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Chapter Seventeen

“O nce again,” I pant, racing after Laurent, “I beg you not to make me do this.”

The past four days, Copelan and I have spent hours rehearsing—so much that collapsing becomes a regular occurrence, as does losing feeling in my feet for hours at a time.

My fingers are pricked and calloused from sewing with Annais.

Not to mention, Laurent and I have worked tirelessly on a stage environment.

The upcoming dance is meant to honor Razam, and I haven’t forgotten the queen’s words to me.

I want to thank her in my own way. But I would never deign to wrap myself in their garments and attempt to tell a tale only they should give voice to, so I had to be creative.

How might we revere them when my king refuses to do just that? When he hopes to jerk her into a war?

Perhaps I have spite to thank, but an idea came together in my mind.

I just hadn’t expected Laurent to like it so much. Hadn’t expected him to make me do this.

Pulling a chain of keys from his tunic, Laurent halts in front of two double doors that stretch so high I can barely see the architrave above, embellished with gold-dusted plasterwork. A lone guard stands to the right, but he doesn’t so much as acknowledge our presence.

“Your idea, your responsibility to ask. Besides, His Majesty made mention of just how entertaining he finds you,” Laurent adds, waggling a brow. “I doubt he’d deny you anything.”

My cheeks catch fire. “Morta’s teeth, Laurent. That isn’t—”

He jams the key into the lock, swings open the doors, and nudges me inside.

The moment I step through, he pulls them shut, abandoning me.

“Traitor,” I mutter under my breath, but when I turn, I choke on a swallow.

I spin slowly, but the view doesn’t change.

Gold curtains fall in luxurious sheets between wide, gilded columns.

The ceiling vaults hundreds of feet high, complete with a large, glasswork sun positioned like a chandelier, its spokes waving outward like ribbons in water, each one glowing under the skylights as if it were the real, noonday sun. And the floor—

It’s moving.

No, not moving. It’s water underneath stained, cobalt glass. I am standing above a pool.

My stomach sinks to my toes, causing me to sway.

How I’m going to dance on this, I have no idea. Nor do I know what I’m supposed to do next, because the room is empty. No sign of the smug, self-indulgent king who was supposed to be here.

A curtain to my left rustles slightly as if blown by a breeze. Except there’s little airflow here. I approach warily. Then a sound—something that sounds suspiciously like a snore.

Surely I didn’t just hear a snore.

But there it is again, ever so faint. I swipe back the shimmering gold curtain.

It should come as no surprise when I find Anton there, lounging across a large marble throne as if it were a divan, bare feet pointed straight in the air.

If that weren’t enough, two women draped in delicate green silk—no doubt from his Glory Court, drat him—fan him lightly.

And they look all too pleased with their assignment, with no hint of distress. At their feet, Ishu sprawls on a wide cushion, paws outstretched. She slits open one eye at me, unconcerned—as are the women, one of whom has the nerve to shush me.

But then the other leans close to Anton’s ear. “Your Glorious Majesty,” she says softly.

He jolts awake, only to notice me and sag back into his throne, a ring-clad hand thrown across his forehead. “Morta’s bum, what time is it?”

“Half past noon,” I say bitterly, unable to restrain myself.

With a groan, he stretches and eases upward, his hair disheveled about his neck. Ishu mimics him with a stretch of her own as he says, “Ladies, you may retire.” The women curtsey so low I roll my eyes. Then I realize I haven’t done so myself. It feels too late now.

Once they leave, he dons his boots, lacing up each one before finally acknowledging me. “Please accept my most sincere apologies; the Council of Trades was such a bore, it put me right to sleep.” He smooths his wrinkled jerkin before adjusting the sleeves. “I am at your service, Miss Moran.”

“My apologies, Sire,” I say, batting a hand where his attendants departed from, “for interrupting whatever that was.”

I am not sorry.

“Perhaps you should have joined me. Running you ragged, are they? Or perhaps you are still recovering from my banquet?”

My pulse jumps at the mention, but I keep my voice steady. “It is my pleasure to serve the Crowns however I can.”

