Page 131 of A Dance of Lies

“And remember,” Illian shouts over his shoulder, “not a word, my Jewel.”

I launch my weight toward him, my vision sparking like the end of a torch. I want to rip him apart. Dig my nails into his face and shred it until there’s nothing left but blood and bone.

But my strength is no match for Illian’s guards. One grabs a handful of my hair and jerks. “Stand straight,” a feminine voice hisses into my ear. “Walk on your own legs or I’ll drag you down the hall by your braid.”

My pulse pounds against my skull. The guards press tight on either side of me; I have no choice but to walk on.

When we reach my room, one barrels in ahead of me. “What in Morta’s Lair is this?”

The other guard lugs me inside, and I hold in my gasp. In the center of my room is the bust with the Fate of Morta gown, gleaminglike moonlight against black, jagged waves, a hooded cloak draping over the ensemble.

They managed to deliver it.

I take a shaky breath, steadying myself as my guards circle it like vultures.

“Don’t you dare touch it,” I hiss. “It’s a costume, designed specifically for the upcoming dance. If you so much as pull the wrong thread, it could fall apart.” A lie, or maybe it isn’t, but I don’t want their filthy hands on my dress.

But then I notice something different about it. I wait until the guards are distracted, leafing through my room as if to find damning evidence or some nonexistent passageway, one knocking against every last stone in the souls-forsaken wall.

I tug down the hood.

Underneath is a silver circlet ornamented with twining glass, and on the front, two opposing obsidian shards jut up proudly.

No, not shards. Daggers, the apex of their blades forming a point.

I cannot protect you. But I can arm you.

I press my finger to one of the blades.

It moves within the frame.

I’m herded to our final practice the next day like a muzzled ox, my guards crowding me with every step, and only when I reach the Dance Hall do they allow me room to breathe.

“One word, one wrong move,” one whispers in my ear, “and you’ll be dragged from this hall in chains.”

Our performance uses a multitude of performers, who Copelan directs in turn.

He makes a point to avoid me.

Whether it’s fear of retaliation from Illian or simply shame, I don’t know. Perhaps the knowledge of my past, the lies Illian told, disgusts him. Still, I sear him with my gaze, knowing he can feel it,and bide my time, praying my friends weren’t caught in those tunnels.

My friends, who I do not deserve, but who have lent me their kindness all the same. As I tossed and turned last night, sick with worry, I decided that—for them—I would fight back. I would destroy myself to protect them. Because Emilia had fought for me, and Copelan had not.

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 onesinglebeat 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.