Page 133 of A Dance of Lies

“Didn’t he, though? He took your position from you.”

Again, her gaze flits across mine. She releases a long-suffering sigh. “It’s my fault, really. I . . . we shared a night together. Just one, but things changed after that. It was perhaps my greatest mistake.”

My vision tunnels, the room closing in.

He slept with her?

Touchedher?

The knowledge bears down on me like a portcullis ready to sink its teeth into my shoulders. Illian never laid a hand on me. And while I’m thankful, I can’t understand it. Can’t fathomwhy.

“You say it was mistake,” I hear myself say. “Is that because you both regretted it?”

Esmée shakes her head, fingers fumbling with the gown again. “I should have known he would tire of me thereafter.”

“But he came to see you—at the Melune,” I say.

“It was . . . an attempt to remind him of what he was missing.” She swallows, unbuttoning my shift. “I heard he found you afterward. His Jewel. It is a shame you ruined your chance to win him back, but do not begrudge me the same opportunity.”

“You’re only here to try to reclaim your position, then?” I was beginning to think Illian sent for her, somehow. But if she came on her own . . .

Esmée takes Morta’s crown, fashioned by Anton himself, and places it gently on my head. Arranging my hair around the circlet, she says, “The princess offered me a full month’s salary if I came as a stand-in. It was an opportunity—both to see His Majesty again, and to . . . resolve some unfinished business. With a friend.”

Unfinished business.

With Copelan.

Copelan, who nearly got me killed. Who abandoned me. Revulsion swims in my belly. Convincing her to help would be fruitlessbecause she doesn’t hate Illian. Shewantedhim. She craved his affection like I had, only I had gotten so much more than I’d bargained for.

She steps back, admiring her work, and I decide that I can’t waste this chance, even if she might not believe me. If anything, I’d say she’s as trapped as I am, only by her own delusions. “Things aren’t what they seem,” I say. “There’s so much you don’t know. We’re all in danger. Please, if you could send word to—”

The door flies open, and Aemon’s voice cuts through my plea. “Time’s up.”

Still, I angle away, praying she reads my lips. “Find King Anton. Tell him—”

Aemon wrenches Esmée away, and Sana appears, ushering her out. Esmée shakes her head in a pitiful gesture, not understanding, and my hope tumbles from my grasp into a heap on the floor.

Sana secures a set of manacles on my wrists after allowing me to gather my cloak and adjust my costume.

When the time comes for them to escort me to the boat that will carry us to the small, adjacent island for our final performance, I walk as a Crown would despite the deep-seated ache in my bones, the pain in my ribs, the fear compressing my lungs. Head high, shoulders back, I summon the confidence the real Fate of Morta would have.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Bonfires heave smoke into the air as our boat approaches the small island off the northern end of Anell. It smells of a pyre lit with incense—sage, black currant, myrrh—like an offering to the Fate of Morta herself, while clouds of gray catch the smoke and blend it into the evening sky.

One long dock curves around the southern half like a crescent moon, and from it, a single bridge reaches onto the island itself. The Crowns and courtiers are escorted off small, elaborate crafts and directed toward the entrance—a stone tunnel that proudly displays flags from each country.

Our boat, however, drifts toward the eastern side of the island. My guards and I dock near a set of rocks and unload, then join the performers around the back of the stage. My cape billows in the wind over my costume, which is surprisingly light thanks to the corset and clever bustle sewn into the design.

I peer around the stage divider, the air heavy in my lungs.

It looks as if a giant scooped a handful of the island and tossed it out across the rocks. A dip in the center creates the perfect curvature for carved stone benches, like that of an arena, and on the lowest level is the stage. Around it, juts of stone form barriers, blendingin with the curved stone wall and archway like a cave with its roof blown off.

I skim the crowd for Anton. If I could just catch his eye, I can signal him back here while the audience settles. I need to warn him about Illian and the tunnels. Ask him if he’s found anything. Time is running thin, and King Rurik is in danger.

But I can’t find Anton anywhere. Not as the musicians slide into place throughout the stage, not as massive pots blow steam across the makeshift stage’s wooden planks. Not even as the dancers and bards take their positions, their costumes drifting about in the wind.

I do, however, spot my father. He reclines beside King Rurik in his crisp blue uniform, sharp as the harsh lines scoring his forehead and lips. His eyes, severe and emotionless, cut across the stage like a carefully wielded blade.