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Chapter Thirty-One

T hat night, I am sent to perform before the Serain dignitaries aboard a docked pleasure barge.

The barge itself is an impressive vessel—a congruence of carved, ornate wood.

Flat, multicolored sails ripple like the gills of a fish, and a garland of silk lanterns bedecks the masts, fluttering in a gentle, evening breeze.

Lounges entice guests at both the front and the rear, and a golden structure crowns its heart, hosting an inside bar.

It’s a larger event than I had anticipated.

Several courts meander on and off the ship throughout the evening.

A multitude of performers grace makeshift stages throughout, a constant stream of entertainment.

I’m thankful for the paint on my face, applied like a golden mask around my eyes—similar to what I used to do in Il-lian’s court.

Illian, for his part, idles nearby, speaking with two Serain lords, no doubt trying to sow the seeds of doubt against his brother and Razam both. Only they seem distracted by the festivities.

And me, as I dance.

Seeming to give up, he slinks away soon after.

I finish my performance—a slow, artful dance to a harpist’s strum, subtle slips of millen glittering about my hips as I release them.

Despite the steady pace, sweat still clings to my brow.

The slower songs prove the most difficult, each movement requiring a precision I barely achieve.

Afterward, I perch on a bench and rub the numbness from my calves, then check the pins holding my chignon.

The ocean lies unusually tranquil, a pane of glass mirroring the starlit night.

An emissary from Kasim approaches. Her blue-black hair is longer than mine but swept into a high arrangement, her floor-length organza vest cinched at the waist. She lifts the backs of my fingers to her lips, then removes them—the Kasimi sign of appreciation.

“Pardon, but my friend and I have been longing to know the inspiration behind your dance. The powder, specifically.”

“Oh,” I say, forcing myself to stand, straightening the copper hem of my lapis silk dress, fringed just above my knees. I scramble for an answer that might appease her.

Then I wonder why I have to hide it at all.

Perhaps it’s an act of defiance, a small glimmer of my rage, but I find myself telling her the truth.

“I have a condition that makes movement rather difficult,” I explain.

“I can’t dance the way I used to, so I needed an element of creativity to allow me to perform. ”

As I say it aloud, a glow of pride falls over me.

I did that.

And it makes me feel as though . . . as though I not only accept myself as I am now, but I’m proud of it. I’m proud of surviving, of persisting, despite my pain.

“And this is . . . ?” She takes my hand, dabbing a finger on my palm, where a smattering of millen still lingers. It isn’t meant to be rude; in Kasim, a casual touch is as natural as breathing, their culture one of respect.

“Millen, actually. A flour created here in East Miridran.”

“Ah!” says another Serain courtier, joining in excitedly, her tight black curls strung with tourmaline stones. “That’s Lord Bayard’s doing! He told the story just the other night; he discovered the girl who came up with the process for grinding its stalk.”

Gustav.

He was the one who found Marian.

“How very clever of you to think to use it in such a way,” the Kasimi emissary says.

A new song picks up, jaunty in its rhythm. Excitement sweeps over the deck as couples pair up, readying to dance, including the two emissaries I just met, giggling as one embraces the other and leads her away.

Surprise bubbles through me when I feel an arm around my waist.

Then Anton is luring me into the throng.

“Sire, what are you doing?” I rasp, scanning the crowd, but Illian is nowhere to be seen.

Anton leans in, his gaze radiant beneath the dancing of light. “Playing into my facade, Minnow. This is nothing if not believable for me.”

He guides my arm over my head.

We’re but two bodies engulfed in a multitude of them, I assure myself.

We circle each other. He’s practically glowing, a canvas of ivory from his tunic to his pants, like a pearl against the night.

Gold hangs from his neck and ears. My knees go weak—even more with the skill at which he moves me through the dance.

It unfolds like a spirited waltz, only more vigorous.

I twirl away, then spin back into the crook of his arms.

He’s grinning his customary grin, his cheeks charmingly dimpled.

I swallow the desire burgeoning within me, the joy—pretend it away.

On cue, he lowers me into a dip.

“By the way,” he says, his breath ghosting my clavicle, “did I ever tell you I took dancing lessons? One of my many favorite pastimes growing up.”

With that, he lifts me upright, whirls me away—

And releases me in a blink as he switches partners.

