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Chapter Seven

C opelan and I practice for several hours over the next week. We speak not with words but through gestures. Dance. It seems more is said this way.

I’m getting to know him by the way he moves.

He is respectful, patient, but never shy, and he expects the same of me. I rise to the occasion. I let him test me, evaluate me. He finds all the ways I can bend and shape and balance; I am a doll in his hands.

He might not say it, but I know I don’t meet his expectations.

Though I’m stronger than before, my strength doesn’t return in full.

We’ve cut our practice short more than once when it vanishes altogether, the exertion sapping my stamina embarrassingly fast. A thought hovers in the back of my mind like a phantom: I was broken apart, and now I wonder if, despite my earlier resolve, some things cannot be repaired.

But I don’t dare give voice to it. I want to believe that with enough work, enough practice, I can become again what I was.

But it’s my ideas that Copelan craves, so I don’t temper them. If my creativity can keep me in this game, I’ll give it freely. He approves everything I ask for: crushed diamonds, gold flakes. Pots for steam. Rolls of taffeta, satin, tulle, and silk damask. Dyes—

which Laurent orders, who seems to relish my ideas just as much. He spends any spare time he can with me and the seamstresses, sewing and planning.

It makes Illian’s first task effortless.

Laurent is as open and cheery as a bouquet of freshly bloomed daisies.

If anything, he’s become a friend, and despite my guilt, I let myself enjoy his company.

Together, we craft everything from costumes to fans to crowns fashioned from dyed, painted coral until the day of the Welcoming arrives at last.

Each of the six signature performances will pay homage to the largest kingdoms in attendance save Miridran: Kasim, with its intricate, historical architecture and benevolent council; Razam, known for its fierce queen and notable developments in alchemy and astronomy; Serai, with its Sovereign Lord and colorful textile exports; and lastly, Zar, a country with lush farmlands and bountiful harvest.

Tonight’s signature performance, however, will honor Brisendale, the northernmost country that spans the entire continent across the sea.

The Brisendali ships arrived late yesterday afternoon.

There are six in total: four for their court and two for their king and his envoy.

As soon as amber sunlight catches their sapphire flags, I turn from the window, a sharp, familiar pain sliding between my ribs.

It was the Brisendali mountains I’d imagined during Copelan’s test of faith.

Those cliffs, verdant and ivory-frosted, farms and crofts nestled among their valleys—they were home.

I close my eyes, and for a moment I am back, perched on my rooftop balcony, that sapphire flag threading into the wind above my head.

Emilia is next to me, her ash-blond hair piled atop her head in a mass of neatly pinned curls, her gown falling in velvet-soft pleats that match the gloves I love so much.

She’s ready to host one of my father’s banquets, and I know she’ll take me with her and show me what to do, how to act, not because she expects me to but because we’ll suffer together, then share gossip late into the night, doing our impressions of every pompous, half-drunk noble.

We’ll laugh, and I’ll think, not for the first time, that I’d give anything to be like her when I grow up.

Then I remember I’m grown, the vision isn’t real, and this is what’s become of me.

I force down a few bites of salted meat and olives, then lace my silver gown around me and fasten the ties, ignoring the queasy ripple of my stomach. Laurent’s familiar knock comes a moment later—two raps in quick succession. I call him inside.

“Marvelous,” he says, arms swinging wide as his smile.

“All thanks to you,” I say, and mean it. Without him, my costume would not be half as grand. Tulle and lace, yes, but no pearl adornments, no silver embroidery. He’s skilled with his hands, and he knows it; he’s made an innuendo about it more than once.

“Nonsense! The costume is a mere ornament, a prelude to the talent beneath.” He spins me this way and that. “If you were my type, love, I’d have dropped dead on sight.”

That coaxes a small smile from my lips. He makes me feel as if I’m here by choice. “I think everyone will be too busy looking at you,” I counter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d peg you as royalty.”

Especially now, with the sunset gilding his deep, burnished skin, his tall, lithe form well-showcased in a new outfit: a sleeveless garment scalloped in silver trim, matching the diamond shade of his eyes—which I notice are dusted beneath with gold.

He does a little shimmy at that. “Let’s go charm the pants off some royals, then, shall we?”

