Page 35 of A Dance of Lies

“Ah! Copelan, is that you?” Princess Aesir calls, her chipper voice startling us both. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Your Highness,” Copelan replies. “A pleasant surprise indeed.”

Numbness spreads up my hands as the two of them near. Copelan flicks a glance toward me. I mouth the wordplease.He shoves out a clipped sigh, then angles himself, blocking sight of me between the arbor and his body.

She’s close now, maybe five feet away. Just around the bend.

“Copelan, have you met General Stova?”

No—no. My chest constricts. My tunic is too tight.

He isn’t supposed to be here. Generals are almost never in attendance. He might have attended a Gathering once, but it was only because Emilia—a citizen of both Miridran and Brisendale on account of her familial ties—was invited to perform just after they married.

“I haven’t,” says Copelan, stretching out a hand. “It’s an honor, sir.”

“Copelan is our Master of Revels,” the princess muses. “He oversees all the entertainment, including the show last night. Impressive, was it not?”

And then I hear my father’s voice, rough as boots dragging against stone. “It was the talk of the evening.”

He offers nothing more.

“Goodness, and my father’s expression was priceless, no? Youshould have seen it, Maksim. Copelan and I had a good laugh about it this morning.”

Maksim.

Just how casual is he among his betters? But then—

Last night. Had he seen me? Would he have recognized me? I feel as if I’ve run a mile, my vision puckered with stars.

He should not be here.

My thoughts are frenzied, but then I note the way Princess Aesir’s slender hand comes to squeeze Copelan’s upper arm. I notice, too, how his shoulders tense the way they do when he lifts me, when he’s expecting to hold weight.

“Princess,” says the general, “it’s best we head inside.”

Yes, please go,I beg silently. And somehow, they do. After a short farewell, their footfalls recede, and Copelan and I are alone once more.

He glares at me. “Speak, or I will send you away.”

My voice is mired in my throat—or perhaps it’s a scream. I feel frozen, that familiar current of fear pummeling through my blood as yet another memory claws forth—roaring shouts, a loud, split-ting crack—but Copelan snags my wrist, yanking me back into the present. “Vasalie.”

“Stova,” I breathe. I haven’t tasted my family name in years. I never wanted to say it again.

“General Stova?” Copelan says, trying to understand. “What about him?”

I want to laugh, a wild hysteria bubbling in my windpipe. He’s the reason I had to flee. He is the reason I left home, alone, with no one to protect me. He is the reason Emilia isn’t with me.

She was the sunlight in my dreary world, and he is the terror who seizes the night.

“I—” I swallow, force out a response. “I knew him, once. Long ago.”

Copelan releases my wrist and folds his hands over my shoulders,his eyes meeting mine. But where I expect to see the same hardness evident in his voice, I find a hint of concern.

“Not here,” I plead. Not where anyone could overhear, especially someone employed by Illian.

His lips thin, but he backs away. “I will find you tonight before your banquet. Until then, I expect you in the Dance Hall, practicing. What do you plan to perform?”

“Something simple,” I say. “Whatever you wish. I will be careful.”