I am left breathless, my stomach aflutter. A lick of heat slides up my neck.

I lose sight of him soon after, couples whirling by. I decline the next courtier vying for a dance, charting a course for the bar. Filling a glass of water, I gulp it greedily, waiting for the twinkling in my vision to recede. When it does, I break for the exit.

My breath hitches when I find Illian blocking my path, his long fingers curled about a chalice.

A menacing calm cloaks his countenance, though he merely moves aside with a simple, “Evening, Miss Moran.”

I want to be relieved as he lets me pass.

Yet a frightening suspicion makes me wonder if tonight was less about his order and more about watching me.

The next three days before the final signature performance tick by, uneventful.

I spend each morning practicing, ignoring my exhaustion. I act as though I am not haunted by Emilia’s cries or the nightmare in which my father finally recognizes me.

I pretend away the pain in my body, or try, but despite that I feel it in every step, and I swear it’s growing worse.

Worse still is the tension between Copelan and me, as dense as a heavy fog.

In the evenings, I swathe myself in costumes and paints and perform where I’m assigned.

First, for a Kasimi councilor and her wife, who dismiss me the moment I finish; second, for Raiden, the Prince of Zar, who falls asleep halfway through my dance.

Finally, I perform for Queen Sadira and her sons.

That evening, Prince Sundar coaxes me into a game of chess, which he loses promptly, in such a way that tells me he let me win on purpose.

More and more, he reminds me of Anton. It’s his charm, the smiles he can’t seem to hide, and his penchant for exquisite fashion.

It makes me remember that I haven’t seen Anton since the barge, or heard anything more about the proof he vowed to collect.

And the Gathering concludes in just over a week. Whatever move Illian plans to make, he will do it before then.

I can’t sit idly by when the stakes are so high. So I whisk on my cloak and make my way to the kitchen.

And slow at the sound of voices. I hadn’t expected so many at this time of night, and so I slip between familiar crates and pad toward the cellar door, only to halt at a flash of white-blond hair.

Copelan.

He’s leaning against a pillar, a confection in hand, talking with Laurent’s replacement—a stiff, older woman I have made a point to avoid.

When Copelan angles away, I flit around the corner and out of sight, parting the cellar door as swiftly and silently as possible.

In the tunnels, I pause only once, when I pass Illian’s quarters, but they are unlit. Dark.

I tread onward until I reach Anton’s room. I slide the pane aside, a demand on my tongue, only to freeze at the visitor standing wide-eyed at my arrival.

“Laurent,” I gasp.

I long to run to him, to fall at his feet and beg for his forgiveness, but I hold myself back. How he must hate me. How he must loathe my presence after what I’ve done—and rightly so.

Except he breaks into a wide, familiar grin. “Vasalie, my sweet!”

“Words can’t convey,” I rasp, “how sorry I am—”

“Sorry?” Laurent says. “I should be thanking you! His Majesty was guilted into not doubling but tripling my salary. And I was given a suite in his palace. I requested a pet tiger—though even a lynx would do—but that’s still a work in progress.”

Tears burn behind my eyes as I dash over and fling my arms around his neck. He smells like cinnamon and fresh rain. “I was so worried about you,” I breathe.

“I’m worried about you, ” he returns, gathering me into a gentle hug.

“I—How are you here? You should be far away . . .”

“His Majesty brought me back—with great precaution, I should add. He needed help constructing a gown.” He grins.

The Fate of Morta gown. My heart flutters. “If anyone saw you . . .”

“No one knows, nor will they find out. Unless you tell them, of course.”

Horror pales my face. “I would never—”

He holds up his hands, chuckling. “I know; too soon. But while I have you, would you like to see our little project?”

He pivots, but I grasp his wrist. “Laurent, I mean it. No sword, no fist—nothing could make me betray you again.”

At that, his smile falters. “I won’t deny how it felt, Vasalie, but Anton also told me that you came to make it right. For that, I am grateful. There is no quarrel between us.”

“Even so,” I tell him as he ushers me down the hall, “I will never forgive myself for it.”

“Guilt eats up entirely too much energy. I’d rather you spend it on justice,” he says, cerulean light seeping onto the copper floor from underneath a nearby door as we pass.