Page 31 of To Dance with Death

I can’t stay in the outfit I was seen in last night; already the dye is beginning to fade, so I find the Modiste’s Hall first, right where Dahlia said it would be, just inside the dome pavilion. It’s a large space, complete with a lounge at its center, the walls ringed by racks of clothes, broken only by a shelf with bolts of silk and another displaying jewelry and other accessories—bone crowns, ribbons, gemstone tiaras, sashes, and other trinkets I don’t recognize. I am so overwhelmed that I grab the closest gown—a peony-pink ensemble with thin straps and green lace that splits above each thigh, where it’s embroidered with tiny asters.

It seems to mold to my body, as if by magic—as if they’re allmade to do such a thing. The bodice is intentionally loose, cut into a slope that dips down to my collarbone, then slimming to hug my hips. The fabric is so light I feel as if I’m wearing nothing at all. Not to mention, the curve of my back is bare. I steal a faded, sage-green sash and wrap it around myself before meandering out the door.

The scent of spice twists a growl of hunger from my stomach. I wonder if soul food is even suitable for a mortal like me. Even so, I follow the scent, finding a pavilion lined with windows facing the slope of the city on the next floor—the same one I’d seen last night. The same dining table is heaped with fresh platters, the food not so unlike what I might have found in Illian’s palace: pastries, fruits, and spreads of jams.

Anton is still mortal like me, and he must be eating somehow. It affords me the courage to try. Grabbing a slice of bread, I take a tentative bite, and I’m relieved to find it tastes as familiar as sweetdough from Brisendale. And it sits well in my belly—as well as food ever has, at least.

The bottom floor, similar to the rest, is decadent in an odd sort of way—the walls glistening, the view outside the open windows grander than any painting. But there are no actual paintings or curtains, no mosaics or grand displays otherwise save for indoor fountains and a scattering of garniture. I turn another corner, only to pause at the influx of souls forming a line before a set of open doors.

A line that trails down and out of the palace itself.

My breakfast almost rises when I peer inside what looks like a throne room. It’s vast, packed tight with upper-echelon souls hovering gracefully around the outer edges. They observe the line of lesser souls, some of whom are attired in decent robes, others in rags like Illian. They all wait to approach the throne at the far end—

A throne upon which Anton sits, sprawled like the king he is—a vision in dark silk and glittering gems.

I can’t bring myself to look at his face. Not after last night.

Moranya offered him a kingdom, indeed.

I skirt around the Exalted—so apparent in all the finery anddecadence of mortal lords—and slowly make my way toward the dais, careful not to draw attention by staying behind the outer ring of the crowd. The guard-like figures with their reaper’s axes stand at silent intervals past the throne.

I don’t dare draw much closer. But I observe as a woman bows before Anton, her gaze bright with unshed tears.

“Your Majesty, as I told you last week, I was judged to live my life in the Shadows, and I have served this palace faithfully for over a century now, though I believe my judgment was unfair.” Whispers circulate, but she continues bravely. “While it is true that I had an affair, I did so only after my husband cheated on me! Multiple times, I might add, and in the most debasing of manners…”

Anton lifts a book that looks just like the ones in the study, and I realize it must be hers. He flips through the pages at the back, the ones listing her sins, which I’ve gathered are visible without reading the rest.

After a moment, I hear his voice.

“I will review your case. Return in a fortnight, and I will tell you my decision.”

When she leaves, another steps forward. Before she has a chance to speak, he says, “Terra, welcome back.”

“Your Gloriousness,” she whispers, her hands shaking as she awaits his verdict.

“I have reviewed your codex. You were judged a Shadow for a life of thievery, as you confessed to me.” She shuts her eyes, her lips trembling, but then he says, “I see why, however. The food and coin you stole from the wealthy was merely used to feed your starving younger sisters. You never took a thing for yourself. You were careful not to steal from anyone needy. Your actions were motivated not by greed, but by survival. I hereby grant your change in station. You may now walk proudly among the Dignified.”

Again I recall what Dahlia said. This—it was his idea. To reexamine Moranya’s judgments.

To see it firsthand, the tenderness with which he speaks…Myheart swoops in a way that is both heartening and shattering. He is still Anton, even when his goodness—his memories, the recollection of his choices—has been stripped from him.

Though perhaps goodness is not something thatcanbe entirely stripped way—not without losing the very essence of your soul.

“It isn’t fair,” chides a nearby Exalted. “This will disrupt everything.”

“Who is he to judge?” says another.

“Appalling in every way,” hisses one closer to me. “Moranya will not be pleased when she finds out.”

“Moranya lets him do whatever he wants,” says a man in long blue robes. “He even has dominion over every last codex, while we aren’t allowed to so much astouchone, let alone breach the Abyssal.”

The Abyssal?

“Are they even reliable? How do we know he isn’t rewriting them to do as he pleases?”

“They are incorruptible,” says another soul. “Not even Moranya can alter them.”

Even more curious, I draw nearer and see the stack lined up beside the throne. It seems Anton is skimming the list of sins for everyone begging for an appeal. A codex is currently cracked open between his hands.