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Chapter Twenty-Five

T he revelry does not stop after Estienne’s banishment. It doesn’t even pause.

The two days before the next signature dance inch by, during which I avoid the training halls and keep to myself. I perform once for the Kasimi court—a small affair, where I pick up only fragments of gossip about Estienne’s dethroning.

It seems Estienne will be allowed to return to Central Miridran, where he will reside until the Gathering ends. Afterward, he will be afforded an estate in the countryside near his mother’s clan, where he may live out the rest of his life.

That must be how Illian convinced Annais. He promised he wouldn’t harm Estienne, that he would allow him to return with her. I wonder if he will stay true to his word.

But Estienne’s rulership is revoked. The Miridranian court, I hear, will spend the next few days deciding how Anton and Illian will divide his territory. I haven’t seen either of them since.

When the day arrives for the third signature dance, the one meant to honor Serai, I consider not going at all. My presence isn’t required. I try to stay away, but curiosity hooks its claws in me and draws me out.

It’s hard to tell where the garden ends and the sky begins.

Thin clouds smear the sunset in swathes of pastel that seem to wrap the glass dome in a cocoon. Reds and golds bleed onto the leaves above, and underneath the trees, the garden is latticed in shadow and color.

Tables are spaced around the center of the garden, draped in linen that sways in the wind. Lanterns hold the tablecloths in place, glowing embers against a receding sun. The slow hum of a violin underscores the chatter of guests.

I stay hidden from view, weaving between the outer trees as the Sky Garden fills with Crowns. They filter in slowly, jovially, and once again, their revelry turns my stomach to stone. Tonight is just another night, as if a king wasn’t dethroned before the entirety of the north.

Ever since, I’ve leafed through my mind, sorting through what I know, what I’ve seen, however inconsequential the clues might seem. The poison that wasn’t fatal. The letters I saw Illian scribe and seal with a ring that wasn’t his own. Laurent’s suspicions.

Then there’s the prophecy, and the blood it foretells. The signs point to a war of some sort. Yet there’s something personal about Illian’s moves.

Maybe the prophecy is real. Maybe Illian is aligned with the Fate of Morta somehow.

For all I know, he’s sold her his soul—if such a thing is possible.

Either way, I understand him well enough to know which name he hopes to scratch out next.

Which brother he wants to wipe from the board.

And I might not trust Anton any more than I trust the temperament of a cat, but he’s the only one who can take power from Illian.

And I am going to help him do it.

I pause behind the same lavender willow I’d stood under when Copelan wrapped his arms around me and breathed into my hair.

Until Esmée, that is.

I should not be here. But I want to see how perfect she is, how well they fit together.

I prop myself against the trunk, taking a moment to breathe. To let the willow’s crisp perfume infuse my lungs and soothe my weary soul. To my right, the Fate of Morta fountain trickles faintly, music swelling beyond from the makeshift stage in the center of the garden.

A breeze sweeps about, swaying the branches, and through them, I can see Copelan. He positions himself in the center, and around him, a hundred strands of color unspool from the tree above.

Ribbons.

And with them, a figure descends, lowering little by little.

Esmée.

Her dress is made of the same silk she hangs from, a radiant spectrum of hues. She’s tangled inside a rainbow, using her strength to weave through it.

So they used my idea, then. Down to the attire.

The melody is soft, delicate, befitting the way she moves. She twists, banding silk around her legs, before allowing herself to fall upside-down to the stage in one, graceful swoop.

Copelan takes her wrists.

She pulls him up, up, up into the air.

Locking onto her, he swings himself upward, then flips to wrap his legs around her waist. Chest to chest, they spin together, upside-down in a swirl of emeralds and pinks, golds and blues. Awed murmurs fan out across the audience, sprinkled with applause.

Esmée adjusts the ribbons and they slide to the floor.

Upon landing, they loop separate ribbons around their wrists, then circle each other until they’re going fast, faster—

One leap and they’re off the ground, flying around each other like birds seeking their mates.

This is where they deviate from what I had planned, and I can’t help but recall Copelan telling me they didn’t have the setup for aerialists.

Not that it matters. I’m not strong enough for it.

Still, the reminder sits like soot in my belly as I watch them swirl and glide with incredible poise until the ribbons twine them together into a single, corded rope.

