Page 93 of A Dance of Lies

I wait until I’m sure he’s gone, then turn to see what it is: a small platter of fruit and nuts, along with his signature card, one he doesn’t bother to sign.

Eat, Vasalie.

I ignore it and fall asleep.

The next morning, Annais has yet to return.

I force myself to consume a meager meal and rise from bed. My exertion and anxiety have well and truly drained me, like sand in an hourglass, thieving both my time and my strength. There’s so little left these days. My endurance grows thinner with each week, and I wonder if that’s forever. If this feeling, this exhaustion, is part of me now, a permanent crack in my being.

A crack that, with each passing day, widens a little more.

I twine my fingers into my hair, gathering it into a quick plait, which I fiddle with nervously as I enter the Dance Hall. My gaze immediately tracks to Copelan as he directs one of the younger troupes through a new routine. When he notices me, a shroud falls over his face, his lips stretching taut. He resumes his focus, perfecting their choreography until their practice ends. The dancers depart in a flurry of whispers, and I’m not oblivious to the shape of my name on their lips or the way they shuffle their gazes between Copelan and me.

I almost forgot he kissed me before the whole souls-damned palace. It feels like a lifetime ago.

I can’t get you out of my head. I can’t wash you from my skin.

“Vas,” Copelan says.

“We need to plan about our next performance,” I say, hoping to dodge any talk of the other night.

He blows out a breath. “Right. Yes.”

The air is thick and strange like a room full of steam; I don’t know how to navigate it. And it stays that way throughout our session. We try to conjure a new dance for the week’s end, this time in honor of Serai, but it’s far from spectacular and we both know it. Neither of our heads are present. Neither of us wants to get close.

“Maybe it would help if we see the location,” he says, swiping a hand across his damp, ivory locks.

“It isn’t in the Dome Hall?”

“The Sky Garden, actually.”

The Sky Garden is near the northernmost wing. I’ve heard talk of it, but I’ve avoided it thus far, considering that the Brisendali court resides nearby. The last thing I want is to run into my father.

“I don’t think it necessary to visit,” I start, but Copelan is already moving.

“Unless you have another idea,” he says over his shoulder, “we need any inspiration we can get.”

I hate that he’s right. Serai, a western country across the sea, is a mystery. Not many are invited in, even fewer are allowed to tour. They aren’t inhospitable, exactly, but there isn’t much to see without mounds of paperwork. Their cities are guarded by twenty-foot walls. It costs a fortune to dock at their ports. They are protective, and I can’t blame them for it.

Silence trails Copelan and me through the halls of the northern wing until I catch a glimpse of the Sky Garden in the distance. It hangs over the ocean, a platform of marble. A glass dome shields it from the rough ocean winds, but open pockets still allow for airflow. Gulls flit in and out, clustering on the trees beneath.

When we reach it, a gale sweeps in, disheveling my plait.

The space inside the dome is enormous, crawling with wisteria. Beds of amaryllis, hibiscus, and lotus carpet the ground between walkways, along with other flora unique to Anell. An intoxicating mix of nectar-sweet scents spirals around me, and for the first time, I take a full, satisfying breath.

And though a few courtiers linger, congregating underneath arbors, the magnitude of the place makes it feel as if we’re alone. Copelan leads me underneath a flowering willow, its strands swaying in the breeze. I slip through, lavender petals whisking about my feet, and then we come across a large, trickling fountain—

I halt, and Copelan almost rams into my back.

In the center stands the ever-famous Fate of Morta.

Unlike in Illian’s palace, she isn’t crafted from marble; rather, she’s made entirely of obsidian glass, her dress veined like a butterfly’s wing. Water escapes from her cupped hands, almost as if she’s trying to grasp it but can’t.

Copelan plants himself at the bottom of the stairs, so lost in thought that I decide not to disturb him. I wander instead in another direction.

He bounds up and grabs my arm. “Vas.”

I turn, a question in my eyes.