Page 122 of A Dance of Lies

Illian, for his part, idles nearby, speaking with two Serain lords, no doubt trying to sow the seeds of doubt against his brother and Razam both. Only they seem distracted by the festivities.

And me, as I dance.

Seeming to give up, he slinks away soon after.

I finish my performance—a slow, artful dance to a harpist’sstrum, subtle slips of millen glittering about my hips as I release them.

Despite the steady pace, sweat still clings to my brow. The slower songs prove the most difficult, each movement requiring a precision I barely achieve. Afterward, I perch on a bench and rub the numbness from my calves, then check the pins holding my chignon. The ocean lies unusually tranquil, a pane of glass mirroring the starlit night.

An emissary from Kasim approaches. Her blue-black hair is longer than mine but swept into a high arrangement, her floor-length organza vest cinched at the waist. She lifts the backs of my fingers to her lips, then removes them—the Kasimi sign of appreciation. “Pardon, but my friend and I have been longing to know the inspiration behind your dance. The powder, specifically.”

“Oh,” I say, forcing myself to stand, straightening the copper hem of my lapis silk dress, fringed just above my knees. I scramble for an answer that might appease her.

Then I wonder why I have to hide it at all. Perhaps it’s an act of defiance, a small glimmer of my rage, but I find myself telling her the truth. “I have a condition that makes movement rather difficult,” I explain. “I can’t dance the way I used to, so I needed an element of creativity to allow me to perform.”

As I say it aloud, a glow of pride falls over me.

I did that.

And it makes me feel as though . . . as though I not only accept myself as I am now, but I’m proud of it. I’m proud of surviving, of persisting, despite my pain.

“And this is . . . ?” She takes my hand, dabbing a finger on my palm, where a smattering of millen still lingers. It isn’t meant to be rude; in Kasim, a casual touch is as natural as breathing, their culture one of respect.

“Millen, actually. A flour created here in East Miridran.”

“Ah!” says another Serain courtier, joining in excitedly, her tight black curls strung with tourmaline stones. “That’s Lord Bayard’sdoing! He told the story just the other night; he discovered the girl who came up with the process for grinding its stalk.”

Gustav.

He was the one who found Marian.

“How very clever of you to think to use it in such a way,” the Kasimi emissary says.

A new song picks up, jaunty in its rhythm. Excitement sweeps over the deck as couples pair up, readying to dance, including the two emissaries I just met, giggling as one embraces the other and leads her away.

Surprise bubbles through me when I feel an arm around my waist.

Then Anton is luring me into the throng.

“Sire, what are you doing?” I rasp, scanning the crowd, but Illian is nowhere to be seen.

Anton leans in, his gaze radiant beneath the dancing of light. “Playing into my façade, Minnow. This is nothing if not believable for me.”

He guides my arm over my head.

We’re but two bodies engulfed in a multitude of them, I assure myself.

We circle each other. He’s practically glowing, a canvas of ivory from his tunic to his pants, like a pearl against the night. Gold hangs from his neck and ears. My knees go weak—even more with the skill at which he moves me through the dance. It unfolds like a spirited waltz, only more vigorous. I twirl away, then spin back into the crook of his arms.

He’s grinning his customary grin, his cheeks charmingly dimpled.

I swallow the desire burgeoning within me, the joy—pretend it away.

On cue, he lowers me into a dip.

“By the way,” he says, his breath ghosting my clavicle, “did I evertell you I took dancing lessons? One of my many favorite pastimes growing up.”

With that, he lifts me upright, whirls me away—