Esmée coils her legs around his torso. Copelan releases his ribbons. Just when I think he might fall, Esmée clenches her thighs tight, catching him so that he’s suspended between them.

Even from here, I can see the breadth of his smile. They take turns, using muscles I forgot existed to form shapes in the air—shapes made together, balanced between each other’s arms.

And I’m so blindingly jealous. Tears sting my eyes and I swallow and swallow, willing them to disappear. I don’t want to be jealous. But the bitterness—it surprises me, because it isn’t her proximity to Copelan that I envy. I thought that would bother me, but somehow, it doesn’t.

It’s her.

Esmée. She’s everything I admire; everything I had longed to be. I imagine that, if given the chance, we would even be friends.

But what hurts the most is how whole she is.

How strong. All the things I wish my body could do, she does with ease.

She can dance without limit—spin and leap and curl into the air with an effortless sort of grace.

Oh, how I had taken my abled body for granted.

I hadn’t realized what a privilege it was, how thankful I should have been.

She can do things with Copelan that I never can.

More so, she is the embodiment of confidence and poise. The type of woman who could look down her nose at my father. The woman I failed to become.

With the back of my hand, I swipe away a tear. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have watched this. As for Copelan, I can’t have him. I see that now. She’s a star and he’s her moon. They belong together, in the air, surrounded by the glimmer of a thousand lights.

I press a hand to my heart, willing it to freeze.

I made myself a promise. And though things have not gone as planned, there’s still an inch of hope. Hope that Anton was truthful about his intentions. That he will indeed help me. That we will thwart Illian, and that I will keep my promise to Emilia. Somehow.

I must cling to that hope. Because without it, I will sink into the earth like rainwater, then cease to exist at all.

Copelan drifts down once more, and during his descent, Esmée peels off his shirt.

On his chest are painted stripes of color, as if the ribbons bled onto his skin.

Once again, the audience crackles with applause as he lands on his feet.

He stands there, collecting his praise, with Esmée suspended above him like a swan eclipsing the now-emerging moon.

My breathing turns ragged, and no matter how much air I drag in, I don’t feel replenished.

So labored are my breaths that I don’t hear the footfalls when they approach.

“Impressive,” a voice drawls. “I suppose I see the appeal.”

I afford Anton a sideways glance before turning back to the stage, so consumed that I forget to bow.

Esmée descends in a waterfall of spins. Copelan catches her in his arms, then swings her around in a triumphant twirl before placing her on her feet.

It’s her turn for applause now. What a vision they are as they clasp hands, raise them, grins aimed at each other.

I turn away, breathing out the last bit of pain residing in my chest.

Anton tsks. “Trouble in love?”

Of course. He saw our kiss, as did everyone else. All of whom see them together now.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying not to fall apart.

“A shame,” Anton continues, stepping beside me.

His eyes are dark, lined in glitter, and a sleeveless emerald jerkin rimmed in gold reveals his sculpted arms. When his shoulder brushes mine, I’m not na?ve enough to think it wasn’t on purpose.

“He’s attractive, you’re attractive,” he muses.

“What fine and talented offspring you might have made.”

Offspring? I wheel around, all rational thought flying from my head. Sparks fill my vision and I shove him backward. “How dare you insinuate—”

He slams against the tree and my eyes go wide, a mirror to his shock, and it hits me what I’ve done. I just assaulted a Crown. I rush to him. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry—”

He snags my wrists and yanks me toward him. His breath is hot, full of fresh peaches and wine. And he’s grinning.

Grinning.

“There you are,” he says. “I so enjoyed your snark from before; I’d hoped you’d find it again.”

My cheeks flame. But then his fingers tighten on my wrists, and all I can feel are shackles—binding me, locking me in place. “Release me,” I say. “At once. ”

His eyes lose all humor. “I apologize,” he breathes, dropping his hands, and I blink at him. He just apologized. To me. “But surely you must know everyone at this Gathering can’t keep their eyes off you—including me, if it wasn’t perfectly obvious. You do not need the one man who gazes elsewhere.”

“Says the man with the Glory Court at his disposal. You have eyes for a hundred women, do you not?” I say it because I have no idea what to make of his statement or the annoying little sparks filling my belly like a swarm of fireflies.