Page 32 of A Dance of Lies

Senses.I plaster my hands on the floor, feeling the grit of stone beneath my palms—

My body goes rigid at the sound of a knock.

“Vasalie, open up.”

Copelan.

I groan and rise from the floor, a flurry of stars crackling into my line of sight. I fumble with the knob and open the door, only for Copelan to take one look at me—at the kohl now smudged beneath my eyes like a bruise, the way I’m leaning against the precipice for balance—and frown. “You’re drunk,” he says. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. I thought you’d have more sense than that.”

I open my mouth to refute him, but what could I say? That I am weak because I spent the last two years of my life fettered and imprisoned—and for murder no less? That the only reason I am here is so that I can do whatever foul bidding King Illian foists upon me?

“Foolish girl,” he spits, and something inside me sinks. My trembling body follows suit, and I slide to the floor.

See me,I plead silently—hopelessly. But I know he won’t.

With what sounds like a growl, he stalks over to a small table with a pitcher of water, splashes it into a glass, then shoves it into my hands. “Drink.”

His jaw is tight, pulsing. I grip the glass, the room tilting as I fight to remain upright enough for a sip.

“The whole thing,” he adds, and when I obey, he pours a second. “Another.”

Is it concern for my well-being? The guilt of leaving me here? I’m too disoriented to put it together.

I force down the second to appease him, humiliation heating my cheeks when a queasy ripple sends it back up my throat. It sprays from my lips, splattering across stone. I swipe away my sweat-drenched hair, shaking.

Two arms lift me gently from the floor and deposit me on my bed, voice fraying with still-apparent fury. “Sleep it off. Tomorrow, we’re going to have a talk, and not a pleasant one.”

I should fret over his words. I should beg his forgiveness. I should try to explain, find some excuse, because Copelan could send me packing and I would be finished—both here and everywhere else.

But exhaustion has turned my brain and body to mud. Tomorrow, I will face the consequences. Tomorrow, I will convince him to keep me on. Tomorrow, I will surely receive my next order from King Illian, and I will carry it out, no matter what—because with-out this chance, I have nothing.

So I stay silent as Copelan sets the glass beside me and shuts the door, enclosing me in darkness.

Chapter Nine

Breakfast presents itself in platters arranged along the narrow tables of the dining hall. I skip the fruit and head for the cheese, layering it on a small loaf of bread with Brisendali plum conserve, despite knowing I won’t manage more than a few bites. But I can’t resist. It reminds me of home. Of Emilia.

But before I can sit, Copelan catches my eye and jerks his head toward the door. I groan inwardly, abandoning my food to follow after him as he lopes down the hall until it empties into a secluded garden somewhere in the center of the palace.

Hyacinth vines lattice the outer walls, the petals so vivid they could make for a perfect dye. A fresh, cool breeze gathers their perfume, funneling it around us along with a flurry of petals and fallen leaves. The Dome Hall looms high above, its stained glass canopy diffusing the early sun into glitter.

Copelan halts in an alcove next to a trickling fountain, pushing a hand through his hair before spinning to face me.

“I should have you removed.” An angry flush splotches his neck and cheeks. “You’ve given me not one, not two, but multiple reasons to throw you out.”

He’s right, of course. I dismissed his rules and involved a Crown,no less. I touched King Anton without permission, and I could have caused a grievous offense on Miridran’s behalf toward Brisendale. Worse, Copelan found me in what he assumed was a stupor last night.

“I know,” I admit. “You have every right, and you probably should.”

He glares at me, hard, a ray of sun limning his eyes. “So you agree?”

It’s more than anger, I realize. He’s actually upset, and it startles me. I lean against a trellis, idly plucking a nearby leaf. It’s not that we’ve grown close, exactly, but we opened up to each other in a way. I suppose it’s hard to avoid when everything we do is physical, intimate in a way others wouldn’t understand, our proximity demanding a level of vulnerability I hadn’t expected. I’ve felt every hard plane of his body; he’s touched every curve of mine. A strange kind of connection pulls taut between us, however new.

Still, I don’t know him, not really. And he certainly doesn’t know me.

But if I want to stay here, I have to offer him something real. So I hand him a partial truth steeped in the same vulnerability he expects of my dance. “I wanted to make an impression. I made the wrong one, but I saw an opportunity and I acted; it’s the only way I know how to perform. Otherwise, I am lost. Forgotten. Swept aside for those who are more trained, more practiced. I only ever succeed when I take a risk.”

A memory contours in my vision—the time I first performed for Illian. I was meant to dance in the background, a backdrop for Esmée Fontaine, the prodigy who everyone knew was his favorite for a time—until she lost her position for some unknown reason.