Page 52

Chapter Thirty

I llian’s next task is waiting for me when I arrive back at my room.

The letter is tucked into a stack of neatly folded linens, and when I lift it, it’s stained with lye.

I was correct, then, about the maid working for him. She must have just delivered it only moments ago, thinking I was in the dining hall.

I scan the letter. The task isn’t what I expected.

I assumed each one would be worse than the last, but this one is simple, seemingly harmless.

For the next few nights, I am to entertain two smaller courts, both of which he will attend.

He merely asks that I divert attention while he secures a few deals, which I will, admittedly, try to overhear.

Sweat beads on my skin despite a mid-morning chill. Last night hardly seems real, and now, I can’t help but clench my quilt, my father’s voice encircling my thoughts like a fist around my throat.

He wants to make himself a king.

And if he does, Emilia will have died for nothing.

I think of her more than ever now, especially the way she’d looked that day, her gold locks swept into a coronet, her pink wool dress perfect for traveling through the harsh mid-winter cold.

The too- big coat she made me wear, and how it itched against my skin, how I’d used it to cover my sobs when I realized she was gone.

Another sob breaks loose at that. But I quickly compose myself, repeating Anton’s promise in my mind.

We will bring him a fate worse than Morta’s revenge.

I coif my hair and wander to the Dance Hall, dreading each step that brings me closer to Copelan. After last night, our quarrel feels insignificant in the scheme of things, but we have one last dance to plan. Unless he’s decided to use Esmée for that, too.

But the Dance Hall is devoid of its usual bustle, the single curtain drawn.

“You’re late,” comes Copelan’s voice. My eyes drift to where he’s slumped on the floor, propped against the mirrored wall. He’s as pale as a wraith, almost ghostlike in the dark. And his eyes are shadowed, his brows a dark slash as he regards me angrily.

I approach warily. “Late? For what?”

“We gave instructions after the performance last night,” he mutters. “I couldn’t find you, so I searched for you. Odd that you weren’t in your room, even in the dead of night.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk,” I lie, only to have Copelan toss a lump of fabric at my feet.

I bend, gathering the outfit I had worn to the Sky Garden last night. I had left it in Anton’s wing after he asked me to change.

“A maid found it this morning,” he says. “She thought you left it. Any guess where she retrieved it from?”

When I don’t reply, he shoves up from the floor and stalks toward me. “You know the rules, Vasalie; you know them damned well—”

“Yes, and if you send me away, what do you think he will do? Do you really want to be responsible for angering a Crown like him?”

“That’s exactly it, Vasalie. A Crown like him. You know his reputation, what he’s known for.”

But do we really?

“Fates, you two. I’m not so terrible as that.”

Copelan swivels, and so do I.

Anton leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his velvet waistcoat bunched against his broad shoulders.

He sinks his teeth into an apple.

Copelan stares for one second, then two, before he remembers himself and bows. When he straightens, he juts his chin just a little too high. “Your Majesty, what can we do for you?”

I don’t miss the edge in his voice.

“The final performance is approaching rapidly and, due to recent events that rather disrupted my country’s rulership, I would prefer to oversee this one. Apple?” He displays it between his fingers after another loud crunch.

And I want to disappear into the floorboards. I may have agreed to work with him, but he said nothing about interfering with our performance.

“Your Majesty,” Copelan tries. “We wouldn’t wish to inconvenience you—”

“Nonsense,” Anton drawls. Swiping a piece of apple from his waistcoat, he slaps Copelan on the shoulder like one would a friend. “Let’s walk through the ideas you have and go from there.”

Copelan, looking as if he’s on the brink of exploding, glares my way as if to say, This is all your fault. “We’re styling it around the Carasia Gardens.”

The Carasia Gardens aren’t gardens in the traditional sense.

It refers to long swathes of ivory wildflowers that bloom in the summer and fall and grow like weeds all through winter, only to die upon the arrival of spring when rain sluices the land.

They carpet the southern border of Miridran’s three territories and stretch all the way up into the mountains.

Most people, farmers especially, consider them a nuisance.

Anton must agree. “Weeds? You’re telling me you intend to represent Miridran through the weeds that fester through our lands like a plague?” His teeth, once more, crunch into that apple.

Copelan’s face reddens. “I assure you, the choreography and music will be quite spectacular—”

“I’m sorry, Master Reveler Copelan, but the answer is no.”

“The planning is well under way,” Copelan pushes back. Bold, especially for him. “The outfits are already in production, as are the props, the music. Shifting now would be impossible—”

“Eremis and the Fate of Morta,” I blurt.

Copelan’s eyes slide to mine, narrowing, but I ignore him. “Eremis was Miridranian, and his story is our most legendary tale. Even you, Sire, pay homage to the Fate of Morta throughout this palace. If we must shift our plan, we could repurpose what we’ve acquired so far.”

“Do go on,” Anton says, a grin playing on his lips.

By the look of it, Copelan thinks we planned this, Anton and I.

Especially after finding my clothes. I try not to grimace as I ask, “The white silk costumes that have been finished are supposed to mimic the flowers, no?” It’s the first performance that would unite all the dancers—another of my ideas.

