Page 40 of A Dance of Lies

I swear I even hear hersnort.

They are friends, I realize. Likely more, though she’s twice his age. And her sons, all seven of whom surround them, join in the revelry, springing upward to clink glasses from across the table.

The closest prince detects us when he sits, sneaking me a friendly wink. “Who have you brought us, Gustav?” His bangles clank on the edge of the chair as he twists to shake my hand, and I can’t help but notice he rivals Anton in both embellishment and charm, his dark cotton kantha richly embroidered in azure and gold that matches the layers of necklaces gracing his neck and the gems piercing his lobes.

“No one for you to play with, Your Highness,” Gustav chuckles. To me, he says, “Prince Sundar is Her Grace’s oldest son.” It’s then that King Anton notices us.

“Lord Bayard,” he calls, gesturing us toward two open seats directly across from him. “And my Lady Vasalie. Join us, won’t you?”

My pulse jumps.Lord Bayard?

Illian means me to poison Gustav?

Gustav—another doe-eyed, sweet lord, just like Lord Sarden. The lord I was supposed to have murdered.

Lord Sarden, who was devoted to his young, pregnant wife, who always made a point to smile at those he passed. Who gave most of his earnings away. Illian and I learned as much firsthand when we visited his manor, when I performed at his wedding. When we spent hours at his after-party, conversing, a few weeks before his death. I’d even thought Illian had overlooked the way Lord Sarden had critiqued his stance on Razam and the almost war—an offense I should have known he’d never ignore.

He didn’t perish by my hand, yet his death was blamed on me. But Gustav . . . His will be my fault. After all this time, my punishment will have been warranted. I will deserve worse. So much worse than what was done to me . . .

I jolt at the peculiar way King Anton is regarding me. I force a swallow, shoving my thoughts down with it. Gustav, being the gentleman that he is, tucks me into my seat and tells me about each prince while they engage in lively chatter. Next to Sundar is Mantrin, known for his military prowess alongside his brother, Veer.Then there’s Arjuna, an expert archer, and Tara, whose tunic represents his achievements in astrology. Nakula is on the Queen’s other side, and lastly, Karun, who I’m told is quiet but effortlessly wise and kind. More than once, I’m gifted a smile, even as I have little to add to their conversation.

And I don’t understand. They are treating me as if I’m nobility, not the hired entertainment.

“When will I be performing?” I ask Gustav, biting back the other, more pressing question of how I’m going to perform in this souls-damned gown.

Or how I’m supposed to muster up the nerve to poison him.

King Anton beats him to a response, his cheek dimpling. “Miss Moran, you are here as my guest. There is no need to perform tonight.”

I resist the urge to gape, but only just. Not dancing? Aguest?

He chuckles at my expression. “Relax. Tonight is for revelry, not work,” he decrees, waving a ring-clad hand.

He invites others into his lair to study them.

At that, Gustav passes me a hearty, golden stew that smells of fresh cloves and cardamom, even a hint of cinnamon and fennel, followed by a dollop of bread. “Courtesy of Her Majesty,” he says, bowing in Queen Sadira’s direction.

I spoon some into my bowl, dipping the bread before taking a bite. As I swallow, my eyes meet the queen’s narrow, seemingly disapproving gaze, but then the spices melt together on my tongue, pulling an errant hum from my lips.

A hint of satisfaction flits across the queen’s face before she turns away. My heart does a silly little leap; that almost-smile was pointed at me. Then to King Anton, she says, “Your older brother. Is he un-well?”

I’d almost forgotten about King Estienne, Illian’s older brother. He’d missed the Welcoming, something about a delay, but I’d been too focused to wonder why.

King Anton merely shrugs, plucking a stem of grapes from a nearby tray. “Delayed is the word, but who knows?”

“Not enough room in his carriage for all his wardrobe?” Amusement glitters in the queen’s eyes. “We all know how vain Miridranian kings are.”

My breath hitches. Surely he won’t allow such an open insult.

But he barks a laugh, bumping her shoulder. “We have so many charming qualities; it comes with the territory.”

“Yards and yards of territory,” she quips.

“You shouldn’t complain, My Queen. If I didn’t take such care of my appearance,” he says, plopping his chin on his hand, “you and your sons would be deprived of such a view.”

The meal stretches past sundown, with dishes I’ve never tasted before. I can’t eat much more than a sample from each tray, but Gustav explains each dish, occasionally checking the queen’s response to ensure his pronunciation is accurate. It never is, and laughter spills across the table like wine. It even catches between my teeth until I feel the warm tingle of the vial against my hip, a reminder of my task. I can’t dip the poison into his glass here without being seen, and the delay is the only bit of comfort I have. Still, revulsion swims in the pit of my stomach, snaking up my throat like bile.

All the while, I notice the way King Anton’s gaze lingers on me—more so than on anyone else. I can’t help but think he’s assessing me, like Laurent said. As if my movements, the way I breathe, could give something away.