Page 101 of A Dance of Lies

The revelry does not stop after Estienne’s banishment. It doesn’t even pause.

The two days before the next signature dance inch by, during which I avoid the training halls and keep to myself. I perform once for the Kasimi court—a small affair, where I pick up only fragments of gossip about Estienne’s dethroning.

It seems Estienne will be allowed to return to Central Miridran, where he will reside until the Gathering ends. Afterward, he will be afforded an estate in the countryside near his mother’s clan, where he may live out the rest of his life.

That must be how Illian convinced Annais. He promised he wouldn’t harm Estienne, that he would allow him to return with her. I wonder if he will stay true to his word.

But Estienne’s rulership is revoked. The Miridranian court, I hear, will spend the next few days deciding how Anton and Illian will divide his territory. I haven’t seen either of them since.

When the day arrives for the third signature dance, the one meant to honor Serai, I consider not going at all. My presence isn’t required. I try to stay away, but curiosity hooks its claws in me and draws me out.

It’s hard to tell where the garden ends and the sky begins.

Thin clouds smear the sunset in swathes of pastel that seem to wrap the glass dome in a cocoon. Reds and golds bleed onto the leaves above, and underneath the trees, the garden is latticed in shadow and color.

Tables are spaced around the center of the garden, draped in linen that sways in the wind. Lanterns hold the tablecloths in place, glowing embers against a receding sun. The slow hum of a violin underscores the chatter of guests.

I stay hidden from view, weaving between the outer trees as the Sky Garden fills with Crowns. They filter in slowly, jovially, and once again, their revelry turns my stomach to stone. Tonight is just another night, as if a king wasn’t dethroned before the entirety of the north.

Ever since, I’ve leafed through my mind, sorting through what I know, what I’ve seen, however inconsequential the clues might seem. The poison that wasn’t fatal. The letters I saw Illian scribe and seal with a ring that wasn’t his own. Laurent’s suspicions.

Then there’s the prophecy, and the blood it foretells. The signs point to a war of some sort. Yet there’s something personal about Illian’s moves.

Maybe the prophecy is real. Maybe Illian is aligned with the Fate of Morta somehow. For all I know, he’s sold her his soul—if such a thing is possible. Either way, I understand him well enough to know which name he hopes to scratch out next. Which brother he wants to wipe from the board. And I might not trust Anton any more than I trust the temperament of a cat, but he’s the only one who can take power from Illian.

And I am going to help him do it.

I pause behind the same lavender willow I’d stood under when Copelan wrapped his arms around me and breathed into my hair.

Until Esmée, that is.

I should not be here. But I want to see how perfect she is, how well they fit together.

I prop myself against the trunk, taking a moment to breathe. To let the willow’s crisp perfume infuse my lungs and soothe my weary soul. To my right, the Fate of Morta fountain trickles faintly, music swelling beyond from the makeshift stage in the center of the garden.

A breeze sweeps about, swaying the branches, and through them, I can see Copelan. He positions himself in the center, and around him, a hundred strands of color unspool from the tree above.

Ribbons.

And with them, a figure descends, lowering little by little.

Esmée.

Her dress is made of the same silk she hangs from, a radiant spectrum of hues. She’s tangled inside a rainbow, using her strength to weave through it.

So they used my idea, then. Down to the attire.

The melody is soft, delicate, befitting the way she moves. She twists, banding silk around her legs, before allowing herself to fall upside-down to the stage in one, graceful swoop.

Copelan takes her wrists.

She pulls him up, up, up into the air.

Locking onto her, he swings himself upward, then flips to wrap his legs around her waist. Chest to chest, they spin together, upside-down in a swirl of emeralds and pinks, golds and blues. Awed murmurs fan out across the audience, sprinkled with applause.

Esmée adjusts the ribbons and they slide to the floor.

Upon landing, they loop separate ribbons around their wrists, then circle each other until they’re going fast, faster—