His lips flatten, but he nods.

“We can keep them, use them to depict the Souls in the tale. And Eremis can wear anything depending on what version we decide on.”

“And the Fate of Morta?” Copelan asks dryly, pretense be damned, as if he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Leave the gown to me,” Anton says, eyes sparkling.

“And props will be simple,” I say. “I can walk through staging with our performers today.”

“Whatever else you need, draw up a list and I will see it done.” He tosses the apple core to Copelan as he strides off, only to pause on the threshold. “Vasalie, a word?”

I don’t dare look at Copelan’s face.

I step out, joining Anton in a nearby alcove with a small window open to the glistening sea. When I look up, his usual arrogance fades into something softer.

“I came to answer the question Basile so brusquely interrupted.”

“You . . . came to explain your Glory Court?” I ask, unbelieving.

He glides his hands into his pockets. “It’s a healing house. A refuge for those who need shelter and protection. It’s simple, really. We orchestrate a seemingly forceable seizure—enough to be credible by whoever is a danger to them.”

But if that’s the case . . . “The ones who go missing. What about them?”

“Not so much missing as relocated, new identity intact. A strategy we use when they cannot return to their homes. You may confirm this with Laurent. His sister spent time there herself as a glassblowing instructor.”

“You’re telling me the rumors are for show?”

“Indeed, and it must stay that way.”

“So those who you purchased in Estienne’s auction . . .”

“They were offered the very best of accommodations until they can reintegrate into society, which I will help them do. They are free,” he says. “And I wish that for you, too.”

My throat tightens. I can’t fathom how all of this could end well, but another glimmer of hope invades my heart.

I almost reach out and grab his hand, but I stop myself when he adds, almost reluctantly, “You should know that the other rumors surrounding me are mostly true, however. I spend my nights trying to forget the days. I rely on drinking and sleeping with women I forget all too easily come dawn, if only to stave off the loneliness—which never works. I am greedy, wasteful, and far too proud.”

“I am fearful, damaged, and angry,” I offer—as if it might smear away the shame I am not certain he should feel.

He bites his lip. “I have never really loved anything or anyone. I wonder at times if I am capable of it.”

My heart constricts.

Even so, I feel myself retreating, my walls inching up. Because while I am beginning to trust him, trust is where it must end. There is nothing for us beyond this Gathering, nor can there ever be. However charming and flirtatious he might be, it’s time I remember that.

I lift my shoulders. “Love is often linked to pain, so perhaps that’s a blessing, Sire.” His brows squeeze together, but I quickly change the topic, lowering my voice. “I’m to attend a handful of soirées over the next few nights. That’s all I know.”

A nod. “I will begin on the Fate of Morta gown, among other things. Now, let’s get you back to killjoy in there before he bursts a vein.”

When Anton returns me to the Dance Hall, he pauses in the doorway. “I will have the gown ready by tomorrow night.”

Copelan and I bow as he exits the room, and under his breath, I hear Copelan murmur something a lot like, “I’m sure you’ll deliver it right to her room.”

I rub my temples.

Silence lingers, until finally Copelan sighs. “Esmée and I are a thing of the past, Vasalie.”

Is that supposed to mean something? “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He slicks back his hair. “I didn’t merely come last night to tell you about the plans you missed.

I wanted to apologize. And to tell you that this,” he says, motioning between us, “is something I don’t want to lose.

You make me feel alive, Vas. When I’m around you, I feel .

. . I don’t know. Passion. And it’s something I haven’t felt in a long time. ”

But it isn’t my job to make him feel alive, or better about himself. And I’m tired of him looking at me with either lust or scorn.

Because it was lust, I realize. A different kind. Not like Illian’s, but lust in that he wanted me for the way I made him feel about himself. And I allowed it because I wanted the illusion of his protection—and because I was trapped. Lonely. Desperate to feel something other than pain and regret.

But what I should have wanted was empowerment.

“Then this morning,” Copelan continues, “after the maid returned your clothes . . .” He shakes his head. “Tell me it isn’t what it looks like, Vas.”

“Why?” The bite in my voice comes as a surprise, but I square my shoulders. “So you can sleep better at night?”

He lets out a breath. “I know you felt what was between us. I know the way your body works. It responds to me with ease. We dance, and you come alive the way I do. Can you say the same when you’re with him?”

He really doesn’t want me to answer that. Not after last night.

I can’t deny that Copelan and I had chemistry. Perhaps we still do. But chemistry is not finite. It’s a shifting thing, malleable as it is predictable. With Copelan, I needed to be touched, held, comforted in all the ways I was deprived of. And with Anton . . .

It was unexpected, like a strike of lightning far outside a storm, one that left me warm and shimmering all over. He unearthed something buried within me—an intrinsic desire I still can’t name. Even now, I don’t fully understand it.

But it doesn’t matter, because I am afraid I’ll never feel it again.

“At least consider the rules, for Fates’ sake, Vasalie,” he says at my silence.

“The rules say nothing about Crowns, only guests, and King Anton is not a guest in his own palace.” I traipse to the center of the room and stretch. “Think what you want. You always have.”