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Chapter Nine

B reakfast presents itself in platters arranged along the narrow tables of the dining hall.

I skip the fruit and head for the cheese, layering it on a small loaf of bread with Brisendali plum conserve, despite knowing I won’t manage more than a few bites.

But I can’t resist. It reminds me of home. Of Emilia.

But before I can sit, Copelan catches my eye and jerks his head toward the door. I groan inwardly, abandoning my food to follow after him as he lopes down the hall until it empties into a secluded garden somewhere in the center of the palace.

Hyacinth vines lattice the outer walls, the petals so vivid they could make for a perfect dye.

A fresh, cool breeze gathers their perfume, funneling it around us along with a flurry of petals and fallen leaves.

The Dome Hall looms high above, its stained glass canopy diffusing the early sun into glitter.

Copelan halts in an alcove next to a trickling fountain, pushing a hand through his hair before spinning to face me.

“I should have you removed.” An angry flush splotches his neck and cheeks. “You’ve given me not one, not two, but multiple reasons to throw you out.”

He’s right, of course. I dismissed his rules and involved a Crown, no less. I touched King Anton without permission, and I could have caused a grievous offense on Miridran’s behalf toward Brisendale. Worse, Copelan found me in what he assumed was a stupor last night.

“I know,” I admit. “You have every right, and you probably should.”

He glares at me, hard, a ray of sun limning his eyes. “So you agree?”

It’s more than anger, I realize. He’s actually upset, and it startles me.

I lean against a trellis, idly plucking a nearby leaf.

It’s not that we’ve grown close, exactly, but we opened up to each other in a way.

I suppose it’s hard to avoid when everything we do is physical, intimate in a way others wouldn’t understand, our proximity demanding a level of vulnerability I hadn’t expected.

I’ve felt every hard plane of his body; he’s touched every curve of mine.

A strange kind of connection pulls taut between us, however new.

Still, I don’t know him, not really. And he certainly doesn’t know me.

But if I want to stay here, I have to offer him something real.

So I hand him a partial truth steeped in the same vulnerability he expects of my dance.

“I wanted to make an impression. I made the wrong one, but I saw an opportunity and I acted; it’s the only way I know how to perform.

Otherwise, I am lost. Forgotten. Swept aside for those who are more trained, more practiced.

I only ever succeed when I take a risk.”

A memory contours in my vision—the time I first performed for Illian. I was meant to dance in the background, a backdrop for Esmée Fontaine, the prodigy who everyone knew was his favorite for a time—until she lost her position for some unknown reason.

Wanting to reclaim her place, Esmée struck a deal with Odette, the owner of the Melune, to draw Illian back to the theater by way of a grand production. His presence alone would sell out the place, and Esmée might evoke his interest once more.

And draw him she did, but not before rehearsing with the Melune’s dancers—which by then included me—in the weeks prior.

Next to Esmée, I’d never felt so small. Or so in awe. She reminded me of a lynx, all lithe poise and strength. Even the more experienced dancers were intimidated by her, keeping far away as if her proximity would reveal all their flaws.

On the evening of the performance, lines ringed our small theater. When the king himself arrived, he settled into a private loge carved just to the left of the stage, almost at eye level.

Like everyone else, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Esmée.

Short hair dipped across one sultry eye, with a black fringe that matched the dark, sparkling dress short enough to reveal her thighs.

She was powerful, graceful. A seductress claiming her ground.

Even I couldn’t divert my attention from all the ways she twisted and contorted into unfathomable shapes, the way clay bends beneath a sculptor’s careful hands.

That is, until Esmée bent forward and took her weight on her hands, her chin level with the floor.

With impressive strength, she hoisted her feet above her head, lowering her legs until her toes dangled above her eyes.

I’d never seen anything like it—just like I’d never heard anything like it when her wrist snapped to the side.

The show came to a halt. A physician rushed onto the stage.

Odette would have lost a fortune that night refunding the tickets.

Odette, who took me in, who permitted me to live there, free of charge.

Odette, who allowed me onstage. That would have been reason enough for what I did.

But selfishly, I’d known this was my chance, and if I ever wanted to emerge from the background, I had to seize it.