I hold back a wince at the thought of attracting a Crown like Illian, or perhaps someone worse. Even so, I link my arm with his. “Only if you escort me. Perhaps I can scout for whoever might be your type?” In a courtier, that is.

“Ah, even if I could manage a dalliance around my schedule, I’d have to know what my type is.

And I am still very much figuring that out.

” He pauses, head tilting. “I seem to think personality is what attracts me most, and it’s usually a mischievous, troublesome one at that.

But a set of dimples and a curvaceous form never fails to draw my eye, no matter who it is. ”

“One can admire aesthetics for many reasons,” I say. “Ones that are not sexual, too, for that matter.”

Not enough people acknowledge that, I think.

But as he ferries me down an ivory hall ornamented in mosaics, Laurent is pulled away. I continue on alone, missing his strength.

Twice, I pause on the arc pass, barely managing to keep the food in my stomach. It crawls with nerves and whatever else is wrong with me, and as I take in a shuddering breath, I let the fading sunlight ghost over my skin. I wonder what Emilia felt being here amid all this splendor.

She would have felt exhilarated, I imagine. Excited. I wish I could feel that, too.

Instead, sadness swells inside me like sickness.

I know I’m fortunate to be here, in a seaside palace that looks like a dream, a chance at freedom within my grasp. And so far, people here have been kind. But any friendships I form are built on lies. I am here because of Illian, who will be watching me, as he so zealously reminded me.

And whatever he asks of me, I will do.

The Dome Hall is unlike anything I’ve seen.

The dome itself is stained sea glass, the columns and surrounding ceiling plastered and frescoed into a multi-dimensional cloudscape.

The floors are an alabaster stone, rough beneath my slippers, and there are no walls.

Rather, open Palladian arches encircle the space, a fresh ocean breeze rustling the tablecloths anchored by large candles.

The only exception is the double doors at the far end, hewed like the wings of a swan.

I linger on the other side, hidden by a divider backstage as the room crowds with an array of courtiers from every corner and crevice of the north.

The expanse itself is arranged into sections, or lounges, with divans and chaises surrounding low-set tables, all positioned to face the open, clear center.

In minutes, the room will hold the most powerful figures in the Crowns’ Syndicate.

Servants swerve between columns, delivering flutes of hibiscus-infused champagne. Musicians test their instruments—everything from bowed lyres to hammered dulcimers, flutes to cellos—and as the sun slumps beneath the horizon, they blend together as one.

Conversation dims.

The announcer takes his place.

And slowly, the winged double doors open.

First enters the Lord Sovereign of Serai—a tall, lithe man crowned in red stalagmites, his ebony skin a match to his woven regalia.

He’s escorted by two equally tall men swathed in colorful garments and beads, their faces veiled.

They veer left, to where the Serain court reclines in the most vibrant assortment of colors.

I’m not surprised; their widely sought after textile trade spans the whole world, including the discordant southern nations not a part of the Crowns’ Syndicate.

After them, three other large processions sweep through, starting with Zar, an island that doesn’t have a king, but instead a prince whose law dictates him too young to be crowned for another year.

Kasim is next, whose ruling council enters together, consisting of their sultan and three ministers.

And finally, the Karithian islands—a thriving archipelago of smaller nations northwest of Miridran, represented by several lieges.

The melody then shifts into an anthem I know all too well as King Rurik of Brisendale stalks inside.

I don’t realize how tense I am until Copelan breaks my concentration with a hand on my waist, only to notice the way I’ve bunched my fists. He peels them apart, finding the welts I’ve created. “What’s this?”

“Nerves,” I answer, but it’s only partly true.

He follows my gaze, to where King Rurik takes his place among the Brisendali court, and nods. “We’ll especially want to please them.”

It makes sense. Brisendale, commonly called the Beast of the North, is the largest and most influential nation next to Miridran.

Not only do they supply ninety percent of the weapons across the northern nations thanks to rare metals found in their mountains—half the north is deeply indebted to them for it—but their army is unmatched.

Twice the size of Miridran’s, if not larger.

At least they’ve kept to themselves despite the rumored appeals from the southern lands to encroach on Razam’s territory.