Page 8 of A Dance of Lies

Because others would talk if I were let loose and recognized in the palace. They might even do more than that. Lord Sarden, who I was framed for killing, was beloved—especially among the staff.

Until King Illian absolves me of guilt, no one can know who I am.

Brigitte takes a moment, folding her hands in her lap, the only hint of her discomfort thus far. “I am sworn to secrecy, so you needn’t worry. But yes, Vasalie Moran, I know who you are and what you are said to have done.”

What you aresaidto have done?

Does she not believe her king?

The physician returns. He makes me stand, sit, stand, measuring my pulse; I faint more than once. He pours tonics down my throat, with Brigitte’s help. He concocts salves. He stretches my muscles, wriggles my joints, notating every spasm and wince of pain.

It takes him three days to give us a diagnosis—or lack thereof.

“Two years with such limited movement; it’s a wonder she canwalk at all,” he says. “She may never get her full range of motion back. Nerve damage, if I had to guess. Muscle damage, too. And then there’s the issue with her heart . . .”

I stiffen. “My heart?”

“A syndrome of sorts, I suppose,” he says. “Nothing like I’ve ever seen. Your heart rate is too rapid—far more than it should be at times. But I can’t seem to find a rhythm or reason for it. I suspect the triggers are quick movement, exertion, and heat, but even then, it is not consistent.”

Brigitte asks what I can’t. “Will she recover?”

“I don’t know the severity of it. Conditions like these are unpredictable and often chronic.” He sighs, giving me a pitying glance. “Whether you will recover or not, I cannot say. A routine of exercise and stretching may help, along with better nutrition. The pain and the fatigue, however . . .” He trails off. “I suggest you learn to live with it. Make the best of it.”

The fight I’d felt upon seeing Illian vanishes, leaving me empty and hollow. Little more than a shell. It felt good for a time, but now I realize he has tasked me with the impossible.

For him to taunt me with exoneration—freedom, even—was heartless.

I curl into my cot and will the world to disappear.

Chapter Three

Three weeks pass and I’m still not convinced I’ve escaped. There was nothing more the physician could do for me, so after another day of sleep, I was given a room in Illian’s private wing, one floor below his apartments. It’s quiet, secluded. The only other resident is Brigitte, whose room is just a few doors down.

My own room is modest and altogether too bright. White walls, stark against the dark swathes of curtains, the windows always open to let in the first rays of dawn.

This morning is like any other. Brigitte, who I’ve learned is Illian’s chief attendant, sets aside my morning tonic, then wrestles my nightgown over my head, carting me to the adjoining bathing chamber where additional attendants wait. I’m scrubbed until my skin is pruned and raw. I soak for long minutes, and then I’m lifted out, dried, and handed back to Brigitte, who lathers expensive salves over my lingering scars.

“They’ll get better,” she tells me. “Time is a great healer.”

I almost hope they don’t. I want King Illian to see the reminders every time he looks at me.

After the ablutions, Brigitte joins me for breakfast and tea at a small table nested against the window. Too slowly, I am adjusting toregular food again, but I rarely handle it well. More than once, I’ve doubled over, spilling the contents of my stomach across the floor, her dress, my clothes. They’ve learned the hard way that I cannot touch a slab of dried meat, can’t stomach so much as a ration of rye, even—the foods that barely sustained me in that fates-forsaken cell.

Now, I pry apart a pastry, letting my stomach settle between each bite.

“He asks after your progress,” Brigitte says, regarding me through a ribbon of steam.

I haven’t seen the king since the day he had me dragged from my cell, though I’ve sensed him in the shadows. A presence beyond the doorway, eager to look in.

“And?” I ask dryly. Surely she’s told him the truth. That after two years in that cell, my muscles have warped and deteriorated, and even after everything they’ve tried to speed up my recovery—all the stretching and exercising the physician prescribed—I haven’t been able to dance. Not really. Not aside from basic routines fit for a child.

A simple spin.

A pitiful leap.

It had taken me a week to even walk a straight line for more than a few seconds without my heart jittering, the world spinning beneath my feet. Another week to twirl without toppling halfway through. Even now, I can’t move without the rush of dizziness, the currents of pain that extend from my waist down to my toes.

How hopeless I must seem. Perhaps she’s ready to give up on me. This deal, this supposed second chance, is nothing but a cruel joke.