Page 63 of A Dance of Lies

Pulling a chain of keys from his tunic, Laurent halts in front of two double doors that stretch so high I can barely see the architrave above, embellished with gold-dusted plasterwork. A lone guardstands to the right, but he doesn’t so much as acknowledge our presence.

“Your idea, your responsibility to ask. Besides, His Majesty made mention of just howentertaininghe finds you,” Laurent adds, waggling a brow. “I doubt he’d deny you anything.”

My cheeks catch fire. “Morta’s teeth, Laurent. That isn’t—”

He jams the key into the lock, swings open the doors, and nudges me inside.

The moment I step through, he pulls them shut, abandoning me.

“Traitor,” I mutter under my breath, but when I turn, I choke on a swallow.

I spin slowly, but the view doesn’t change. Gold curtains fall in luxurious sheets between wide, gilded columns. The ceiling vaults hundreds of feet high, complete with a large, glasswork sun positioned like a chandelier, its spokes waving outward like ribbons in water, each one glowing under the skylights as if it were the real, noonday sun. And the floor—

It’s moving.

No, not moving. It’s water underneath stained, cobalt glass. I am standing above apool.

My stomach sinks to my toes, causing me to sway.

How I’m going to dance on this, I have no idea. Nor do I know what I’m supposed to do next, because the room is empty. No sign of the smug, self-indulgent king who was supposed to be here.

A curtain to my left rustles slightly as if blown by a breeze. Except there’s little airflow here. I approach warily. Then a sound—something that sounds suspiciously like a snore.

Surely I didn’t just hear asnore.

But there it is again, ever so faint. I swipe back the shimmering gold curtain. It should come as no surprise when I find Anton there, lounging across a large marble throne as if it were a divan, bare feet pointed straight in the air. If that weren’t enough, two women draped in delicate green silk—no doubt from his Glory Court, drat him—fan him lightly.

And they look all too pleased with their assignment, with no hint of distress. At their feet, Ishu sprawls on a wide cushion, paws outstretched. She slits open one eye at me, unconcerned—as are the women, one of whom has the nerve to shush me.

But then the other leans close to Anton’s ear. “Your Glorious Majesty,” she says softly.

He jolts awake, only to notice me and sag back into his throne, a ring-clad hand thrown across his forehead. “Morta’s bum, what time is it?”

“Half past noon,” I say bitterly, unable to restrain myself.

With a groan, he stretches and eases upward, his hair disheveled about his neck. Ishu mimics him with a stretch of her own as he says, “Ladies, you may retire.” The women curtsey so low I roll my eyes. Then I realize I haven’t done so myself. It feels too late now.

Once they leave, he dons his boots, lacing up each one before finally acknowledging me. “Please accept my most sincere apologies; the Council of Trades was such a bore, it put me right to sleep.” He smooths his wrinkled jerkin before adjusting the sleeves. “I am at your service, Miss Moran.”

“My apologies, Sire,” I say, batting a hand where his attendants departed from, “for interrupting whateverthatwas.”

I am not sorry.

“Perhaps you should have joined me. Running you ragged, are they? Or perhaps you are still recovering from my banquet?”

My pulse jumps at the mention, but I keep my voice steady. “It is my pleasure to serve the Crowns however I can.”

For a moment, he merely studies me, a subtle curve to his lips—lips that contain a multitude of secrets. Ironic, now, because instead of him finding mine, I’ve found his. Only yesterday, I had been in his tunnels.

Leisurely, he descends the steps at the base of the throne. “What is it you’ve come to ask of me? Or is it the venue you wished to see?” He strolls toward me, forcing me to stagger backward.

Except he doesn’t slow. My back hits a column, my breath ratchetingin my throat as he looms over me, arching a single brow. “Miss Moran,” he says. “Pardon, if you please. You are blocking the rope.”

My face goes hot. I sweep to the side, and he snags a tasseled rope from beside me. “Welcome to the Hall of Thrones, Minnow.”

One by one, the curtains lift. Each reveals a large, high-backed throne protruding from the marble wall, and at their feet, rows of steps encircle the whole of the hall.

No, not steps, but benches, embedded with cushions for each seat.