Page 11

He is a harmony, a song. A melody made flesh.

And despite his elegance, the graceful way he moves, he’s powerful.

A rare combination, and I have a difficult time keeping my mouth from falling open as he cuts into the air, lands on one foot, and spirals onto the other with perfect precision.

Then, like a swan gliding across a lake, he drops to his knees, slides across the floor—

And lands right at my feet.

He must sense me, because he removes his blindfold.

For a moment, we simply stare at each other, unable to break away. He’s kneeling before me like a man about to propose, his gaze roaming over my face.

Then he springs upward and airs out his shirt, seemingly unbothered. “Can I help you, Miss Moran?”

Heat lathers my cheeks, but I swallow the lump in my throat and decide on honesty. “You’re . . . very good.”

“You should be with the others. Conversing.”

“I’m a soloist. I didn’t see the point.”

“A soloist unless I say otherwise,” he reminds me, swiping strands of damp hair from his forehead.

I step past him and into the room, his eyes tracking mine in the mirror. “Will I meet the other soloist?”

“Perhaps if you had stayed—”

I twist to face him. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

A hint of a smile plays on his lips, and I have my answer. “I suppose I should be relieved. Fewer performances to handle on my own.”

“You said something about performing together,” I say.

His lips quirk. “I’d like to combine our efforts during the six signature performances.

With all the Crowns in attendance, the pressure is high and cutting tension is vital.

We control that atmosphere, see. Dance, like music, is transformative—an emotional experience they can share as one.

Through it, we can unite, we can soothe, we can excite.

And as soloists, we bear even more pressure.

But . . .” His gaze rakes down my legs, then up again, deliberate.

“This assumes we can actually work together.”

“You think we can’t?”

“In order to work with a partner, you must have two things: trust and abandon.” He folds his arms. “Trust is established through time, but I worry, Miss Moran. Are you capable of it?”

My defense snaps into place. “Of course I am—”

“With your life? Truly.”

I open my mouth, but his question digs into me, seeking cracks in the wall I’ve built. Is the person I’ve become capable of trust? Before, maybe, but when I think of the word now, my insides knot.

But how much trust would be expected of me for something so simple as a dance?

Before I can answer, he jerks his head. “Come here.”

He isn’t far, perhaps four steps away. I take three, despite the way my chest feels like it’s caging a hundred fluttering birds.

A strand of white-gold hair dips into his gaze as he looks down the tip of his nose at me. “Stand straight. Lock your knees.” I obey, and he taps my shoulders, swaying me to test my balance. I only just manage to resist tipping over.

Satisfied, he whispers, “Close your eyes.”

My eyelids fall shut, my skin clammy. Whatever this test, I won’t refuse it. He already saw my weakness. I must show him my resilience now.

Or perhaps I need to see it for myself.

“I visited the Carasian Mountains once,” he says, slipping a band around my eyes. His blindfold.

Breathe.

Don’t panic.

“It was a long time ago, during the great blizzard that lacquered ice across the roads in East Miridran for months,” he goes on. “With nothing better to do, I climbed Mount Carapet—by myself.”

The same mountain that King Anton fell from. Dizziness swirls over me, but I keep my feet rooted. I hear him circle me.

“There’s no feeling quite like standing on the edge of a cliff, the world unspooling beneath you in waves,” he says. I tilt my head, trying to discern his direction, but his voice is like wind, drifting from place to place.

Then he leans in, his breath stirring my hair. “Allow me to take you there.”

A chill stipples my skin and I press my palms to my leggings.

“The mountain is your throne,” he says from somewhere on my left.

“The snow-laden grass a carpet beneath your feet. The trees are your soldiers, your white knights, standing at attention. The birds are your trumpets, your announcers, and when you level your gaze with the horizon, it feels as if you’re flying alongside them. ”

I see it, this picture he draws for me. He stencils it word by word until I am there, my toes grazing the cliff ‘s edge, the wind—his breath—cool on my skin. He tells me what I hear, what I smell, the taste on my tongue.

“You belong here,” he says—a whisper, “with the world at your feet and leaves in your hair. You see the riverbed below, the wildlife. Deer prance freely, beckoning you to join them.” He’s to my right.

Or in front of me, perhaps, but I am lost to the vision.

“This is your kingdom after all; even the gale obeys your command. Go with them, Vasalie.”

