Page 3

Chapter Three

T hree weeks pass and I’m still not convinced I’ve escaped.

There was nothing more the physician could do for me, so after another day of sleep, I was given a room in Illian’s private wing, one floor below his apartments.

It’s quiet, secluded. The only other resident is Brigitte, whose room is just a few doors down.

My own room is modest and altogether too bright. White walls, stark against the dark swathes of curtains, the windows always open to let in the first rays of dawn.

This morning is like any other. Brigitte, who I’ve learned is Illian’s chief attendant, sets aside my morning tonic, then wrestles my nightgown over my head, carting me to the adjoining bathing chamber where additional attendants wait.

I’m scrubbed until my skin is pruned and raw.

I soak for long minutes, and then I’m lifted out, dried, and handed back to Brigitte, who lathers expensive salves over my lingering scars.

“They’ll get better,” she tells me. “Time is a great healer.”

I almost hope they don’t. I want King Illian to see the reminders every time he looks at me.

After the ablutions, Brigitte joins me for breakfast and tea at a small table nested against the window.

Too slowly, I am adjusting to regular food again, but I rarely handle it well.

More than once, I’ve doubled over, spilling the contents of my stomach across the floor, her dress, my clothes.

They’ve learned the hard way that I cannot touch a slab of dried meat, can’t stomach so much as a ration of rye, even—the foods that barely sustained me in that fates-forsaken cell.

Now, I pry apart a pastry, letting my stomach settle between each bite.

“He asks after your progress,” Brigitte says, regarding me through a ribbon of steam.

I haven’t seen the king since the day he had me dragged from my cell, though I’ve sensed him in the shadows. A presence beyond the doorway, eager to look in.

“And?” I ask dryly. Surely she’s told him the truth.

That after two years in that cell, my muscles have warped and deteriorated, and even after everything they’ve tried to speed up my recovery—all the stretching and exercising the physician prescribed—I haven’t been able to dance.

Not really. Not aside from basic routines fit for a child.

A simple spin.

A pitiful leap.

It had taken me a week to even walk a straight line for more than a few seconds without my heart jittering, the world spinning beneath my feet.

Another week to twirl without toppling halfway through.

Even now, I can’t move without the rush of dizziness, the currents of pain that extend from my waist down to my toes.

How hopeless I must seem. Perhaps she’s ready to give up on me. This deal, this supposed second chance, is nothing but a cruel joke.

Brigitte looks out the window, a furrow crumpling her middle-aged face. Her knuckles turn white as she clutches her cup. “I tell him to be patient. Nevertheless, you must perform for him before you leave for Anell, and that time is soon, my dear. Not five weeks away.”

And if I fail to prove that I’m capable of performing at the Gathering, he will send me back to that cell. I swallow against the bile creeping up my throat.

Brigitte tilts the teacup to her lips.

I crash mine into its saucer. “Why me?”

Why now, and why like this?

It startles us both, and Brigitte throws a hand over her chest, taking a breath before meeting my gaze.

I know she can’t tell me; I know Illian has a tight grip on everyone in his service.

Still, I survey her expression, the strain in her eyes, until—finally—she says, “I don’t know, child. I wish that I did.”

There must be some twisted reason he’s going through the trouble to prepare me instead of another dancer.

But then I think of my desperation to escape his dungeon.

He knows I won’t risk my freedom, and I have learned the price of his displeasure.

He thinks he has sculpted me into his ideal instrument, each crack deliberately crafted.

“What is he planning?”

She takes a breath. Wood creaks outside the door, and her mouth snaps shut.

Still, she manages a shake of her head. She doesn’t know.

Of course she doesn’t—and if she did, she wouldn’t reveal it.

But another question addles my mind. A pointless, ridiculous question, but I can’t help but wonder. Who replaced me?

Who has become his new Jewel?

Someone lovely, I’m sure. Someone he doesn’t want to tarnish with whatever task he plans for me. Still, I want to know. I want to see her, question her.

Does he look at her the way he looked at me?

