Page 132 of A Dance of Lies

“What, did he threaten to cut your tongue to ribbons if you speak?” I ask Sana, the guard leaning against the back of my door on the evening of the final performance.

As always, I am ignored.

For now, she is my only companion until the other guard, who I now know as Aemon, returns with our food. As per Illian’s command, I have not had a moment’s reprieve. They even take turns sleeping in my room each night to ensure I am watched at all times. That I couldn’t somehow escape.

If I could, I would have.

If I can just find Anton tonight at the final performance, I can warn him—during the dance, somehow, if I must. Even if not, he never fails to read me. He will know something is wrong.

Soon.

I sit before my vanity, artlessly brushing a pearlescent powder over my cheekbones, eyelids, and nose, before stroking kohl above my lashes.

“Can you arrange a coronet?” I ask Sana. “You might as well make yourself useful.”

I am met with silence. But if my talking annoys her, I will keep at it. “You know, Illian prefers a bit of spice. If you are hoping to impress him, which clearly you are, being that you enabled the abuse of a defenseless woman, you may want to liven up.” I feel her gaze on the back of my neck, so I press on. “Or you can choose to work for someone who doesn’t prey on women. There’s always that.”

In the mirror, I note the ever so slight tightening of her jaw. But she swings her gaze at the sound of a knock, then slants me a warning look. “You are not to reveal anything in regards to your king.”

Like I would listen to her. But when she opens the door, the last person I expect flits through.

Esmée Fontaine.

In her hands are a bundle of pins, a comb, and a jar of scented oil. “I was sent by His Majesty, King Illian, to assist you in your preparation,” she says, her gaze darting about the room. “Might you allow me to fashion your hair?”

Her voice is feather-light, serene, as if this is all perfectly normal. But she might be my only hope, and so I nod and settle back into my chair as she twines my hair in sections, securing them with pinsbefore pulling pieces loose. Those, she coils with her fingers. Aemon returns with a platter of food, relieving Sana of her post, but I’m far too queasy to eat.

Once I am finished, Esmée turns her gaze on Aemon. “I will need to help her dress.”

His cue to leave.

My heart jumps, and a fool’s hope slides in—that my last, desperate appeal to Copelan got through. That he sent her here to help. But that can’t be. This is Illian’s work.

She must know who I am.

As expected, Aemon shakes his head. “I can’t let her out of my sight.”

He doesn’t even offer to turn.

“The room is too small, what with the size of this dress,” Esmée says. “The window is a steep drop, and you will be right outside.” She glides over, placing a careful hand on his arm. “Please. It would mean a great deal to me—a favor I shall try to repay.”

To my surprise, he gives her a sweeping appraisal before assenting. “Three minutes.”

“Five,” she says, gesturing at the costume. “It’s a complicated piece.”

“Five, then, but not a second more,” he murmurs.

The moment the door shuts, she spins to face me. “I just bought you a few minutes of privacy. In exchange, I want to know what has happened between you and Illian.”

“Why?” I ask as she reaches for my gown. “Because he abandoned you, and now you want him back?”

“What makes you think—”

“I was there when you broke your wrist.”

She pulls her lip between her teeth as she unlaces the ties on the back of the costume, the ones holding it to the bust. At the way her fingers tremble, my heart clenches with a sudden pang. I halt her with a hand on her arm. “You aren’t the only one he wronged.”

But she blinks at me, almost doe-eyed. “Wronged? His Majesty . . . did notwrongme.”