimly, I understand what he’s doing.

Use all your senses when the pain is at its worst,Brigitte had told me. Maybe—maybe it will work with this, too.

“The stone beneath me,” I say, shaking my head. “The wind.”

“And?”

And I can’t concentrate anymore, can’t—

He takes my hands in his. Puts them to his chest. “What do you feel, Vasalie?”

The silk of his nightshirt. The zigzag of its golden hem, rough beneath my fingertips. The sturdy planes beneath. I press harder in my desperation, then flatten my palms.

“Your heartbeat,” I breathe.

“Tell me more. Four words for it.”

“It’s . . . slow. Steady,” I force out. I squeeze my eyes shut, narrowing my focus to my hands, to what I feel. He’s so . . . “Solid, and firm.”

Heat builds beneath my cheeks, my heart easing its pace.

“Tell me three things you see.”

I open my eyes.

“You.”

He quirks a soft smile. “What else?”

But I can’t look away. His gaze transports me somewhere . . .else.Somewhere mythical, a place that only exists in my dreams—or perhaps far beyond even those. Because there is something so veryunrealabout him. As if he might vanish beneath my touch.

It’s then that I realize my fingers are digging into his shirt.

But I can’t seem to let go, afraid that if I do, I will fall into the world below. The Lair of Morta, perhaps. But maybe I am headed there anyway.

Dark hair whisks about Anton’s face, the pale kiss of moonlight silvering his cheeks. A shiver glides across my arms.

“I am broken,” I say. An admission, or explanation. The only words I can string together.

“You are art,” he says in response.

Once more, I latch on to his gaze, trying to make sense of that. But my mind—

I feel it slipping, feel the weariness settling over me like an unwelcome embrace.

But I am no longer starved for air. Especially now, with a heavy wind whipping past, plunging air into my lungs with ease. My vision clears, the fog of panic dissipating.