Page 54

Blue light, like from the strange room I had witnessed in the tunnels that first time.

The one with the portrait of Anton. I had almost forgotten it.

Laurent nudges open a door on his left, revealing a small but breathtaking study.

A Palladian window arcs along the far wall, moonlight limning stacks of tomes to my right.

An embellished mahogany desk stretches the length of the room on my left.

But my attention latches on the sea-glass bust in the center of the room—and the gown upon it.

If it could even be called that.

It’s as if he crafted a mural. It’s half beadwork, the fabric barely visible on one side.

The bodice is made from flat, reflective shards, and the pattern wings upward like a hellebore in bloom, each petal veined by copper threadwork.

Then, like a reflection in a lake, it fans out into the skirt, the bottom elongated with a train.

“You made this?” I breathe.

A shuffling comes from behind the statue, then Gustav’s head peeks out. “Vasalie? Vasalie!” Clanking down a set of tools, he runs over, his usual grin intact. “What do you think? I’ve been helping Laurent on the steel-boned corset and bustle. We are almost finished.”

“I think I am in a very strange, very surreal dream,” I say, giving the gown another perusal. The glass beads fragment light the way the sun sparks across scales.

Gustav chuckles. “This was from a concept His Majesty began a few years back. It was meant to be a wedding gown one day, but he never completed it.”

“He . . . was planning to marry?” It’s the first I’ve heard of it. An uncomfortable feeling crouches in my belly.

“A proposed arrangement since he was a boy that never came to fruition, with the Lord Sovereign’s niece, Princess Ademi,” Gustav says.

“They wrote letters. She visited often. But the summer they were to make it official, right after his coronation, she called it off, and he’s refused to speak of it since.

I think it hurt him more than he wants to admit. ”

“Is she . . . here? At the Gathering,” I ask.

“She’s never attended. Not sure why,” Gustav says, making another adjustment to the back of the gown. “Look at that. Bustle’s done. It will help lift the weight when you wear it.”

I dare a touch, dragging a finger along its uneven surface, down to where the pattern flares into the skirt.

“Those are made from aranian glass,” Gustav tells me. “It’s rarer than diamonds, made only when Mount Aran erupts every twenty years or so. Not particularly durable, so we can’t use it for much else, but stunning for a gown such as this.”

Mount Aran, a small volcanic mountain on an island north of Razam.

“I don’t know what to say,” I tell them. “It’s exquisite, but it hardly seems worth the trouble . . .”

“Indeed,” Laurent says. “It’s almost as if His Majesty wants to make a statement.

” At my questioning glance, he shrugs. “King Illian has made not one but several attempts on his life, ever since he was barely out of adolescence. Their feud has been long and arduous, yet still, Anton lives. Thus, by putting you—his brother’s so-called pet—in a gown of glass, he is telling Illian that he hasn’t only cheated death, he’s cheated him. ”

“Almost as if he turned his own Jewel against him,” Gustav says.

I wrap my arms around my ribs. Despite Anton’s flirtation, I haven’t let myself believe he wants me for anything beyond thwarting his brother. Hearing Laurent’s speculation is only further confirmation.

But I am not a thing to be taken or turned against anyone. I am my own, and I deserve justice as much as he.

Then Gustav’s and Laurent’s words hit me. His brother’s so-called pet. His own Jewel. “You two know everything then?”

Laurent smiles sadly. He grabs my hands, squeezing them with his own. “I only wish I could help.”

I turn to Gustav. “I owe you an apology, too—”

But he waves me off. “I understand the stakes for you, had you not followed through on your king’s orders.” His smile is so kind it hurts. “Take comfort, my lady Vasalie, in knowing you are on the right side. King Anton is a good man.”

“I believe you,” I say, rubbing my arms. And I do—especially after last week. “It’s just that I thought the same of his brother, who had me fooled for years. It’s hard to forget that.”

“Illian had many of us fooled for a time,” Gustav says, drawing my eye. At my quizzical glance, he explains. “I grew up in the palace. My mother and his are cousins, if you can believe it . . .”

“You were raised alongside them,” I say. Illian never spoke of his mother, let alone his past beyond his strenuous relationship with his brothers. And even then, it was cryptic. Small remarks, nothing more.

“Indeed. He was Queen Saskia’s favorite. For a long time, I couldn’t understand why she never favored her eldest.”

