Page 89 of A Dance of Lies

Maybe I would have years ago if he had asked. I might have thanked him for it, might’ve felt compelled. A part of me had been infatuated with him.

But that part of me is dead.

Anton drags a hand over his mouth, then breathes a sigh. “Is he aware of your whereabouts right now? Tell me the truth.”

“I have not told him about the tunnels,” I say, “nor do I plan to.”

He regards me with such a probing intensity that I feel as if he’s making geometry of me, measuring each response. For him, it’s nothing new.

Then he picks up my wrist and slides a key into my shackles. As they fall off, he says, “Follow me. And please, don’t try to run.”

The teacup quivers in my hand.

It’s an effervescent floral blend made from a basilica bloom, or so a servant told me, known for its revitalizing properties. Even so, themere sip I took sends it back up my throat in an embarrassing display, my stomach whirling with nerves while I wait awkwardly on a divan in Anton’s antechamber. It’s a spacious room awash in color—emerald curtains, ultramarine pillows tasseled in carmine. A plush, vibrant rug. Dichroic, cathedral windows reveal a granulated, prismatic moon. But even the ceiling, with its azure glasswork, is not a reprieve from my addled mind.

He knows I work for Illian.

After fetching himself a drink and muttering something to someone outside the door, he sinks onto the cushion next to me, unabashed at our proximity. Propping an ankle on his knee, he swirls the liquid in his glass with steady hands. He is the Anton I recognize now, all confidence and ease.

He still hasn’t said a word about what he saw, though.

“Tell me why you were in my tunnels.”

I breathe through my nose and exhale slowly, summoning any ounce of courage I can muster. “I came to plead on Laurent’s and Marian’s behalf.” I hate the tremor in my voice, hate the way it shakes.

“To what end? Did you not stand before every Crown and condemn them? The damage is done, Miss Moran.”

“They’re innocent,” I say, resisting the urge to scoot away from him. “You—you have to know that.”

“And what proof do you have?” His eyes track my arms as I hug my own stomach.

He already senses the truth, but he wants me to admit it. I’d known I’d have to give it to him when I’d sought him out, but even so, fear numbs my tongue. My father deserves a knife in the chest, but I won’t be the wielder of that blade should I admit to poisoning Gustav. I will never have justice or revenge, much less my freedom.

But that freedom, if I managed it, would be haunted by the ghosts of those I hurt. I cannot shove them in the closet of my mind and forget them. I tried that with Emilia. It didn’t work.

“Miss Moran.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing an inhale. This—it’s the moment I lose everything. He will throw me in his dungeon and forget me, or take what little life I have left.

The truth leaves my lips in a broken, defeated whisper. “I am your poisoner.”

Agonizing seconds pass, and Anton says nothing.

I glance up to find him skating a thumb across his bottom lip. “My brother.”

My gaze falls, my silence damning enough.

“Would you be willing to testify to clear their names?”

For you, Emilia. It’s all I have left to give.“I would.”

“You can guess the consequences,” Anton says, leaning forward. “Even then? Do I have your word?”

“Yes, but they might not believe me.” Illian will expose my time in prison for a murder he will make them believe I committed, and my admission will mean nothing. “I have a past in West Miridran, and he will make it known.”

“My brother’s hold over you,” Anton mumbles, sucking on his teeth. “What has he promised you in return?”

The lump in my throat is like a rock. Still, I push it down, forcing out my rasp of an answer. “My life, Your Majesty. My exoneration.”