Page 59 of To Dance with Death

Stoke his attraction.

Deep down, I know he’s right. I know I can do it, too.

But I don’twantto. I don’t feel brave when it comes to Anton. I feel intimidated, hurt, and afraid of the permanence of it. I look at him, and my breath wants to stick in my lungs.

But I can’t let fear stop me from what I need to do. It’s not just my heart at stake, but the world as I know it. Without Anton, we have no way to stop the civil war. Miridran has no hope of standing against my father, because if Anton doesn’t regain his memories and testify before the Syndicate, my fatherwillinvade Razam. And he will find an excuse to push into Miridran thereafter.

I must succeed here before all hope is lost. Only twelve days remain.

“I will try, Sundar.”

He nods. “Drive him a little wild, woman. Use every weapon in your arsenal to do it.”

Every weapon in my arsenal.

I gnaw on my lip as I string together my outfit for the dance the next day, thinking through what, exactly, my weapons are. And then it hits me.

Creativity.

I am not as beautiful as the other souls, even after prepping my skin with that false, shimmering glow. I’m not able to dance the way even mortals do—let alone with the effortless grace of the dead. But I have always been creative. That’s what kept me in the Gathering. That’s what drew Illian’s eye, what earned me my place as the King’s Jewel. He might have figured out who I was quickly, but he could never have given me that title and let me perform in front of hisbest men if I hadn’t proven myself. He never would have believed I could earn my place at the Gathering if I wasn’t good at what I do.

Creativity—my first weapon. My other?

Resilience.

I drag silk over each of my legs, then wrap it around my waist and across my bust. It’s a single stretch of dark fabric, though it’s sewn to appear more like a pair of leggings and a cinched bustier. I had originally made it from a piece meant to fit under another ensemble, and a few quick alterations suited it to my purpose.

I don’t want the swish of extra fabric, the glitz of any other embellishments. Not tonight, when the twin cords of gossamer I quickly braided together, tied to a stick, and dipped in oil will be my prop.

Sundar and I spent yet another fruitless morning in the Abyssal when it should have been anything but. Despite walking my father’s despicable book down shelf after shelf, no more codices glowed blue.

More and more, I notice other codices missing. Arjuna’s book had led Sundar to find Nakula’s codex. But Nakula’s blood sister who had died at a younger age should have been there with his. So why wasn’t it? Then Sundar asked something that, even now, I can’t stop thinking about.

“Vasalie,” he said, “have you noticed that there are no children here?”

Beyond that, my father’s codex lit cerulean when I passed another shelf hours later, only for me to find a glowing, empty slot. When I glanced at the codices around it, I recognized Emilia’s family name.

But Emilia’s codex wasmissing.

Like mine. Like Nakula’s sister.

Sundar was right. This isn’t making sense. Something is off—not just about the Abyssal and missing tomes, but about this whole forsaken lair.

He was right, too, that Anton is our best chance at figuring it out.

The pressure feels insurmountable as I prepare for the evening. I even left the Abyssal early in the afternoon to choreograph my dance. To practice it.

Now I’m wondering if it was a mistake. As I drag myself through the palace, the extra exertion has left my bones quaking with exhaustion. By not rehearsing beforehand last night, I had more energy in the evening, if only a little. Worse still is the burgeoning headache slowly burning its way through my skull. It concerns me more than I’d like to admit—these new, strange headaches. How frequent they are becoming.

But I fight to ignore the pain. I clench my teeth and straighten my spine, dredging up as much determination as I can muster. I need Anton towantto spend time with me. Another dinner. A moment alone.Something.

I have to find answers—about Moranya, about the missing codices—or at least plant a seed of doubt in him about it all. But I must do so without tipping him off.

Eleven days left, each one seeming to disappear faster than the last.

Tonight’s soirée takes place in the highest tier of the palace where several rotundas connect through a network of bridges, each domed and columned in arcades but open to the crisp, starless night breeze. Souls congregate under each one, and large, potted plants sway in the wind. The party is in full swing, a congruence of music harmonizing from multiple directions.

We are so high up that the aurora’s fringe along the skyline looks near enough to touch, faint tendrils of azure flickering just off the walkway’s bone-white stonework rail. Almost like clouds sinking down upon a mountain, while stretches of it rise at a higher elevation. In the distance, spires seem to pierce the nonexistent heavens.