Page 84 of To Dance with Death

I spin, unlatch the window, and slide it open, if only to remind him of what he’s giving up—though I hope it might do more than that. But the effect stirs something in me, too. A longing I haven’t felt since I broached the steps of my old home. Only this time, it’s for something I’ve never had, for a place I’ve never seen.

I’ve always dreamed of seeing Ansa. I grew up with stories, heard even more at Anell. Anton’s home palace—and the entire city, for that matter—is perhaps one of the greatest wonders in the world. People have traveled from far and wide just to see it, whether they approved of the Eastern King or not.

And it indeed puts Anell to shame. Even the small sliver I can see out the window outshines Moranya’s Realm like the light of a great and blazing hearth against a mere candle’s flame.

The ledge the chapel is set upon overlooks a section of the great city, which is built across the many branches of the River Mercy. Dozens of decadent barges ply those waters, slipping under bridges and around promontories. And then there is the palace.

From what I can see, the palace extends to both my right and my left in stretches of marble and sandstone, rising high and crownedwith stained-glass turrets and domes. Tall, arching windows decorate the sides, as do statues and stonework accented in copper and sea-glass flourishes. Across the waterway is a plaza bordered by docks and sparkling lights. Beyond that are stacks of apartments with ornate balconies, rows of colorful shops, and parks and promenades, all teeming with life. Glass tunnels high off the ground connecting several of the taller buildings like the arc passes on Anell—and if I’m not mistaken, I think I even see somebeneaththe water.

Then my attention is stolen by a magnificent wooden building, capped with a prismatic turret lit from within that shoots rays of color into the clouds.

The theater. It must be. And if I remember correctly, it’s even considered to be a part of the palace, connected to it by a guarded bridge that runs underneath the waterway.

Oh, I’d give anything to spend days here, exploring every alley and crevice of Ansa. This is Anton’s home. The place he lovingly crafted and honed, its foundation built over the past century by his forefathers.

When I glance back at him, I see adoration written across every inch of his face, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe I need to let go of the Anton who was, and work with the one I have. Hestillloves his home.

Maybe, justmaybe,I could convince him to return.

Maybe he could fix things—just as he is.

But Sadira’s warning looms in my head. The prophecy, the blood it foretells, spilled at his hands. The wars. If he reclaims his crown and takes the reins of Miridran’s army, the prophecy could be fulfilled.

Except I’m not so sure I believe that. The prophecy comes from far-off Fates. The very Fates who abandoned us, who choose to send messages yet offer no aid. Anton might have believed it. Sadira and her envoy, too. Yet at the Gathering, I trusted my instinct in coming to Anton for help. In confessing to him. Choosing himover Rurik. Now my instinct is telling me to put my faith in him once more—even if his memories never surface.

But I need him tocare.

Unwittingly, my gaze travels over him—the shadows cast by his long dark lashes, the bow of his lips, the contours of his cheeks, his jaw, his clavicle. I lick my lips. Until now, he has lingered beside me, but when he notices my appraisal, he turns away.

I accused him of being bored, and he’s yet to refute me. This feels like admission enough.

Then he says, softly, “You would not be the first to think so little of me. It matters not.”

“That’s not—”

He props himself against a column. Fiddles with his rings.

“I think you are frustrating and unsatisfied,” I say, my fists balling. “But I think much more of you than that.”

“Do tell,” he says with a lazy lilt, not bothering to look up.

“No. I’m mad at you.” I turn away, scan the space. Then it hits me—something Sundar said.

Fates, he even had blueprints in his workshop for that pendant you took. I distinctly remember something scribbled in the margins about Moranya.

His workshop.

I track my eyes across the line of the palace to my right, where it curves with the flow of the river. I wonder if I could find it on my own, if Anton persists in hiding.

“How long must we wait here?” I ask.

“Through the night, most likely.”

“Right,” I say, making my way toward the door. “Well, then. I’ll meet you back here before morning.”

But the moment I grip the handle of the double doors I assume lead out, Anton leaps up to grip my shoulder. “And where exactly do you think you’re going? Do you plan to meet with my betrayers—is that it? Report back?” His brows are a furrowed line.

An idea forms, and I shake him off. “I aminsultedif that’s whatyou think. This—it’s my first time in Ansa. I’ve always wanted to see it.”