Page 120 of A Dance of Lies

And I want to disappear into the floorboards. I may have agreed to work with him, but he said nothing about interfering with our performance.

“Your Majesty,” Copelan tries. “We wouldn’t wish to inconvenience you—”

“Nonsense,” Anton drawls. Swiping a piece of apple from his waistcoat, he slaps Copelan on the shoulder like one would a friend. “Let’s walk through the ideas you have and go from there.”

Copelan, looking as if he’s on the brink of exploding, glares my way as if to say,This is all your fault.“We’re styling it around the Carasia Gardens.”

The Carasia Gardens aren’t gardens in the traditional sense. It refers to long swathes of ivory wildflowers that bloom in the summer and fall and grow like weeds all through winter, only to die upon the arrival of spring when rain sluices the land. They carpet the southern border of Miridran’s three territories and stretch all the way up into the mountains. Most people, farmers especially, consider them a nuisance.

Anton must agree. “Weeds? You’re telling me you intend to represent Miridran through the weeds that fester through our lands like a plague?” His teeth, once more, crunch into that apple.

Copelan’s face reddens. “I assure you, the choreography and music will be quite spectacular—”

“I’m sorry, Master Reveler Copelan, but the answer is no.”

“The planning is well under way,” Copelan pushes back. Bold, especially for him. “The outfits are already in production, as are the props, the music. Shifting now would be impossible—”

“Eremis and the Fate of Morta,” I blurt.

Copelan’s eyes slide to mine, narrowing, but I ignore him. “Eremis was Miridranian, and his story is our most legendary tale. Even you, Sire, pay homage to the Fate of Morta throughout this palace. If we must shift our plan, we could repurpose what we’ve acquired so far.”

“Do go on,” Anton says, a grin playing on his lips.

By the look of it, Copelan thinks we planned this, Anton and I. Especially after finding my clothes. I try not to grimace as I ask, “The white silk costumes that have been finished are supposed to mimic the flowers, no?” It’s the first performance that would unite all the dancers—another of my ideas.

His lips flatten, but he nods.

“We can keep them, use them to depict the Souls in the tale. And Eremis can wear anything depending on what version we decide on.”

“And the Fate of Morta?” Copelan asks dryly, pretense be damned, as if he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.

“Leave the gown to me,” Anton says, eyes sparkling.

“And props will be simple,” I say. “I can walk through staging with our performers today.”

“Whatever else you need, draw up a list and I will see it done.” He tosses the apple core to Copelan as he strides off, only to pause on the threshold. “Vasalie, a word?”

I don’t dare look at Copelan’s face.

I step out, joining Anton in a nearby alcove with a small window open to the glistening sea. When I look up, his usual arrogance fades into something softer.

“I came to answer the question Basile so brusquely interrupted.”

“You . . . came to explain your Glory Court?” I ask, unbelieving.

He glides his hands into his pockets. “It’s a healing house. A refuge for those who need shelter and protection. It’s simple, really. We orchestrate a seemingly forceable seizure—enough to be credible by whoever is a danger to them.”

But if that’s the case . . . “The ones who go missing. What about them?”

“Not so much missing as relocated, new identity intact. A strategy we use when they cannot return to their homes. You may confirm this with Laurent. His sister spent time there herself as a glassblowing instructor.”

“You’re telling me the rumors are for show?”

“Indeed, and it must stay that way.”

“So those who you purchased in Estienne’sauction. . .”

“They were offered the very best of accommodations until they can reintegrate into society, which I will help them do. They are free,” he says. “And I wish that for you, too.”