For a moment, he merely studies me, a subtle curve to his lips—lips that contain a multitude of secrets. Ironic, now, because instead of him finding mine, I’ve found his. Only yesterday, I had been in his tunnels.

Leisurely, he descends the steps at the base of the throne. “What is it you’ve come to ask of me? Or is it the venue you wished to see?” He strolls toward me, forcing me to stagger backward.

Except he doesn’t slow. My back hits a column, my breath ratcheting in my throat as he looms over me, arching a single brow. “Miss Moran,” he says. “Pardon, if you please. You are blocking the rope.”

My face goes hot. I sweep to the side, and he snags a tasseled rope from beside me. “Welcome to the Hall of Thrones, Minnow.”

One by one, the curtains lift. Each reveals a large, high-backed throne protruding from the marble wall, and at their feet, rows of steps encircle the whole of the hall.

No, not steps, but benches, embedded with cushions for each seat.

Then there’s the farthest throne, one that extends to the ceiling, its arms and legs coated in gold.

It makes Illian’s throne look like a footstool.

“I assume that’s yours,” I say, jerking my chin in that direction. When I glance back at Anton, he’s leaning against that column, a smirk as crooked as the crown set atop his sun-kissed face. Ishu plops down at his boots, bathing in a thin stream of sunlight.

“Ask what you will, Minnow,” he says.

I think of Gustav but refrain. I make my formal request instead, relaying what I need him to do. All the while, he regards me steadily, his lips twisting in thought.

“Consider it done,” he says, straightening. “There’s little I would not do for Her Grace, Queen Sadira, and her people.”

He says it like a warning.

Again, Laurent’s suspicions loop in my mind. I slip my hands behind my back so he can’t see the nervous fidget of my fingers. “Thank you, Sire.”

“A favor for an answer. Do you enjoy it? The dancing?”

“I—” My brows notch. “Yes, Sire.”

“Yes, yes of course. But what is it, specifically, that you enjoy? Why do you dance?”

So simple a question, and yet he paces around me, like I’m a fly caught in his web yet again.

Or perhaps it isn’t so simple, now that I think of it. For so long, I told myself it was how I remembered her. Emilia.

But there’s more to it—more than I want to admit aloud.

My fingers run idly along the edge of my tunic as my thoughts slip back through time.

Dancing was easy at the Melune. Convenient.

I liked the art of it, but that wasn’t what kept me practicing among the rafters or giving up all my earnings in hopes of making an impression.

No, I kept going, kept pushing until I became the King’s Jewel, and even then, I didn’t stop.

I told myself I was becoming powerful, influential.

Untouchable, all so that if I ever saw him again, my father, he would look at me and the king by my side with every ounce of fear his cold heart could muster.

I liked how dancing made me feel, but passion didn’t come until later. And even then, it was born from a selfish desire. I was building myself up so that I might feel strong.

But what I’d really done was build a wall.

A fortress like those back home. And I barricaded myself behind it, not so that I might be strong enough to face him but so that I wouldn’t have to.

I enclosed myself between layers of stone so that I could pretend nothing outside of my little world existed. I could forget my past.

I succeeded.

And that’s how I failed Emilia.

I inhale slowly, pain crumpling my insides. Tears threaten, but I stave them off.

I feel the king’s gaze without looking up. He’s paused his pacing, standing less than a foot away, so close I can smell bergamot and oranges, see the sweep of his lashes. The indent on his bottom lip.

The subtle bob of his throat as he evaluates me, yet again.

He makes me feel bare—of clothes, of skin, of bones. Like I’m as transparent as his glass, and he’s searching for the components that bind me together.

I am saved when the door swings open. We both swivel to find Copelan stalking toward me. He sinks into a bow when he reaches us, turning his attention toward the king. “Your Majesty, I trust all is well? Laurent sent me in case I could be of help.”

Yet Anton doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Indeed, Master Reveler. Everything Miss Moran has requested will be done for her.”

I bounce my gaze toward Copelan, who looks between us as he rises, a slight twitch in his jaw as he manages a nod. “We will leave you in peace, Sire.” He takes my arm, tugging me rather forcefully toward the door.

