Page 128 of To Dance with Death

One last evening. He’s already sent word for a dinner to be arranged in the observatory. Fates, he can’t wait for her to see it. Asudden sadness stabs at his heart—souls, having one really is quite the pain—and he presses his hand to it, instinctually.

At least Gustav will take care of her. She will be given anything she desires, provided a place at court—or in the countryside, if she prefers. She will never want for anything again, whether he returns or not.

But he can’t dwell on that, not when he might change his mind, consequences be damned, and bolt himself to her side. Because the thought of not spending his life with her—

Basile clears his throat. “Sire.”

“Yes, right.”

One last time, he glances at her. She’s turned her gaze away, her fingers working her hair into a pretty plait. The sunset gilds the soft slope of her nose and lips, her stray curls lit like a flame. He swallows.

Then he follows Basile out into the hall.

They make it only a few feet before the silence threatens to drown him in sorrow. He glances sidelong at Basile. “I wish you’d talk to me sometimes. Surely you have thoughts rolling around in that beautiful head of yours.”

He knows Basile is unlikely to entertain his goading. He never does—always the stoic protector, refusing to allow distractions. He knows it’s out of care.

Except Basile surprises him, saying, “Do you remember the first time we met, Sire?”

“Do I remember?” Anton barks a laugh. “You looked like I was the worst thing to ever happen to you.”

“You were.”

“I know.”

Basile clears his throat. “I’d heard stories of you. Knew you were a hellion. I couldn’t understand how you could behave in such a way. To put my life on the line for someone who cared so little…Well, to be frank, Sire, I worried I might kill you myself.”

“Amazing sense of self-control.” Anton grins.

“You made me an offer and I couldn’t refuse. If word got out that I’d declined a king…”

“So you accepted, and followed me to Razam without complaint.”

“I complained in my mind,” Basile points out.

“As one does.”

“Do you know when I realized I was wrong about you?” his friend says, glancing at him in return.

“Do tell. I love compliments.”

“It was when you ordered me a meal of katta with tomatoes and dried queenfish. Just the way my mother had prepared it.”

“That was it?” Anton lifts a brow. “Really?”

“I’d mentioned it in passing to another guard, told him what it meant to me and how much I missed her Serain dishes. To note a small detail about me—to bring me something that reminded me of her father’s home…If you cared that much about a citizen you barely knew—a new, unproven guard at that—then you weren’t who I thought you were.”

“I must ask, Basile. Though I’m pleased I won you over with food, why the flattery, and why now?”

“Because I need you to know what you mean to those you serve. That act was one of thousands since, and ones you do for everyone you meet. I wish I could make you understand your value here.”

“Then you’re really not going to like what I’m about to do,” Anton murmurs under his breath—then pauses. “The crown. I forgot the crown.” His crown, that he was about to give to Gustav again—except much more officially this time. Anton pivots on his heel. “I’ll be right back—”

“Sire, surely it isn’t necessary,” Basile says, but Anton’s already racing down the hall, his steps quick. When he reaches his workshop, he throws the doors open, only to freeze.

“Vasalie?”

He glances first from the tears in her eyes to the pendant around her neck. Then her hands, holding both the mirror and the resin.