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I will not turn my back like he did.

Then there’s Anton.

A good man, Laurent said. I’m beginning to think he’s right. Despite Anton’s arrogance, despite his beautiful, insufferable smirks. Despite his silver-tongued glibness. What he did for Laurent, for Marian, for the members of the Glory Court . . .

There is good in him.

Then there’s the way he makes me feel—like I have a bit of fight left in me.

Like joy, laughter, and pleasure are not so far out of reach.

Warmth rushes through me like a summer wind, until I remember that he is a Crown and I am a broken dancer with little to her name.

I have nothing to offer him beyond the little help I can give.

And when everything is said and done, I will disappear into the cliffs of Brisendale and never see him again.

But I will make peace with that when the time comes. First, we have to survive this mess.

Just a little more time, Anton had said, but I can’t do nothing. So the one time, that one single beat in our dance where Copelan cannot avoid my gaze—when he is forced to fall into my embrace—I breathe a single whisper into his ear.

And pray it hits its mark.

“What, did he threaten to cut your tongue to ribbons if you speak?” I ask Sana, the guard leaning against the back of my door on the evening of the final performance.

As always, I am ignored.

For now, she is my only companion until the other guard, who I now know as Aemon, returns with our food. As per Illian’s command, I have not had a moment’s reprieve. They even take turns sleeping in my room each night to ensure I am watched at all times. That I couldn’t somehow escape.

If I could, I would have.

If I can just find Anton tonight at the final performance, I can warn him—during the dance, somehow, if I must. Even if not, he never fails to read me. He will know something is wrong.

Soon.

I sit before my vanity, artlessly brushing a pearlescent powder over my cheekbones, eyelids, and nose, before stroking kohl above my lashes.

“Can you arrange a coronet?” I ask Sana. “You might as well make yourself useful.”

I am met with silence. But if my talking annoys her, I will keep at it.

“You know, Illian prefers a bit of spice. If you are hoping to impress him, which clearly you are, being that you enabled the abuse of a defenseless woman, you may want to liven up.” I feel her gaze on the back of my neck, so I press on.

“Or you can choose to work for someone who doesn’t prey on women. There’s always that.”

In the mirror, I note the ever so slight tightening of her jaw. But she swings her gaze at the sound of a knock, then slants me a warning look. “You are not to reveal anything in regards to your king.”

Like I would listen to her. But when she opens the door, the last person I expect flits through.

Esmée Fontaine.

In her hands are a bundle of pins, a comb, and a jar of scented oil. “I was sent by His Majesty, King Illian, to assist you in your preparation,” she says, her gaze darting about the room. “Might you allow me to fashion your hair?”

Her voice is feather-light, serene, as if this is all perfectly normal.

But she might be my only hope, and so I nod and settle back into my chair as she twines my hair in sections, securing them with pins before pulling pieces loose.

Those, she coils with her fingers. Aemon returns with a platter of food, relieving Sana of her post, but I’m far too queasy to eat.

Once I am finished, Esmée turns her gaze on Aemon. “I will need to help her dress.”

His cue to leave.

My heart jumps, and a fool’s hope slides in—that my last, desperate appeal to Copelan got through. That he sent her here to help. But that can’t be. This is Illian’s work.

She must know who I am.

As expected, Aemon shakes his head. “I can’t let her out of my sight.”

He doesn’t even offer to turn.

“The room is too small, what with the size of this dress,” Esmée says. “The window is a steep drop, and you will be right outside.” She glides over, placing a careful hand on his arm. “Please. It would mean a great deal to me—a favor I shall try to repay.”

To my surprise, he gives her a sweeping appraisal before assenting. “Three minutes.”

“Five,” she says, gesturing at the costume. “It’s a complicated piece.”

“Five, then, but not a second more,” he murmurs.

The moment the door shuts, she spins to face me. “I just bought you a few minutes of privacy. In exchange, I want to know what has happened between you and Illian.”

“Why?” I ask as she reaches for my gown. “Because he abandoned you, and now you want him back?”

“What makes you think—”

“I was there when you broke your wrist.”

She pulls her lip between her teeth as she unlaces the ties on the back of the costume, the ones holding it to the bust. At the way her fingers tremble, my heart clenches with a sudden pang. I halt her with a hand on her arm. “You aren’t the only one he wronged.”

But she blinks at me, almost doe-eyed. “Wronged? His Majesty . . . did not wrong me.”

“Didn’t he, though? He took your position from you.”

Again, her gaze flits across mine. She releases a long-suffering sigh. “It’s my fault, really. I . . . we shared a night together. Just one, but things changed after that. It was perhaps my greatest mistake.”

My vision tunnels, the room closing in.

He slept with her?

Touched her?

The knowledge bears down on me like a portcullis ready to sink its teeth into my shoulders. Illian never laid a hand on me. And while I’m thankful, I can’t understand it. Can’t fathom why.

“You say it was mistake,” I hear myself say. “Is that because you both regretted it?”

Esmée shakes her head, fingers fumbling with the gown again. “I should have known he would tire of me thereafter.”

“But he came to see you—at the Melune,” I say.

“It was . . . an attempt to remind him of what he was missing.” She swallows, unbuttoning my shift. “I heard he found you afterward. His Jewel. It is a shame you ruined your chance to win him back, but do not begrudge me the same opportunity.”

“You’re only here to try to reclaim your position, then?” I was beginning to think Illian sent for her, somehow. But if she came on her own . . .

Esmée takes Morta’s crown, fashioned by Anton himself, and places it gently on my head.

Arranging my hair around the circlet, she says, “The princess offered me a full month’s salary if I came as a stand-in.

It was an opportunity—both to see His Majesty again, and to .

. . resolve some unfinished business. With a friend. ”

Unfinished business.

With Copelan.

Copelan, who nearly got me killed. Who abandoned me. Revulsion swims in my belly. Convincing her to help would be fruitless because she doesn’t hate Illian. She wanted him. She craved his affection like I had, only I had gotten so much more than I’d bargained for.

She steps back, admiring her work, and I decide that I can’t waste this chance, even if she might not believe me.

If anything, I’d say she’s as trapped as I am, only by her own delusions.

“Things aren’t what they seem,” I say. “There’s so much you don’t know.

We’re all in danger. Please, if you could send word to—”

The door flies open, and Aemon’s voice cuts through my plea. “Time’s up.”

Still, I angle away, praying she reads my lips. “Find King Anton. Tell him—”

Aemon wrenches Esmée away, and Sana appears, ushering her out. Esmée shakes her head in a pitiful gesture, not understanding, and my hope tumbles from my grasp into a heap on the floor.

Sana secures a set of manacles on my wrists after allowing me to gather my cloak and adjust my costume.

When the time comes for them to escort me to the boat that will carry us to the small, adjacent island for our final performance, I walk as a Crown would despite the deep-seated ache in my bones, the pain in my ribs, the fear compressing my lungs.

Head high, shoulders back, I summon the confidence the real Fate of Morta would have.