Page 96 of A Dance of Lies

Copelan idles near the stage inside the Dome Hall, almost as if I’d summoned him. He’s surrounded by performers. Even so, I race to him, barely containing my excitement.

When he notices me, he excuses himself and pulls me into a private alcove that opens into a small, covered veranda. Bougainvillea crawls along the walls, festooning the balustrade and columns, one of which I lean against as I compose myself.

A salt-kissed breeze sweeps in to ruffle our clothes. Courtiers flit by on a passing walkway, fragments of alarmed conversation drifting past us.

“I was about to look for you,” he begins.

“I have an idea,” I cut in. It feels like a victory to say those words again. Despite everything, the creativity is like a rush. A breath of air when my lungs felt starved for it.

I lay out my ideas in a string of breaths.

He watches me, his expression inscrutable. It is my first inclination that something is wrong. And finally, when I finish, he scrubs his hair. “I appreciate that, Vasalie. I really do.”

I blink at him. “But?”

“But I’ve decided to give you that night off. You won’t have to perform the signature dance. You may enjoy the evening as a member of the audience.”

My brows knit. “I don’t understand. Just this afternoon—”

“I know,” he says. “But you can relax now. I’m sure you need it.”

Perhaps, but I don’t care for someone else dictating what I can or cannot do. That, and it feels like a deflection. “Will you perform alone, then?”

Copelan’s gaze slips from mine, and I realize, then, what he intends. It’s like a blow to the chest. “Esmée,” I say.

“Try not to take it personally. You and I will still perform the next signature dance in just over a week.” And then, noting my expression, he says, “It wasn’t my choice, Vas. It was a request from Princess Aesir.”

You can keep your pup for now, if you manage to hang on to him.

I swallow, my fingers curling into fists. “And you agreed?” I shouldn’t be angry; it isn’t his fault. But I can’t help it. For once, I want someone to deny Illian something he wants.

“Of course I did, Vas. She’s aCrown.”

“One of many. And you’re the Master of Revels. You don’t answer to her alone. You could have told her others requested that it beus.You and me.” I know it’s irrational. It’s jealousy, and I have no right. I denied him. I turned him away. But when he held me earlier, I hadn’t realized just how much I needed that comfort.

I need it still. I need those arms, need to be held. I need to dance with him, because it’s the only thing holding me together.

My heart is pounding, throbbing.

I am losing him.

“My hands are tied, Vasalie,” Copelan says. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, my composure disintegrating, especially as I remember the way he beheld her. He doesn’t look at me like that. Not with that particular type of yearning, something that runs deeper than infatuation, deeper than lust. “You want this,” I say. “I can see it.”

“So what if I do?” he throws at me, irritation surfacing. “Esmée is a friend.”

Or more.

“At least answer me this,” I say. “King Illian. He was the one who took her away, wasn’t he?”

“I can hardly fault him for seeing her talent,” he says, though I don’t miss the grimace he tries to hide.

“Do you really think Esmée’s arrival is mere coincidence?” The words—they’re spilling between my teeth before I can catch them. “And what about that cosseted, self-imposing princess? Haven’t you ever stopped to wonder what her intentions might be?”

“Vasalie,” Copelan warns. “You forget yourself.”

“Answer the question!”