Anton notices it, missing nothing. But all he says is, “Certainly. I’ll see you two out.”

By the time we return to the Dance Hall, the palace is dark from an afternoon storm, only a shimmer of torchlight illuminating the elongated room. I crack open a glass pane, letting in a cool wash of air.

When I turn, I feel Copelan’s question before he asks it.

He folds his arms, his white tunic bunching at the chest. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?”

“The way he was looking at you. What did you say?” Defensiveness kicks in, hardening my resolve. “I said nothing beyond my request, to which he agreed.”

“He was practically standing on your toes.”

“I can’t control what he does,” I say, unable to stifle an exasperated breath.

He shakes his head, scratching behind his neck. “Of course. I am sorry. It’s just, that’s the way, that’s what . . .” He trails off, and I remember.

“Your partner,” I whisper.

He heaves a breath, his eyes falling. He had told me she involved herself with a Crown. It had ruined her career.

“Who did she . . . ?” But I trail off.

I already know who she was involved with. I saw it in Copelan’s stance, the clench of his jaw. Just now, I saw it.

And who else? Anton is charming. Deceptively so.

And it’s rather easy to pique his interest. He collects women like he does his jewelry, piled thick and waiting to be used, a bevy of them stashed away at his Glory Court.

Illian might have a strange fascination with me at times, but it was always confined to just me.

Souls know a hundred other courtiers vied for his attention.

I put a tentative hand on Copelan’s strong shoulder, feeling the way it shudders beneath my touch.

“Kings can take many things,” I say, and he meets my gaze.

“I’m sorry for what they’ve stolen from you, but they can’t take moments like this one.

They can’t take ones they aren’t here for unless you let them.

So I think the greatest revenge,” I tell him, “is creating as many as you can, while you can.”

I would kill for another memory with Emilia.

Just one, where I can sink into her quilt, soak up her laugh, flip through her memories.

She used to say the greatest revenge is a smile.

A smile for every harsh word, a smile for every moment of pain.

Fake it if you must, my darling; if wielded properly, it can be more effective than a blade.

Fingertips skim the line of bared flesh above my leggings.

I understand what Copelan is saying. We don’t need words; we rarely use them, after all.

A moment. This one. Maybe I need it, too.

My palms grow damp, but I grip his arms. He hoists me up.

We rehearse. And there’s something a little furious, a little desperate in his movements, as if he’s trying not to snap and break free—but from what, I don’t know.

I feel it in the way he holds me, the way he pushes the boundaries we’ve set.

The way his fingers glide lower than they ought, the way they linger and splay.

The way mine do the same.

When we finish, I’m panting, and so is he. We stay that way, a hair’s breadth apart, watching each other until our breathing settles and I’m ready to collapse. Only then does he lead me back to my room, a hand on the small of my back.

“It’s only a few days away now,” he says, standing outside my door. I pretend it doesn’t affect me when he lifts a finger, twining it around a loose coil of hair. “Are you ready, Vas?”

“Sure,” I lie. Because Illian isn’t going to like it one bit.

Not when Copelan’s hands are about to be all over me in front of the whole Gathering.

When he leaves, I try for a nap, though I’m interrupted when Annais slips into my room. I ask her if she needs anything, but she merely gives me a passing glance before settling down to stitch a worn costume.

That’s when I notice what I hadn’t before, nuzzled there against her breastbone.

A necklace with a single charm. It almost looks like a Miridranian birthstone etched into a coin.

A four-pointed star in particular, which signifies a child born amid tribulation.

And around the outer edge of the coin, there’s an engraving.

I can’t quite make it out, but it almost looks like the age-old language from the time of the clans—clans that existed in these lands before Miridran itself. Like the one Queen Mercy hailed from.

“Annais,” I try. There’s a wariness to her gaze when she looks at me. I swallow, threading my fingers through my hair. “Do you have children?”

Her eyes fall shut, and I don’t miss the way her fingers inch toward the necklace. But she drops them, fixing her gaze steadily on the needle in her hand.

And I’m not sure if I imagined it, or if it was merely the whisper of wind outside, but I could have sworn she answered me underneath her breath.

I could’ve sworn she said, “A son.”