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Chapter Five

T he Master of Revels is far from amused.

“We don’t do acrobats, Miss Moran, and we don’t have the setup for aerialists here. Consider trying the circus—”

“You weren’t serious, then? About the wings?”

He blinks at me, as if I’m mocking him.

I fold my arms. I’m not leaving, even if I have to sneak into the Gathering and poison the other soloist. A sprinkle of sassen powder and they’d be sick for at least a few days. Two years ago, I’d be ashamed for such a thought, but if I fail to get in, I’m of no use to Illian.

He rubs a thumb over his jaw, then blows out a sigh, suddenly weary. “You have two minutes of my time.”

Before he can back away, I say, “Might I ask your name, Master Reveler?”

At that, he pauses. “For what reason?”

“You have mine. It seems only fair.”

“Copelan, then.”

“Copelan,” I repeat. It’s an old name with both Miridranian and Brisendali descent. I know this because my father had me study names and origins. “It means ‘an abundance of passion.’ “

In some contexts, it’s closer to exuberance, but I don’t tell him that.

Emilia once said that people loved to hear their name spoken aloud; it was her secret to garnering favor. For a glimpse, he appears puzzled—a reprieve from the severity of his gaze. I take it as a win.

Retrieving the mat from my bag, I unroll it across the floor.

It draws a furrow from Copelan’s brow, and more so as I unclasp the buttons on my coat, revealing snow-white gossamer that grazes the floor in feathery tufts.

I’d sewn the skirt myself, with Brigitte’s help.

It’s inexpensive, light, and flows weightlessly around me like dandelion fluff in a delicate breeze.

“ ‘The Set Alune,’ please,” I request of the harpist. It’s a common ballad, sung to children mostly: the story of a flightless bird who fashions wings from water.

Yet another sigh reveals just how unimpressed Copelan is; I can almost hear his thoughts: Too safe, too common. But I won’t doubt my decision.

I find my center of gravity and breathe.

The music commences in a flurry of rising chords. Dizziness sets in, but I take one step, two, then run until the seventh beat. On the eighth, I throw my momentum into a jump, arms splayed like a bird attempting to fly—

Only to tuck inward and allow myself to fall gracefully onto the ground. My head swirls, but I curl in on myself, palms flattened against the mat. Rising in a show of defeat, I give another half-hearted leap, and another, until I am down a final time.

I lie there, the anticipation building, then turn my attention to the ground around me. Rotating onto my back, I glide as if I’m floating through water. Tendrils of flour, now staining the rich blue of the sea, slip from my hand in ripples.

I gather my strength and pull to my feet, twirling onto the edge of the mat. Pain lances through my nerves, but I push it aside.

I wait for my moment, the harmony building into a finale.

I stride forward, my secret already in my palms, and with every ounce of determination I possess, I spring upward.

Arms spread, I release the flour, and with no short amount of satisfaction, I see the Master of Revel’s expression drop into awe as my powder fans into large, billowing wings.

And even as I land, the outline of my triumph lingers in midair a few beats before settling into a soft cloud around my feet.

I breathe out. My heartbeat stutters and my vision swims with stars, dizziness pitching against my mind for a long moment until it clears, but I feel something more that I haven’t in years.

Pride.

I impressed him. Even more, I remembered what it’s like to tell a story without words.

It was something Emilia taught me from her time as an actress—something I implemented when Illian finally allowed me to coordinate my own routines.

The first tale I danced into existence was of a white fox whose fur never grew the lovely golden brown and red hues of autumn, like his friends, and so he set forth to collect color from the Mystical Wood.

Illian loved it so much, he asked that I teach it to a nearby arts academy, and since then, they perform it every autumn’s solstice.

I remember wishing Emilia could’ve seen it. She would have clapped the loudest, would’ve dragged every acquaintance she ever made to a showing. Twice.

There was a time when I loved to dance because it made me feel close to her. It was under the lights of a stage that I kept her with me.

I exhale, turning the lock in my mind, the Master of Revels coming back into focus.

His lips tighten as he watches me. Then he bends, examining the powder.

“It will stain,” I say.

“Then you’ve ruined your outfit.”

“A story worth telling warrants a little destruction.”

As soon as I say it, a bout of nausea grips me, nearly making me lurch as I recall a similar phrase that once left my father’s lips. A lesson worth learning surely warrants a little destruction.