I’m tempted to step from my perch, the urge overwhelming. He chooses then to issue a simple command into my ear, so gentle I almost miss it. “Now fall.”

He isn’t behind me. Distantly, I know this, but still I let my weight plummet backward—

He doesn’t catch me. My heart leaps into my throat, but then something light and soft—fabric?—lassos around my shoulders inches before I hit the ground, then lowers me until I’m flat on my back.

I rip the blindfold off.

An aerialist ribbon, it looks like. I scramble up, begrudgingly accepting the hand he offers me, dropping it once I’m steady. “I almost hit the ground!”

“But you didn’t.” His lips quirk, and he tosses the aerialist ribbon aside. “Well, Miss Moran, that certainly wasn’t trust. But you’re brave, and I can work with that. Abandon, however, is another matter.”

Abandon.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say, a slight jitter still working its way through my limbs.

“It means giving up your freedom, your instincts, your boundaries.” He narrows the space between us. “It means that you lend your partner a key to the areas you’ve locked away. It means you surrender everything you want, everything you are, in lieu of the dance.”

“And you want me to prove it.” Like his test of trust.

“Can you?” His smirk holds a dare.

I take my bottom lip between my teeth, then lean to grab the blindfold. “Not with words.”

His hand twitches at his side. I summon my courage and wrap the blindfold around my eyes, and before I can change my mind, I close the remaining distance, my chest pressed against his.

I draw in air, feeling his breath rise and fall with mine.

He sets a palm on my lower back. Energy crackles like wildfire, and yet I can read it, somehow. I can read him, sense what he wants.

I dip backward, head lolling to expose my throat. He supports me until I’m upside-down, my back a perfect arch, tendrils of hair grazing the floor. Then he’s over me, his breath hot on my neck, then my sternum, my stomach—

He wraps a hand around the back of my thigh.

Warmth skates over my skin as his fingers graze the soft skin behind my knee, lifting it to slide it over his shoulder. I take my weight onto my own hands, circling my other leg around his neck, and clutch my abdomen, preparing.

He swings me up in one quick motion.

Then I’m on his shoulders, his head against my stomach, and the air is thick, like fog.

I release the grip I have in his hair. He eases me down his chest until I’m sitting on his arms, my face in the crook of his neck.

For several seconds, we do not move.

Gently, he places me on my feet, steadying me when I sway. Then he unwinds my blindfold and stares at me. His mouth hangs open slightly, his locks splayed around his forehead. I’ve never done anything like that before. And his touch, the way it felt—

Heat licks my neck like the brush of a flame.

Until now, I hadn’t realized how much I craved someone’s touch.

But I’ve been alone for so, so long. The only physical contact I’ve had since prison, besides Brigitte’s fleeting comfort, was when the physician and Brigitte’s attendants examined me with their rough, calloused hands.

Even before, in Illian’s court, no one laid a finger on me save for his guards on the night I was arrested. And this . . .

It’s as if I’ve been sparked to life. As if I’ve awoken after years of slumber, feeling what I never thought I would again.

I feel alive. Connected to my body. I feel every urgent beat of my pulse, a frenzy and passion that zings beneath my skin.

In this moment, it’s even more prominent than my pain.

I feel wild, and brave, as if I could indeed jump from that cliff and survive.

I wonder if Copelan feels it, too.

I watch him watch me.

Thoughts pass through his gaze like sifting sand, and I wish he would release the words gathering on his tongue.

I let my hand fall to his chest, if only to feel the thundering heart beneath. He shudders beneath my touch.

But then he shakes his head as if to snap from a trance, rubbing a hand over his neck. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Practice rooms. Half past noon.”

My heart is still galloping when finally I reach my room, and it takes me several tries to fit my key into the lock.

My body still trembles, too, from weakness and exhilaration both.

I can’t erase the feel of Copelan’s hands on my skin or the gentle, warm strength that radiates from his presence.

I shudder out a breath, and that’s when I notice it.

An envelope sits on my bed.

I trot over on sore feet. The air stills in my lungs as I collect it and tug out the soft parchment. It’s in King Illian’s hand, and my eyes dart to the docks beyond my window, only his ship still isn’t there. I glance down, clamping my lip between my teeth as I read his words.

Rest well, Vasalie. You look like you need it.

I eagerly anticipate your first performance.