Page 119 of A Dance of Lies

Chapter Thirty

Illian’s next task is waiting for me when I arrive back at my room.

The letter is tucked into a stack of neatly folded linens, and when I lift it, it’s stained with lye.

I was correct, then, about the maid working for him. She must have just delivered it only moments ago, thinking I was in the dining hall.

I scan the letter. The task isn’t what I expected. I assumed each one would be worse than the last, but this one is simple, seemingly harmless. For the next few nights, I am to entertain two smaller courts, both of which he will attend. He merely asks that I divert attention while he secures a few deals, which I will, admittedly, try to overhear.

Sweat beads on my skin despite a mid-morning chill. Last night hardly seems real, and now, I can’t help but clench my quilt, my father’s voice encircling my thoughts like a fist around my throat.

He wants to make himself a king.

And if he does, Emilia will have died for nothing.

I think of her more than ever now, especially the way she’d looked that day, her gold locks swept into a coronet, her pink wool dress perfect for traveling through the harsh mid-winter cold. The too-big coat she made me wear, and how it itched against my skin, how I’d used it to cover my sobs when I realized she was gone.

Another sob breaks loose at that. But I quickly compose myself, repeating Anton’s promise in my mind.

We will bring him a fate worse than Morta’s revenge.

I coif my hair and wander to the Dance Hall, dreading each step that brings me closer to Copelan. After last night, our quarrel feels insignificant in the scheme of things, but we have one last dance to plan. Unless he’s decided to use Esmée for that, too.

But the Dance Hall is devoid of its usual bustle, the single curtain drawn.

“You’re late,” comes Copelan’s voice. My eyes drift to where he’s slumped on the floor, propped against the mirrored wall. He’s as pale as a wraith, almost ghostlike in the dark. And his eyes are shadowed, his brows a dark slash as he regards me angrily.

I approach warily. “Late? For what?”

“We gave instructions after the performance last night,” he mutters. “I couldn’t find you, so I searched for you. Odd that you weren’t in your room, even in the dead of night.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk,” I lie, only to have Copelan toss a lump of fabric at my feet.

I bend, gathering the outfit I had worn to the Sky Garden last night. I had left it in Anton’s wing after he asked me to change.

“A maid found it this morning,” he says. “She thought you left it. Any guess where she retrieved it from?”

When I don’t reply, he shoves up from the floor and stalks toward me. “You know the rules, Vasalie; you know them damned well—”

“Yes, and if you send me away, what do you think he will do? Do you really want to be responsible for angering a Crown like him?”

“That’s exactly it, Vasalie. A Crown likehim.You know his reputation, what he’s known for.”

But do we really?

“Fates, you two. I’m not so terrible as that.”

Copelan swivels, and so do I.

Anton leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his velvet waistcoat bunched against his broad shoulders.

He sinks his teeth into an apple.

Copelan stares for one second, then two, before he remembers himself and bows. When he straightens, he juts his chin just a little too high. “Your Majesty, what can we do for you?”

I don’t miss the edge in his voice.

“The final performance is approaching rapidly and, due to recent events that rather disrupted my country’s rulership, I would prefer to oversee this one. Apple?” He displays it between his fingers after another loud crunch.