So I ran, gathered all my savings. Within minutes, I had thrust my satchel of quatra at the composer, along with my request to continue, while Esmée was carefully removed from the stage.

The curtains did not close.

I had only watched Esmée’s rehearsals; I’d never practiced her choreography. I picked up where she left off regardless, expecting the king to have grown aggravated and left.

But when my eyes lifted to his box, I found him there, observing me with sparkling intensity.

And it wasn’t a frown on his lips—far from it.

It was a smile, sharp and dangerous, all teeth.

So I continued, praying the dancers would join in as if I were Esmée.

A single shaft of light homed in on me, shadowing everyone but him.

Under his preening attention, I lost myself.

My body moved as if pulled by a string while my mind placed me where it always did while I danced: in that small, elevated valley behind my home, guarded by emerald pines, the sweep of peaks setting my stage.

If I glanced up, I’d see Emilia in the kitchen window, grinning. My own heart lifted with a smile.

I focused on that joy. Channeled it, until a collaborative hush drew me from my reverie, and I found King Illian himself standing mere feet away.

He was younger then, in his early twenties. His curls were loose, longer, and his frame thinner. But he had the same cutthroat eyes, piercing and depthless. That same head tilt whenever he saw something he liked. “You are bold,” he’d said, “to presume you are fit to take Miss Fontaine’s place.”

An apology formed in my throat, but I caged it in. I would be proud.

Odette rushed onstage, fell into a bow, profuse apologies tumbling from her lips. But Illian merely lifted a hand, his eyes still gripping mine. “I like bold,” he’d said.

He’d sauntered away after that, leaving us in a wake of confusion.

The next morning, Odette delivered my invitation to the palace, and the day after, I found myself with an offer.

The role was small at first; I would alternate with his other dancers.

But the pay was twice what the performers at the Melune earned, and six times what I collected for helping Odette sew and mend their costumes.

I had chanced my savings, every coin I’d saved from hours of work, for a fool’s shot at capturing Illian’s attention. I’d risked not only my position at the Melune but in all West Miridran.

And I became something great.

A deep sigh pulls me from the past. Copelan rakes a hand through his flaxen locks yet again.

“I went to clean up your mess,” he says.

“I met with both the Brisendali court and His Majesty, King Anton, who informed me he had graciously fixed it himself, for some unknown reason. So perhaps you found some excuse he bought, but it doesn’t change the fact that you broke the rules and negated my role, risking not only your reputation but mine. ”

His words tumble over me like a rockslide, and my gaze dips to my hands. He is right; I hadn’t thought about how it might affect him. I don’t want him to have to pay for what I’ve done, even knowing I can’t afford to care.

“Furthermore, King Anton has requested your presence tonight for his banquet,” Copelan says, “and apparently I’ve no choice but to allow you to go. Consider yourself fortunate, Vasalie, that I cannot yet kick you out.”

“Would you,” I hedge, “if you could?”

He looks at me, exasperated. “I should.”

With a fingernail, I sunder the leaf in my palm, prying it apart in strands. “Why did you really let me into the Crowns’ Gathering? You didn’t want another solo dancer.”

The wind picks up, combing through the garden, feathering his hair. He runs a hand down his jaw, then angles away, as if the words are knotted inside him.

I rest a palm on his shoulder.

He tenses beneath my fingertips but does not shake me off.

Finally, he says, “I am calculated, precise. Cautious. And it limits me. But you . . . you are my opposite. You came to me injured, yet your determination hasn’t faltered.

I doubt other dancers have half your resilience.

And there’s something about the way you spin ideas, the way your mind works.

It’s contagious. You’re contagious.” He takes a breath, as if to say something more, only to release it again.

I’m so thrown off-kilter, I feel as if the world is a tide moving beneath my feet.

No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Compliments have been lavished on me in the past, but they were always tied to my physicality. My sensuality. Not my mind.

I can’t help but notice the way Copelan’s fingers flex, almost as if he might reach for me. And when he wets his lips, holding my gaze, the air stills in my lungs. The moment seems to freeze, like a petal caught in the air. I don’t understand the admiration pinned in his amber-flecked gaze.