Page 42 of To Dance with Death

Rising from the table a few minutes later, I finally excuse myself and offer a farewell, which they blessedly do not notice, and shuffle toward the door.

Once more, my eyes walk a traitorous path toward Anton. He’s shoving playfully at another soul—a different one now. She nudges him back, shoving a slice of fruit between his teeth, the slender sleeve of her coral gown falling to bare her dark umber shoulder.

Nausea climbs its way through my ribs.

“Not so interested in you now, is he?” comes a voice. I turn to find Illian behind me, making his way from the room, broom and dustpan in hand.

“He seems interested in you, though,” I return. “How it must pain you to kneel before him in this life, too.”

“Did you hope,” he says with a hint of a smirk, “that your dancing might bring him back to you? What a pity it was to witness such a valiant attempt, only for him to barely notice.”

I don’t bother with a response, attempting to nudge my way past him and into the hall. But his low tenor halts me once more. “You know, I tried to warn you—for years. I would have warned you at the Gathering, too, had I known your involvement with him. His fascinations have, and will always be, temporary. The same cannot be said for me. Say what you will, Vasalie, but it was only ever you.”

“And what a poisonous thing obsession is,” I hiss, then continue on my way, pretending with all my strength that Illian’s words aren’t sinking in.

Chapter Fourteen

My lungs burn like they’re full of water. Sparks crackle into my vision like embers from a spitting fire. I don’t even know where I’m going, only that I need somewhere to sit, maybe cry and feel sorry for myself. Rest, breathe, and gather the strength to resume my quest.

I find myself in Anton’s study once more.

It’s untouched, thankfully, which means Anton has not returned to find the evidence of my tampering. I’m willing to bet it’s safe to stay here for the rest of the night now that he’s well occupied. The thought has my fists tightening, my stomach curdling with disappointment. With frustration.

He’d barely even looked at me. Hardly paid me a lick of attention. I could throttle him for his presumptuousness in demanding I wear a certain color. For his remarks.

I could have spent that time in the Abyssal, searching for one of our codices now that I know about the connection. I’m so angry I could chuck a codex or two. I even grab one, its surface a gleaming steel, my hand trembling. Then weariness settles over me—a reminder that the energy I exert here costs triple what it does in the mortal world.

I sink into his wingback. Yank a blanket over me—only to find it smells like him. I kick it off out of spite, ignoring the way I shiver thereafter.

I know this is a mere façade. An act to cover his wounded pride. To distract himself and pretend nothing else exists.

I know this isn’t who he is.

But right now, anger feels better than grief.

The next morning, I return to the Abyssal.

Hours drag by as I dig through shelf after shelf, making little progress. I break only to pilfer a tray of scones from the kitchen before escaping back into the depths of the Abyssal once more.

So far, at least, the Abyssal has remained empty and quiet save for the rhythm of the river—stripes of water flowing through in delicate strands.

That is, until a codex flies from its place and whips past my head. Startled, I glance about, but it’s well and truly…gone.

A moment later, however, the missing codex floats back into place.

I scratch my head.

I’d just looked through that one. It was of a living person. I take it into my hands, its surface velvet-soft, and open it, only to find—

A newly inked date of death.

And when I search the back, I find the judgment, marked like those of the dead. Whoever this was, they just died, and Moranya scrawled her judgment into their codex.

I continue along, the expanse of the Abyssal overwhelming. I notice more rips in the air—dark voids that seem to tear it in half, each a few feet wide, some smaller. It’s as if this place is unstitching from the seams, though they don’t seem to get worse.

Occasionally, a codex zips past me, only to return a few moments later. The only thing I learn is that some shelves are much shorter, while others continue and zag into new ones, like the branches of atree. Some have missing codices, too—empty slots where it seems a codex should be. Perhaps the ones Anton took to his study.

I keep on until an Aegis alerts me at nightfall, when I realize I’ve lost track of time altogether.