Page 67 of To Dance with Death

He is paler than he was on the isle, what with the lack of a real sun. Still, there’s something about his complexion that feels gilded, as if he were encased in citrine. Even the smooth, rigid planes of his stomach and chest hold a sheen that’s all his, whereas mine is in danger of fading; the water will wash the shine from my skin.

Still, I can’t help the way my eyes cling to him. The hands I long to hold. The arms I’d give anything to curl into.

“I vowed not to defile you,” he says, noticing the way I’m standing like a tree, rooted. “So join me for a quick swim. The water should do wonders for your muscles. It will take the pressure off and help with the pain.”

Of course he noticed. And he’s right. I imagine it will help, yet I can’t seem to move. Unclothed, he will see all of me—my scars, the patches of reddened skin, the steep, exaggerated curve of my spine. So many imperfections, unlike his souls.

“I am not in swimming attire, Sire,” I rasp. “I—I think I will just watch from here.”

“Vastianna.”

“Vasalie,” I say without thinking, just under my breath.

At that, he cocks his head.

For a moment, I think perhaps it’s triggered a memory, but then he asks, “A nickname?”

“Something like that.”

If anything, Vasalie feels more fitting to who I am. Who he knew me as.

Or perhaps it’s that Vastianna represents the heiress, the daughter who must face down her father and help save the world. There’s still a part of me that feels afraid of her.

“You have underthings, Vasalie,” he says. “I can see their outline. Those will suffice, will they not?”

I rifle through my mind, searching for any excuse, but none comes.

With a heavy sigh, I peel off my costume, unbuttoning it at the nape of my neck and slipping my arms free. I leave on the dark band covering my breasts—which keeps his pendant secure—and shivers coast over me as I draw down the leggings. My matching undershorts are even thinner, slanting across my backside. But I feel bare of any clothes at all when he scrapes his gaze over me, his green eyes far too vivid in the low light, cutting through the mist like a swath of sun. So nervous am I that I don’t notice whether the other souls are watching, my breath captive within the bars of my chest.

I wait for him to wince, to look away in disinterest.

I wait for shame to rise within me, to fill my lungs until I can scarcely breathe.

Instead the line of his throat bobs just once before he dives into the water.

I approach a portion of rock that forms a set of natural steps. Testing the first step, I find the water surprisingly warm and inviting, even amid the cool spray bouncing from its surface at the waterfall’s plunging descent.

While water is unsurprisingly heavier here, thicker somehow in this place, so too is it comforting, like being wrapped in an embrace. A reprieve from those persistent chills. I draw in a lungful of humid air, then exhale a long, relieved breath.

I used to love swimming. Illian had ponds in his palace, just beyond the gardens outside my apartments before my imprisonment. Yet the last time I swam—

It was when Illian threw me into the depths of the sea after I had murdered King Rurik.

My chest tightens, his name like a thumb digging into the pulse point of my neck.

I have yet to see him here. I wonder what echelon he belongs to, if I still might come across him. But the palace is vast—and even more vast is the city that stretches for miles and miles beyond, and the Sands that ripple outward from them into a sea as black and glossy as a hematite stone.

For once, I am grateful for the detachment Moranya imparts upon her souls.

A moment later, Anton surfaces, frowning at my expression. So I scrub my thoughts and lift my feet, sinking until my shoulders dip beneath the waterline.

“You were far away just now,” he says. “I want to know where you went.”

Water ripples around us, wafts of steam curling about. I can’t tell him; such is the curse. Before I have a chance to respond, though, a voice interrupts.

“Your Gloriousness!”

Anton’s head jerks to the right. Dahlia is swimming our way, gliding through the water in smooth, steady strokes. When she comes up for air, she splashes a wave of water at him, a delighted giggle bursting from her throat. He laughs, returning her spray with one of his own.