He’d said it after a banquet, when I hadn’t eaten the delicacies the king’s adviser had prepared.

My father had been away for months at an encampment—souls, I’d missed him—and all the excitement and nervousness had stolen my appetite.

But he’d been furious with me. It was an insult capable of jeopardizing his standing, he’d told me, as the newly appointed general of Brisendale’s army.

I hadn’t understood, and so when we returned home, he’d taken my blue-crowned finch from its cage, placed it in my hands, and told me to squeeze, because the only way I’d learn was if I felt the consequences of my actions.

But I couldn’t do it. Not with the ruffle of wings filling my palms or the tiny chirps slipping between the gaps of my fingers. So he did it for me. Grabbed my hand and mashed it with his own. I can almost feel it now—the soft crush of bones, like brittle twigs. The ooze that seeped onto my palm.

I curl my fists, trying not to sway.

“So this is the reason for the mat,” Copelan remarks.

I nod, forcing my thoughts to the present.

“What exactly is this?” He dips the toe of his boot along the scattered flour.

“My own concoction.” It isn’t a lie. Before the journey, I experimented with it, adding powdered dye and finely ground crystals. “I call it ‘ Dust of the Moon. ’ “

His brow lifts, disappearing into his hairline. “Moon dust?”

“I’ll come up with a better name.”

Unlikely.

Again, he stares at me, unsure of what to make of the wisp of a woman standing before him. But I see the shift as he rakes a hand through his hair. “Your movements were stilted. Have you an injury?”

“Something like that.” I don’t want to elaborate, and thankfully, I don’t have to.

“You are untrained,” he says. I’m not surprised he could tell. “Do you have experience in front of a crowd?”

“Festivals aplenty,” I say. “And I danced at the Melune.”

While that’s true, I wasn’t a tenured performer like he will assume.

After arriving on the shores of Miridran at age thirteen, I was alone, starving, and too young to rent a place to live.

Emilia’s ring bought me passage and only enough food to last a few months.

During a particularly nasty storm, after the money had run out, I’d tucked myself under an alcove bracketed by two pillars that nestled into the side of the theater.

The owner of the Melune took pity on me, hiring me as a seamstress and allowing me to make a home for myself among the rafters.

There, I would watch each performance, every rehearsal, picking them apart until I knew every step.

I memorized the criticism, jotting meticulous notes across scraps of parchment.

I practiced until I was perfect, until they allowed me to join the performers onstage.

And when an accident took out a star dancer, I jumped in and saved the performance.

That was the day Illian discovered me.

“The Melune,” the harpist calls, the first I’ve heard from her. “Impressive.”

Copelan paces a few steps, his gaze sliding along my figure. “Would you work with a partner if I requested it?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I haven’t before.” I probably shouldn’t admit it, but he’s made up his mind. I see it in the way his eyes glimmer, the way he now faces me fully, shoulders back, instead of angling away.

This is how I held the king’s favor. By watching him, ascertaining what piqued his interest during my initial performance, and each one after that, whether it was me onstage or someone else.

I read him like a book, memorized his tells.

This man is no different. Men are predictable creatures, after all.

He approaches, corded arms crossed. “All right, Vasalie Moran,” he says.

“I am not your trainer, and I am not your nanny. I will not choreograph your dances; it’s why we bring in only the best here.

But every performance is subject to my approval, and if the Crowns find you lacking, you will be removed from the isle. Am I clear?”

“As glass,” I answer, ignoring the way my anxiety curdles within me. But . . . “What of the other solo dancer?”

“You’ll alternate. Or perhaps,” he says, a smirk inching upward, “I’ll have you coordinate a routine together.”

I’m not sure if he’s mocking me, but I’m too tired to care. The energy I exerted leaves me shaky and weak, and I crave sleep. But King Illian’s first task, however vague, sits in the back of my mind. I want you to befriend the Gathering’s Head of Staff.

Thankfully, Copelan dismisses me with an assistant, who hands me a room key with instructions before snatching my bags, promising she’ll deliver them to my room.

Outside, a cobblestone walkway winds toward the main palace.

Sea-salted air coats my tongue and ruffles the ocean waves at my side, and despite my exhaustion, a new energy threads through my veins as I approach the entryway.

And as I glide inside, I ponder whether I’ve slipped into slumber, because the sight before me is one only a dream could craft.