Page 23 of A Dance of Lies

Chapter Thirteen

I fall with Gustav, strength leaving me in a similar whoosh as my knees slam against the limestone floor.

Mind whirling, I shout for help—though my tongue is growing thick and ungainly in my mouth.

My heart is a hammer against my ribs. A blur of guests rush over.

Gustav’s eyes peel open, but they’re foggy, like breath against glass.

Then Anton is there, a commotion of shadows crowding around us.

He drops to hold Gustav’s face, then bellows, “Get my physician. And water—now!”

Gustav mumbles something. I pale as I notice his ashen face. I long to reassure him, to tell him that he will be all right, but I can’t shape the words in my mouth—

Shouts scatter my thoughts. Anton, barking commands.

A servant hastens over with a pitcher of water, only to stumble, trip.

It sluices over the king. The servant apologizes profusely, whisking a large rag from his apron, dropping to pat the king dry while another rushes forward with more water.

Again, a blinding pain knots beneath my ribs, and I find my gaze catching on the first servant.

Long hair, bound at the nape, a mole underneath his left eye.

Blood freezes in my veins.

I’ve seen him in Illian’s court. I know I have. He’s one of Illian’s attendants. With his rag, he dabs the king’s chest, arms, but Anton is too distracted, too focused on Gustav.

I force myself to concentrate, and that’s when I notice it. Something underneath the rag, though I can’t see what. The king shakes him off. “Where in the souls-damned palace is Karis?”

“Here!”

A woman swathed in white breaks through the commotion. A physician, I think. She ambles to Gustav’s side while the servant makes his escape. But before he leaves the room, our eyes lock.

There’s a glint in his gaze, one I don’t think I’m imagining as he tucks a ring-sized box into his pocket, discarding the rag.

Something just happened, something I should have caught, but my vision shuts down as he vanishes around a bend, the tumult of the room pulling my focus in a swirl—the effects of the poison overtaking me at last. King Illian’s voice—no, it’s his brother.

He’s saying my name, but I can’t see anything, disoriented as I am—

Lights cloud into haze. Haze fades to black.

Warm, buttery light caresses my cheeks.

I squirm, wiggling between soft sheets and softer pillows.

Any minute now, I’ll hear Emilia’s voice demanding I rise this instant because my breakfast is getting cold and she spent all morning making my favorite almond cakes.

Not to mention, I’m most definitely late for my lessons.

Emilia will tell me she’ll have no choice but to hire a governess if I can’t be on time.

I know it’s a lie. She loves telling stories, which is what the lessons become anyway until she dozes off in her chair like the elderly.

But everything is quiet. No mountain birds chitter lovingly against the eaves; no singing trills from the gap underneath my door.

I crack open my eyes. The world around me is hazy but bright, as if I’m peering through sunlit clouds, like the ones that sometimes scalloped across my balcony back home, high as we were. But it isn’t my stone-gray walls or the low-lit hearth across from my bed.

I bolt upright.

“Careful,” cautions a voice, deep and soothing.

Laurent lifts a hand to my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened? Where am I?” My mind gallops, careening me back to the last moment I remember. Gustav on the floor, Anton shouting—

“It’s all right,” Laurent assures me. “You, my sweet, are in a guest room in King Anton’s wing. The physician just left.”

King Anton. His wing. I take in my surroundings: the bed, sage-green, quilted silk with feather-soft pillows. An azure velvet wing-back chair. Along the wall, gauzy curtains shift in a sea-kissed breeze. I press a palm to my pounding head. “Gustav—”

“Is alive, ” Laurent assures me. “But not well. Poisoned, we believe, and it looks like you were, too. It was in the wine.” He swipes his knuckles against my forehead. “You’ve been battling a fever all night. We gave you a concoction, but it might not have taken effect yet—”

“Will he make it?”

“Gustav?” He lets out a breath. “He will be fine, as will you. But it may take a few days for the worst of it to pass. You’ll notice yellow splotches on your skin here and there, but they will fade gradually over the next week or so as your body detoxes.”

I let out a breath, though worry still clings. “May I see him?”

My plan was, in part, selfish, but I’d hoped .

. . foolishly, I’d hoped that it would work twofold.

If I drank a measure of the poison first, they wouldn’t suspect me.

But more important, I’d hoped it would save Gustav’s life if he didn’t consume the full dose.

Bellamira works that way; unlike other poisons, it’s quick to take effect but slow to cause real harm.

