Page 87 of To Dance with Death

To my surprise, he agrees. And he doesn’t hold back.

“Ademi was always my father’s choice for me, ever since we were little,” he begins, his gaze still empty, tilted toward the glass dome above. “I visited Serai when I was ten, spent several weeks there. I attended courses with her. Toured the land. When I came home, she and I exchanged letters, even at such a young age. It felt natural, our friendship, though we both knew what would come of it in the end.”

I listen intently as he speaks, but so too do I pad my way softly to the shelves.

“No formal arrangement was made, however. The Lord Sovereign was concerned about the state of Miridran—and more so after my father’s announcement to split the country. But Ademi and I kept in touch through it all. She traveled to Miridran over the next few summers. And later, when my father died, she was the only one I made my grief known to. I found it easier to face my pain with a pen rather than spill it before people who would shower me with their pity, well meaning as it was. Ademi, however…” A sigh. “She said that the best path through mourning is straight through its heart. To feel it deeply, because only through the rungs of heartache would I climb a ladder out of its pit.”

Silence lingers for a moment, and I give him the space to sort his thoughts. It allows me a moment to sweep across a line of books.

“We spoke about all the ways we would make our kingdoms a better place. I hadn’t been crowned yet, but the time was drawing near. We started planning, talking policies, debating, all of which we continued through our letters over the following months. Shehad so much faith in me. Finally, we saw each other at the next Gathering, when I was about to turn eighteen. It would have been nine years ago now.”

Nine years ago. That would have been the same Gathering where Copelan and Esmee performed together. Where Illian made her an offer.

“What began as a friendship formed across ocean and ink became something more. Ademi saw a side of me I never showed to anyone else. What she didn’t know, however, were the other sides of myself I kept hidden. It seemed everyone only ever saw one angle of me, when in fact there were many—including the reputation I was curating. I was careful not to let it show at the Gathering, but she left one week into it, when her mother grew sick. I sent her even more frequent letters after that.”

“You say she didn’t know about your reputation. What about—” My throat squeezes, my intent toeing the line of the curse a little too much. I had been about to ask whether she knew about Illian’s attempts on his life. But he had told me that during the last Gathering, and anything we spoke of there, it seems I am unable to reveal. “What about the hostility between you and Illian?”

Silence.

I pause in my search just in time for him to slice a peculiar glance toward me. “And what do you know of that?”

I scramble for a lie. “I—”

“Sadira,” he says for me. “I suppose she would have told you about Illian’s assassination attempts. And being that you have been in Morta’s Lair yourself, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you that those attempts were successful. Good thing I’ve made friends with death, yes?”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I prompt, “You never told Ademi any of it, did you?”

“I was afraid that if she knew, she would want nothing to do with me. Even so, I wrote to her on the eve of my coronation with myofficial proposal, even though proximity to me would put her in danger,” he says, batting a ring-clad hand. “In my arrogance, I told myself that I had cheated death time and again, and I would spare no expense to protect her. I let my pride get the better of me, and even more so after I donned a crown and commanded leagues of men.”

But his pride wasn’t entirely unwarranted. Everything he touched turned to gold. And his rise in fame was swift.

He was so different from his brothers. Here was an ambitious prince with glittering eyes and a dashing smile, who would, over time, usher in a reign of tourism, invention, and wealth that benefited his people. Even by the time he was crowned, he had proved himself in some regard.

“I had heard your engagement became official,” I say. It was all anyone talked about for a time. And then he’d worked on that gown. In fact, as I roam the shelves once more after ensuring his gaze is still pinned on the dome above, I note something of interest.

A stack of schematics. One for the stained-glass gown. Another for the crown. More for pieces of each dress. And underneath those, a thin sketchbook. It’s spread open, flattened, and littered with pencil marks. But the first page is labeled clearly, penned in Anton’s telltale script.

Mercy’s mirror.Three other pages are filled with his writing after that, though the rest are blank. And next to it is a golden box. I tap the lid open and find a collection of iridescent glass shards, sharp as blades. I dare not touch these, but I quickly remove the pages from the sketchbook, then fold and shove them into my already tight corset, along with the pendant, while Anton’s attention is focused on telling his tale, still playing with his bracelet and rings.

“Ademi accepted the proposal immediately,” Anton says, examining his fingernails now. “What I didn’t realize, however, was that she had embarked on a voyage to surprise me. I wasn’t there when she arrived in Ansa; rather, I was en route to Razam—” He pauses,face souring at the mention. “—in the hopes of halting the war my brother was itching to start. Apparently, she saw my Glory Court and bought the rumors I circulated as to what it was. When I returned, it was to her final letter, which she had written upon her departure.”

“Couldn’t you tell her the truth?” I ask.

“Oh, I tried,” Anton says. “She did not believe me. A few courtiers who disapproved of me used the opportunity to share every wrong I’d committed, twist all my edicts to frame me as a monster. I sent her countless letters after that, but I didn’t even get a response.

“I realized, then, that no one would believe my claim to innocence, and so I gave up trying. I merged all my sides—my grief, my aspirations, my love of life. My hatred of it. My lust for the beautiful and the grand. For companionship.Invention.All of them, I folded them neatly into one, and I leaned into my reputation. I became who they thought I was. I stopped defending myself, stopped apologizing, and never looked back.”

I press my hands to my stomach as if I could suppress the pain I feel on his behalf. I know the story from there. He had found people whodidlove him—Gustav, Sadira, her sons—only to have them betray him in the end.

Or so he thinks.

I wish, so badly, that I could tell him that every angle of him is worthy of being loved. Even the worst ones. Even now. He remindedmeof that when I needed it most—reminded me that all my scratches and dents, all the marred facets and shards that cracked deep into my soul, were what made me art. Like his stained glass—broken fragments fitted back together again to make something infinitely more lovely.

Now it’s as if he’s allergic to love. He despises the very notion of it. And to protect myself, I’ve acted like I’m allergic tohim.

“I am sorry.” What a pathetic response that is, and I hate myself for it. He deserves more.

“Sorry?” He lets slip a single, caustic laugh, rising from his seat. “I am only sorry that I didn’t learn my lesson when I should have.”