Page 48 of A Dance of Lies

There’s a glint in his gaze, one I don’t think I’m imagining as he tucks a ring-sized box into his pocket, discarding the rag.

Something just happened, something I should have caught, but my vision shuts down as he vanishes around a bend, the tumult of the room pulling my focus in a swirl—the effects of the poison overtaking me at last. King Illian’s voice—no, it’s his brother. He’s saying my name, but I can’t see anything, disoriented as I am—

Lights cloud into haze. Haze fades to black.

Warm, buttery light caresses my cheeks.

I squirm, wiggling between soft sheets and softer pillows. Any minute now, I’ll hear Emilia’s voice demanding I risethis instantbecause my breakfast is getting cold and she spent all morning making my favorite almond cakes. Not to mention, I’m most definitely late for my lessons. Emilia will tell me she’ll have no choice but to hire a governess if I can’t be on time. I know it’s a lie. She loves telling stories, which is what the lessons become anyway until she dozes off in her chair like the elderly.

But everything is quiet. No mountain birds chitter lovingly against the eaves; no singing trills from the gap underneath my door.

I crack open my eyes. The world around me is hazy but bright, as if I’m peering through sunlit clouds, like the ones that sometimesscalloped across my balcony back home, high as we were. But it isn’t my stone-gray walls or the low-lit hearth across from my bed.

I bolt upright.

“Careful,” cautions a voice, deep and soothing.

Laurent lifts a hand to my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened? Where am I?” My mind gallops, careening me back to the last moment I remember. Gustav on the floor, Anton shouting—

“It’s all right,” Laurent assures me. “You, my sweet, are in a guest room in King Anton’s wing. The physician just left.”

King Anton. His wing. I take in my surroundings: the bed, sage-green, quilted silk with feather-soft pillows. An azure velvet wing-back chair. Along the wall, gauzy curtains shift in a sea-kissed breeze. I press a palm to my pounding head. “Gustav—”

“Isalive,” Laurent assures me. “But not well. Poisoned, we believe, and it looks like you were, too. It was in the wine.” He swipes his knuckles against my forehead. “You’ve been battling a fever all night. We gave you a concoction, but it might not have taken effect yet—”

“Will he make it?”

“Gustav?” He lets out a breath. “He will be fine, as will you. But it may take a few days for the worst of it to pass. You’ll notice yellow splotches on your skin here and there, but they will fade gradually over the next week or so as your body detoxes.”

I let out a breath, though worry still clings. “May I see him?”

My plan was, in part, selfish, but I’d hoped . . . foolishly, I’d hoped that it would work twofold. If I drank a measure of the poison first, they wouldn’t suspect me. But more important, I’d hoped it would save Gustav’s life if he didn’t consume the full dose. Bellamira works that way; unlike other poisons, it’s quick to take effect but slow to cause real harm. With a lesser portion, your body has a fighting chance.

It was all I could think of to save him.

As for King Illian, I completed his task. I poisoned Gustav. Henever said he had to die. And if he discovers I’ve been poisoned, too, I’ll tell him it was to throw suspicion off me.

“I’m afraid not,” Laurent responds. “No one can until we get to the bottom of this. King’s orders.”

I hide my fidgeting hands underneath the silk-lined sheets. “Who could have done this?”

“I don’t know, though it seems Gustav was the mark, not you. Try not to fret.”

A sour sort of relief pools within me. I should leave it alone. And yet—“Why would anyone want to harm him?”

“Could be anything. He’s close to His Majesty, for one, and he governs all the glass exports.”

I pull my lip between my teeth, recalling Anton’s speech from last night. That strange device in his turret. Gustav is an inventor, like his king. An innovator. Perhaps even more.

“When you are well enough to leave, His Majesty asks that you not speak of the matter. Happenings such as this can send the entire Gathering into a panic, and we might never catch the culprit.”

A memory blinks into my vision. The servant with the rag—a face I had recognized. I try to grasp onto it, but murkiness wraps around my mind, muting my thoughts.

Perhaps I had merely imagined it.

I press my palms to my eyes. I should be relieved; they think I’m innocent. But an uncomfortable feeling crawls over my skin, like an itch I can’t scratch. Like I’m missing something.