Page 10 of A Dance of Lies

He has not appointed another Jewel.

He did not replace me.

I turn, the breath stuck in my chest, my ears ringing as I approach a set of slender double doors. My fingers trail the molding before reaching for a rose-shaped knob. It’s cool against my hands, and when I turn it, the squeak of dry hinges echoes along the corridor.

I step inside.

Dust sifts through the air, swirling against the plume of my breath.

The curtains are open along all the windows, and sunlight lacquers the dark wooden floor. Above hangs an unlit glass chandelier shaped like a rose in bloom—a present from King Anton, Illian’s younger brother, once the renovations on this palace were complete. A palace that, while dating back decades, was a mere winter getaway before Illian took up residence.

But this rose is the only trace of either of Illian’s brothers in this place, and I suspect it’s why Illian abandoned this room for years before he gave it to me. He has no love for either, but especially King Anton, who reigns over Miridran’s eastern territory.

Because Illian was supposed to inherit all of Miridran, not just the third he did.

It was the one subject he never broached with me—a sore spot, from what I could tell. But I’d gleaned snippets of the story during my time in the palace. Illian had always been primed, as crown prince, to rule Miridran as its sole king. For a reason I never discerned, King Estienne, Illian’s older brother, was set to abdicate the throne long before either of the princes were crowned.

Then, twelve years ago, King Junien, Illian’s father, decided to split his kingdom into three distinct territories and divide these among his sons instead. Each territory would be responsible for its own trade and economy, while the army would act as one unit rather than three. He announced it at a Gathering before the Crowns’ Syndicate on Estienne’s name day—and crowned him on the spot. Estienne was gifted with Miridran’s central territory, leaving the western territory for Illian once he came of age two years later.

And the east, which Illian loved most, was reserved for Anton.

More than once, I overheard Illian complaining about his youngest brother, namely his arrogance, his debauchery, and, most of all, his greed. That so many adored Miridran’s youngest king, and his hedonism, disgusted Illian.The multitudes who overlook his vices only do so because he keeps their chalices full.

I assume relations between them are still tense. If I make it into the Gathering, I suppose I’ll see firsthand.

Still, it was here, under this rose, that I practiced. Rehearsed. Orchestrated steps and planned my shows. It was here that I dreamed. This small, abandoned ballroom at the end of a quiet hall was a gift from Illian after a long night spent impressing two dignitaries from foreign lands—all the while ignoring their jabs and jeers, the comments labeling me his pleasure princess, and a pitiful replacement for his former favored dancer. In addition, he gifted me a title he hadn’t yet offered to anyone else.

His Jewel.

But I’d earned my place without entering his bed.

For enduring their cruelty with grace, Illian escorted me here the next morning. He had it cleaned and swept free of dust, the mirrors polished, the floors cleared.For you,he’d said, as I gawked at a space so drenched in light it felt almost ethereal.And one day, I’ll give you so much more.

Like the lonely, gullible girl I was, I believed him. It was so easy back then. He made me feel adored. Just enough attention, the right amount of praise, that I always craved more. And it was a craving he often fulfilled in the most lavish of ways. Diamonds for my ears. Gold quatra snuck into the pockets of my costumes. A bracelet, engraved with my name.

Whispered promises that layered onto one another—a currency in themselves.I will give you more.

Anger swells inside me and, with it, determination. Pushing back against the ache in my ribs, I straighten and walk to the center of the room. There I settle onto the floor and stretch, following my old routine. The one I tried to do in my cell, even as my body deteriorated. First my feet, then my calves—

A loose board shifts beneath my weight.

It can’t still be here, can it? I move aside, hesitantly sliding my fingernails underneath the wood. Splinters needle my flesh, but I pry until it comes loose.

Inside, a tiny lump of white velvet and fur sleeps right where I left it.

I lift the fabric, then cradle it against my cheek. I run it along my nose, my lips, covering the hitch of my breath.

It still smells like her.

It was the only thing of Emilia’s I couldn’t bring myself to sell—this one, single glove. Both had been in the bag she’d packed for me, but one had gone missing, and no matter how hard I had searched for it, it never surfaced. I had been devastated, because—oh, I loved them so. She had worn them the first time I met her, a lifetime ago. A girl no more than twenty-five, lost in fur and dripping with pearls, my father’s diamond engulfing her finger. At eight years old,I had been determined to hate her. I hadn’t even wanted to meet her.I don’t need a new mother,I’d told her. And she’d answered,I know, but how about a friend?

Emilia.

Emilia.

My chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” I tell her—my chorus throughout the years. “I’m so sorry.” I repeat it now in broken whispers until I’m starved for air. I’d hidden her glove there years ago to remind me why I was here—why I worked and strived and danced until my muscles tore and swelled. Why I ignored the comments and glares. The jealous courtiers. Their husbands and the way they cornered me when Illian wasn’t looking.

It was all for Emilia, once.