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Chapter Twelve

G ustav swings back inside the room, swathes of gossamer fluttering behind him. “Vasalie, won’t you join us?”

I force out a timid smile. “Apologies, My Lord. This is all so . . . overwhelming.”

He shakes his head. “Should be a more common occurrence, yes?” He swoops his glass from the table, then offers an arm to help me up.

I take it, my poisoned glass in hand. We ease through the curtains, but I halt on the steps, bracing myself against a column.

At first, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Colors splinter across every surface, dancing up the walls and bright as sunlight. It’s as if I’m peering at the world through a prism. I reach out, letting shades of light and color play across my palm, glittering like dew.

I feel like I’m in a dream.

Below, large cushions are clustered across the floor, everyone lazing about and gazing upward, as if picking out constellations in the night sky.

“Rather stupendous, no?” someone says, voice skimming my ear. I startle, only to find King Anton leaning against the other side of the column.

“What exactly is it?” I ask, steadying myself so as not to spill the wine.

Despite the flakes of color and light, it’s dark, and I can only vaguely make out his expression. “Look up. In the center,” he says.

I follow his direction. Above, several panes of sea glass hang suspended like an enormous wind chime.

“It’s refracting the light,” Gustav says, joining us. He gestures toward the wall, where two brass tubes, lit inwardly by torches, focus beams of light toward the display.

“Is this the invention?” I whisper, but Gustav shakes his head.

“Shh, here comes the best part,” King Anton says, teeth flashing.

It’s then that I notice the figures beneath, holding strings connected to the blades of sea glass above. They twist, angle, and the sculpture above twirls with them. Light bends around and around, a tessellation of kaleidoscopic shapes—

A scene builds along the walls before my eyes.

It’s fuzzy at first, warped, but then it comes into focus until I can see it clearly: a range of mountains quilted in green, split by a curtain of water that pools at the base of a valley.

Above, a swirl of clouds cuts into an iridescent moon. A breath looses from my lips.

Because this . . . it’s impossible. An image created with light. I blink as if it might vanish, but it does not. The music swells, setting the scene, even as applause explodes around me.

“Come with me,” King Anton whispers into my ear. He grabs my hand as freely as I took his during my dance, the band of his signet ring like ice against my palm.

“Your Majesty,” I say, frantic, as he pulls me toward an archway at the far end of the room. I can’t abandon my task, can’t risk Gustav leaving. I had a plan, but—“I shouldn’t leave. At least, not without offering my farewell—”

His eyes cut toward mine, brow arching. I soften my features, hoping to mask my panic.

“I won’t keep you long,” he says after a moment, then tugs me along.

I have no choice but to oblige. He leads me underneath the archway, ease in his posture.

At some point, he’d donned a fine, pewter surcoat belted at the waist. His dark hair looks effortless, his jaw smooth and angular, as if shaped by a chisel.

He’s irrefutably beautiful in all the ways Illian is, which sets me even more on edge.

Like a decorative cake, strung with pearls, layered in gold leaf. Inedible. Poison, should you try.

Poison.

Worry gnaws at my mind even more now. I don’t know what King Anton intends, but I suspect it has something to do with the promise he made. He wants to unearth my secrets. I clutch the stem of my glass, aware that every step leads me farther from Gustav.

Breathe, I remind myself. He might interrogate me, but perhaps I can learn something in return.

He releases my free hand, but still I follow him, finding myself in a narrow hall hedged in glass, the night sky dripping with stars above. The floor is pure, hammered gold, reflecting the color of my dress like a ripple of water.

I can’t help but compare Miridran with my home.

Miridran showcases its wealth like a trophy, like each belonging is a prize meant for a pedestal.

Illian’s palace was proof, what with the diamond-encrusted garniture and artwork alone.

And while his brother is certainly of a different variety, the extravagance of this place is overwhelming, exaggerated at every corner.

Miridranians follow the examples set by their kings.

They spend their lives hoarding as much as they can, measuring success with riches and the size of their vaults.

I fell into that trap. Before Illian shucked me off like a garment he soiled, I collected paintings, jewelry. Trinkets. Anything I found tempting. Yet, in the end, my belongings offered me nothing when it mattered most.

Brisendale values a different kind of wealth.

Wealth is the protection of tradition, values, and people.