At least now we know why; Illian was her eldest by blood.

“But though she doted on Illian, souls, she smothered him, too. She forced him into lesson upon lesson while his brothers galivanted through Miridran in whichever way they so pleased. She practically ignored Anton’s existence altogether.

And Illian . . . I don’t think I ever saw him without a book in hand, and by the Fates, even as a boy, he never learned to smile.

His whole life was centered around a single purpose: preparing for the throne.

“I remember Anton and I overheard him and Queen Saskia once after he was caught skipping a lesson. It was”—

Gustav counts his fingers—”two years before she passed. She berated him relentlessly. It didn’t matter that Estienne had always intended to step down as crown prince, that everything would go to Illian automatically. That was not enough for her. Illian had to earn it. Prepare. And so he did.”

“But then King Junien split the kingdom,” I say. After all Illian’s hard work.

“Yes, after spending time in Razam with Her Grace. The two grew close—closer than Queen Saskia was comfortable with. She didn’t like it—misunderstood it, even, because it was never romantic.

But even she couldn’t convince her husband to abandon his plans before the Gathering took place. She died that year.

“Once the announcement was made, Illian . . . grew bitter.”

In some ways, I understand. Illian thought he was owed Miridran in its entirety. He had prepared for it all his life, to the exclusion of all else. It had been promised to him.

I, too, know what it is like to be raised solely for a purpose—a commodity more than a child. It’s almost enough for me to feel sorry for the boy Illian was.

But not quite.

I think of the attempts Illian made on Anton’s life.

I had accused Anton of carousing, and while that is true, his adolescence was also spent simply trying to stay alive.

I do not know the nightmares that follow him to sleep, but I suspect they are many.

I wonder if they might be as vicious, as numerous, as mine.

I know what it’s like to feel lonely and stifled by the dark.

He’s surrounded himself with good people—Gustav, Laurent, Basile.

The company one keeps is an indication of character.

Yet I sense that they might not fully comprehend the depth of his pain, and he, in turn, chooses to shield them from it.

His brothers, his mother, and even his future wife rejected him, all in their own ways.

And with the pressure of a kingdom on his back . . .

“Please, I need to see him,” I say.

“He’s on the balcony off his room last I checked,” Gustav says, a coy smile brimming. “I believe you know where that is.”

The balcony, where he perched me on the balustrade and broke my spiral of anxiety and fear.

Where he said: You are art.

Somehow, I don’t even mind that Gustav knows.

I follow the hall, past the empty plinth where the vase I broke once stood, and beyond, into Anton’s bedroom.

It’s dark aside from the orange light of the hearth, the doors leading to the balcony spread open.

A current of sea air rushes past, carrying the song of softly rolling waves.

I find Anton on a lounge, the breeze toying with his loose hair. He’s propped up, nose buried in a book, a small lantern flickering a soft glow onto the page. A pair of endearing spectacles are perched on the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Ishu is curled on her side, snoring softly.

He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice me.

My heart whirls like a carousel in my chest, a gyre of feelings that make it seem like the balcony is tottering beneath me. Like the palace might topple, crumble, and me with it.

I haven’t known him for long, but something about the sight of him dispels the last of my reservations. Here, and perhaps always, he is just a boy. A curious boy who loves to learn, to laugh, to save.

A boy chased by nightmares, even when he’s awake.

A sly little curve turns his lips without him glancing up. “Enjoying the view, Minnow?”

Embarrassment suffuses me. I wring my hands, idling awkwardly by the door. “It’s been days, Sire. You said you were gathering proof, and I was worried—”

“I have been,” he says, grin softening. “I am. I need another day or two at most, and we have just over a week before the Gathering ends.”

I nod, but it does little to ease my anxiety.

Placing his book down, he rises and strides toward me. My stomach swoops, and I find myself blurting, “I—I am not a thing to be used.”

Tenderly, he cradles my jaw with his hands and leans his forehead against mine.

“You are not,” he whispers.

His thumbs are smooth as they graze my cheeks—as if he can sense the war inside me.

And when his nose brushes mine, I can do little more than inhale him for long moments. I want to close out the world. Forget who he is, yet again. And here, sharing breath, I almost can. His scent fills my lungs—a welcome. A warning.

My hands move without my consent, wrapping around his waist.

I lean my head against his heart, feeling the way it beats. Races.

For me.