Page 50 of To Dance with Death

“For you, he might,” Sundar insists.

“He would be suspicious!”

“Maybe, or maybe he isn’t so tight-lipped as you think—”

“You try to talk to him, then,” I say, exasperated.

“If he still believes my mother betrayed him, he’s certainly not going to talk tome.But I’m telling you, Vas, he isn’t as disinterested in you as you seem to believe. Feelings can’t vanish as easily as memories do.”

“Sundar, it’s been days of this. Days of him looking away, not caring, finding pleasure in anyone but me—”

“I just can’t believe it, Vasalie. I—”

“Please,” I breathe, my heart speeding. “Can’t we focus on finding his codex?” It’s far safer than risking my heart to try to get close to him in that way.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Sundar sighs. “Fine. But I think you are underestimating yourself. And that makes me sad.”

Chapter Sixteen

I leave Sundar for the Modiste’s Hall, promising to meet him in the pavilion.

We spent far too much time in the Abyssal, meaning I am wholly unprepared for tonight. Swallowing thickly, I cast a searching gaze around the Modiste’s Hall for anything that might spark an idea. There are racks of gowns, jewels, accessories, but nothing I haven’t used before.

It helped seeing Anton through Sundar’s eyes, but it doesn’t erase what I’ve witnessed thus far. He’s so different, and yet—I glimpsed the Anton I knew in that throne room. The Anton I fell for.

I think that’s the worst part.

Spouting a frustrated huff, I snatch a silky dark blue dress. It’s less fabric than I feel comfortable in—an angular, V-shaped bust, the back dipping below the arch of my spine. The only splash of color is on the flare of the skirt—sapphire beads that crackle outward in the shape of flames, almost as if the end has caught fire.

Fire.

The beginnings of an idea—or a curiosity, rather—kindles.

I tread toward one of the several bobbing lights that float midair. There are many of them throughout the palace, lining the halls likesconces or dancing along walkways. This one is centered midway along a row of shelves displaying a treasure trove of jewelry.

A closer inspection tells me that it isn’t actually fire, even though its white-blue light twists and undulates within the glass globe the same way fire might. Even so, I press a finger to the glass, expecting heat. Instead it’s cool to the touch. I reach inside the small opening just above its base on one side. There’s oil at the bottom, a minuscule pool of it, the middle containing a wick. The not-flame coils softly atop, like silk in the wind.

I dab my finger into the oil. That, at least, is like what I might find in our mortal world—thick, viscous. Slippery.

The flame itself is a burning, albeit bearable, cold. When I brush my finger against it, a trail of it catches onto the oil as if I were a candlewick.

Taking a breath, I blow it out.

The pavilion is flush with laughter that rings from every direction along with the heady smell of spirits and wine. I find myself extra irritated by it, fatigued as I am in every way—body, soul, and mind. All I want to do is lie down. Sleep, maybe forever. Too bad that’s not exactly what death offers.

I spy Sundar idling near the table, cramming a wedge of magenta fruit into his mouth. He winces when he sees me, then offers a meager, not-so-reassuring nod. I bypass him, taking stock of the pavilion. It looks a little different this evening, almost themed. Tonight it is decked out like a woodland, with garlands of perennial blooms strung from the ceilings. Antlers and sprigs burst from large urns. The Exalted are decadent in vests of velvet and moss and gowns of silk-made hostas and peonies, their crystalline jewelry scalloped like drops of dew.

Anton leans against a column near the back, partially hidden in shadow. Dahlia lingers at his side again, her dress composed of ahundred magenta phlox hugging her luxurious curves. I look away when her hand comes to rest on his hip.

I refuse to look at him even when I curtsy and announce my presence.

“Climbing the table was a nice touch,” he says to my back the moment I turn away. “I wonder, will you swing from the rafters next?”

I swing around. His profile is limned in a haze of azure, a bauble of light bobbing at his right. I wasn’t going to do this here, not in such close proximity. But my spite boils over.

I snatch the bauble next to him and smash it against the ground. Crunch it with the sole of my slipper—a crunch for every ounce of frustration I feel toward him. His attitude, his complacency. The way he’s no longer himself, and yet heis,and all this is happening because…