Page 30 of To Dance with Death

Back in the study, I curl into the tall wingback chair and wrap a blanket around my shoulders, small sobs rattling free from deep within my chest.

I feel as though my heart has been picked apart, one seam at a time, with every reminder of our time on Anell. How similar this place feels, despite everything. It’s as if I’m a pane of glass, removed from the mosaic of his life.

Like I no longer exist at all.

And there’s no sign of Moranya. Or even Emilia. In the mortal land, twenty-seven days remain before my father wins—if time even runs the same in this world. Queen Sadira is surrounded by enemies. The clock is ticking.

I feel the weight of the world, like I’m anchored to the bottom of the sea, my body too weak to break free and reach the surface.

It’s morning when I wake. I only know because the azure haze of this place has lifted into a pale periwinkle. The dawn is soft yet without a sun, but sheaves of light layer over the sky, not unlike the aurora we used to see in the north. But instead of emerald, this one yawns to life in shades of cerulean and the softest gold, like melted butter.

Nothing else stirs outside save for the waterfall’s soft churn, but I don’t dare gaze at that balcony again. Instead I glance around the study, which is clearly in use.

I slide into the chair before the desk, only to find a heap of fabricin its seat. It’s a thin, silky material, threaded with jade beads along the sleeves and collar, with more running in lines all the way down the robe.

Then the aroma hits me, making it clear exactly who it belongs to—the sweet tang of a clementine, the undercurrents of salt and spice.

Anton.

It must have fallen from the back of the chair.

Despite what I saw, I can’t help but drape it over my shoulders and curl into it, a new wave of longing swelling within me. I wonder how often he comes here, and why. What it is he might be reading.

I reach for one of the books there on the edge of the desk.

The tome has no title, and the same with the others scattered near it, the spines empty save for loops and flourishes of gold embossing. Even so, I crack the first open, tracing my finger across lines of text. It details someone’s birth—a name I don’t recognize. I flip forward several pages, only to find the words disappearing.

Frowning, I turn back to the first page and skim.

Only then do the words appear on the second page.

Understanding dawns. You can’t skip ahead. To read, you must go in order.

I grab another tome, then another, flipping through the beginning. Each records another soul, though I recognize none of the names inside.

These are…logs of people’s lives. They vary in size, too, which I assume correlates to how long a subject lived.

Has Anton brought them all here himself? And if so, from where? What could he be looking for?

Toward the end of each book, the paper is thicker and slightly darker, like textured parchment. I hinge one open again, expecting these pages to be blank, too, only there are words penned here, the ink red as blood. At first, I think it’s the finale. The tale of the person’s death. Only it isn’t.

It’s their sins, outlined one by one, along with the verdict of their station.

I remember, then, what Dahlia told me.

He is the only one who can permit a soul into a higher tier, too. That’s what the appeals are for.

Perhaps he references these tomes to help guide his decisions?

And yet…has Moranya really handed him the keys to this place? Given him this much authority—or all of it, for that matter? Why?

Is she really so absent?

I need to see for myself.

With newfound vigor, I make haste across the bridge again and through the palace halls, skipping past the doors of a residential wing—which I realized only after barging in on two sleeping souls by accident, because apparently souls sleep? I learn the look of the bedrooms, at least: the smaller, brightly colored doors, all facing the mountain, the hallways lined with plush carpets. They’re stacked on top of one another, each floor like the last. There are darker doors scattered between the bedrooms, however, and when I try them, each one opens into another black void. When I reach out my hand, I feel nothing but cold, still air, absent of a breeze.

It isn’t until I reach the main corridor that I find the palace milling with souls.