Back home, there are no lavishly gilded palaces or treasure rooms stocked full of jewels.

We build fortresses. Barracks. Keeps. We craft weapons and armor and big thick walls.

We make them with our strongest metals and stones until we’re sure nothing can break through.

The Beast of the North, they call us—and not just because of our numerous armies but because the whole of our land is wrought in steel and stone like a mythical dragon with scales of bone.

I pause, noticing the way King Anton’s shoulders are shaking. A peculiar sound escapes him, almost like a wheeze before he clears his throat.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s laughing.

At me.

And only when I resume my tread do I realize why. The wooden heels of my slippers clank against the golden floor like the clap of a gong. I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t noticed the music had faded away. A hot blush swarms my cheeks.

He is, of course, still grinning. “I’d pay for your thoughts just now.”

“I was merely admiring the view, Your Majesty,” I say, afraid of where he might be leading me.

“Ah, yes. I’ve been told I’m quite spectacular.”

He pulls me through another arch before I can reply.

We’re in a turret now, one open to the night. A gentle wind soughs through its columns, bearing the scent of sea and salt. At the edge is a cylindrical structure standing on wooden limbs, a tube at the top protruding eastward, toward the ocean. It almost looks like a spyglass, albeit much larger.

The king releases my hand. “There’s an eyepiece on the narrow end of the tube. Give it a try.”

Curiosity wins. Setting my glass on the ledge, I peer inside, only to find myself looking at . . . “The heavens, ” I breathe. “The stars, they’re bright—bigger and bulbous. And the moon—”

“Here,” he says, tilting the device down just so, to where the ocean fans out like crinkled silk.

It comes into sharp focus, and I can see it up close.

Sea-foam froths over the waves like lace, spume shifting gently with the tide.

Sprays of water gush over rocks. Night gulls flutter against its surface, dipping to wet their beaks.

“What . . . is this thing?”

“I haven’t decided on a name yet. Nothing quite fits,” he muses. “Gustav wants to call it a Looker. Gustav is bad at names.”

“Even so, it’s astounding,” I say. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I feel similarly about your performance, Miss Moran.”

And there it is, the reason he brought me here. I straighten, releasing the contraption. “Then why am I not performing this evening, Sire?”

“Oh, but you are performing.” He folds his arms, gray velvet pulling tight against his shoulders. “Right now. Are you not?”

I bite my lip, angling back toward the device. I know what he’s insinuating. But I say, “I’m meant to entertain through movement, not conversation.”

“I disagree,” he says, tossing me a lazy smile. “I think you’re equally skilled at both. Modesty is unnecessary here.”

“Is that why you invited me? So you could question me until you can fabricate answers where there are none?”

Bold. That was too bold.

“Answers? Of course I want them. Can you blame me? But I have other reasons as well.”

“Such as . . . ?” I let my fingers slide along the tube. It’s cool against my touch, sending shivers along my arms.

“You aren’t from my court. I’d certainly know about you if you were.” A shrug. “Thought you might enjoy a taste of the East.”

“And this gown?” It must be expensive. Why bother?

“Carefully selected and paid for, just like you.”

I lift my gaze.

He believes someone is paying me off. He had hinted as much after my dance.

He might as well be right.

His eyes are dark in the low light, shadowed, and here he looks so much like Illian that it unsettles me.

It’s in the arch of his brows, that all-seeing gaze, the way it feels as if he’s raking hands over me, twisting and turning me without the barest touch.

I don’t dare let my gaze flick to my glass, there on the ledge.

But I can’t appear as if I’m hiding something, so I unknot the lump in my throat and unclench my sweat-slicked fist. He misses nothing, eyes dipping to my hands.

I swipe them against my skirt, idly reaching for my glass. “Would anything convince you that I merely wished to impress you when I pulled you into that dance?”

He smiles, and any hint of Illian vanishes. “If I thought you’d tell me the truth, I would ask.”

“Then we are at an impasse, Your Majesty.”

“It was confirmation I sought, Miss Moran. My brother has been seeking an invitation to one of my receptions for some time now; souls, he’s attempted with several others. Pretty cooks, half-dressed noblewomen, the like. But you . . . you are exceptional. I had a difficult time denying you.”

His words splay between us, a truth I hadn’t anticipated. My pulse careens—a bird taking flight.