With a lesser portion, your body has a fighting chance.

It was all I could think of to save him.

As for King Illian, I completed his task. I poisoned Gustav. He never said he had to die. And if he discovers I’ve been poisoned, too, I’ll tell him it was to throw suspicion off me.

“I’m afraid not,” Laurent responds. “No one can until we get to the bottom of this. King’s orders.”

I hide my fidgeting hands underneath the silk-lined sheets. “Who could have done this?”

“I don’t know, though it seems Gustav was the mark, not you. Try not to fret.”

A sour sort of relief pools within me. I should leave it alone. And yet—“Why would anyone want to harm him?”

“Could be anything. He’s close to His Majesty, for one, and he governs all the glass exports.”

I pull my lip between my teeth, recalling Anton’s speech from last night. That strange device in his turret. Gustav is an inventor, like his king. An innovator. Perhaps even more.

“When you are well enough to leave, His Majesty asks that you not speak of the matter. Happenings such as this can send the entire Gathering into a panic, and we might never catch the culprit.”

A memory blinks into my vision. The servant with the rag—a face I had recognized. I try to grasp onto it, but murkiness wraps around my mind, muting my thoughts.

Perhaps I had merely imagined it.

I press my palms to my eyes. I should be relieved; they think I’m innocent. But an uncomfortable feeling crawls over my skin, like an itch I can’t scratch. Like I’m missing something.

“Vasalie,” Laurent says, tugging my hands from my face and giving them a gentle squeeze. “I take care of my staff. No harm will befall you while I’m here.”

His promise is so sweet my heart aches. I cling to his hands, then pull him into a hug. His scent—cloves and juniper—envelops me in a cocoon of comfort and warmth. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have a friend. I haven’t had one in a very long time.

Because Copelan isn’t a friend. Time with him is like scaling a cliff, navigating rocky terrain in hopes of a rewarding view.

And often I find it, high on his shoulders, his hands tight on my waist. But I don’t understand the thing between us, the feeling I get when he’s around—aside from his frustration and my fear and all the ways they tangle together.

I pull from Laurent’s embrace, a reminder of why I’m here souring my stomach. Whatever friendship exists between us, it’s a lie. I don’t deserve him.

He hands me a lukewarm cup of tea, a slight grin on his lips. “Copelan has agreed to help watch over you. Just in case.”

I choke on my tea.

That’s the last thing I need. He’s already upset with me, not to mention suspicious—especially after my behavior in the garden. “That isn’t necessary,” I say. “I—”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Laurent says.

I breathe out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “He won’t be happy about this.”

“I’m not.”

I go rigid at the sound of Copelan’s voice. And it should come as no surprise when I find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, sporting that ever-present scowl.

Laurent chuckles at the terror on my face. “Do you feel well enough to walk?”

My hair is a mess of tangles. Swiping it back, I inhale steadily and try to rise, but it’s like I spent the night with my head in a cup, drinking until my veins pumped wine.

Laurent steadies me. “Let her rest for a few days,” he tells Copelan. “That’s an order.” I’m not sure which of them has more authority in my case, but with Laurent’s tone, I doubt Copelan will argue.

“I’ll take her to her room,” Copelan says. His expression is stern, almost menacing.

I frown.

He isn’t going to do what I think he is. Surely he isn’t.

“I’ll make it on my own,” I start, but he leans down, scooping me into his arms. All at once, his scent overwhelms me—musk, sandal-wood. I hate how comforting it is, now that I’m so accustomed to it. To him.

Even so, I protest his carrying me, which he ignores as he marches us through Anton’s chambers. Voices fan out, and then the king himself is standing there, blocking the entryway, divvying instructions among his guards.

His eyes lock onto mine and my face blazes with heat, as if I’ve somehow been caught in a compromising position.

“She agrees to your terms, Sire,” Copelan says, dipping us both in a quick bow. “She will keep silent. Won’t you, Miss Moran?”

I don’t miss the warning in his voice.

“Yes, Your Maj—”

Copelan sweeps me past the guards and through the doors, then through one arc pass and another.

I feel like deadweight in his arms, but he parades on as if I’m as light as a wisp until finally we reach my room.

He swings open my door, deposits me on my bed, then yells to someone outside.

“Bring chamomile tea and bread, maybe some fruit.”

But I just want to sleep.

The bed dips as he sits beside me. “Tell me this is a coincidence,” he says, searching my face. “Tell me you had nothing to do with the poisoning.”