Does he promenade with her in the gardens under the silvering moon like we used to? Do they spend hours talking, laughing, gossiping? Does he confide in her the way he used to confide in me?

Has he shared his plans with her?

An idea knits together in my mind.

My appetite only allows for a few bites.

After choking them down along with another herbal tonic stocked with nutrients, I push away the tray and climb back into bed, ignoring the exhale from the other end of the table.

Only when Brigitte leaves the room do I rise, gingerly slipping from the sheets.

Once the lightheadedness eases just enough, I pull on my leggings and tunic, gather my curls into a loose plait, and exit my room.

This wing of the palace is quiet, but the halls have eyes. Guards are everywhere, observing me each time I stagger from my room. They witness every stumble, every pause, the way I often halt after several steps until the dizziness passes, all while pretending I don’t exist.

But I’m no fool. I know they report my actions to Illian, and any one of them would strike me down at his slightest whim. Just like before.

I wonder, then, if he’ll order them to punish me for what I’m about to do.

Ruby curtains cascade down the walls in tufts, spilling onto the checkered floor.

Alcoves in mahogany panels reveal more statues like the one in Illian’s office: depictions of the Fate of Morta or her supposed prophets, sunlight pooling in their open palms, quartz glimmering in their too-bright eyes.

The sheer extravagance of this palace brings back a rush of feelings I’m not prepared for.

I’d always had an appreciation for it—the vaulted, frescoed ceilings like those found in a cathedral, the jewel-encrusted garniture and drapery, as if diamonds were as cheap as quarry rocks.

It was a promise of what I might take for myself, what I could earn from my hard work.

Now, it’s a stark reminder that underneath all the beauty prowls a beast.

Chimes signal the end of a court session, where an arch opens into another wing.

I peer around the corner. A multitude of courtiers, advisers, and the like spill from the Order Hall to my left—some wandering in my direction, perhaps headed to Illian’s offices, and others away to the main vestibule.

I use the distraction, blending into the throng.

The guards won’t lose me for long, but I only need a few seconds.

I slip down a narrow hall devoid of windows.

I ache from my morning exercises but ignore the pain and glide down the corridor, my hand brushing the paneling for support.

This path I know by heart. My feet know the exact number of steps.

And when I pass through the narrow archway, my skin recognizes the feel of this place, like a welcome from an old friend.

A single maid trails down the hall, a duster in hand. She startles when I step in her path, but her head remains downcast, as required of her station. “Who does this hall belong to now?” I ask.

“No one, my lady. Save for His Majesty, of course.”

“But surely another dancer has charge of it, as the King’s Jewel. Where might I find her?”

“My lady,” she says, “there was only ever one. He has not appointed another Jewel.” At my hesitation, she curtsies nervously and flits away, scurrying down the hall.

But her words remain, hovering where she stood.

He has not appointed another Jewel.

He did not replace me.

I turn, the breath stuck in my chest, my ears ringing as I approach a set of slender double doors. My fingers trail the molding before reaching for a rose-shaped knob. It’s cool against my hands, and when I turn it, the squeak of dry hinges echoes along the corridor.

I step inside.

Dust sifts through the air, swirling against the plume of my breath.

The curtains are open along all the windows, and sunlight lacquers the dark wooden floor.

Above hangs an unlit glass chandelier shaped like a rose in bloom—a present from King Anton, Illian’s younger brother, once the renovations on this palace were complete.

A palace that, while dating back decades, was a mere winter getaway before Illian took up residence.

But this rose is the only trace of either of Illian’s brothers in this place, and I suspect it’s why Illian abandoned this room for years before he gave it to me. He has no love for either, but especially King Anton, who reigns over Miridran’s eastern territory.

Because Illian was supposed to inherit all of Miridran, not just the third he did.

It was the one subject he never broached with me—a sore spot, from what I could tell.

But I’d gleaned snippets of the story during my time in the palace.

Illian had always been primed, as crown prince, to rule Miridran as its sole king.

For a reason I never discerned, King Estienne, Illian’s older brother, was set to abdicate the throne long before either of the princes were crowned.