Page 89 of To Dance with Death

Part of me thrills at the idea—more so when I see the smile he’s released now, subtle as it is. It seems I’ve managed to scrub his broodiness away—perhaps because it’s so unnatural on him to begin with.

Deep down, his heart longs for joy, and I want nothing more than to experience it with him. And in this moment, it feels like nothing else exists. As if we’re two patrons sneaking about in a city replete with wonders.

But whether I can see it here on the water’s edge or not, the threat of war still looms. The sketchbook pages prick against my breastbone—a reminder that I need to find a moment to glance over them.

“Why not utilize the crescents at sunset?” I ask as the last of the dockworkers vanish for the evening. “When the city is at its most vibrant and alive?” At least on a normal day.

“It’s, ah, rather difficult to fish people out of the water after dark,” he says. “Such reckless behavior is more common than you think.”

“Let me guess,” I tease. “You’ve done it before.”

“Of course I have. I started the trend. They lugged me out half dead when I was fourteen. I was restricted to barges after that, and only ones with life rafts.” He jerks his chin. “Let’s go. We’ll have tomake a run for it—the crescents never actually come to a full stop. Ready?”

“You mean we have to leap into one while it’smoving?”

“They aren’t going that fast,” he says. But then his expression softens. Melts, like icing. He bends low. Scoops me up like I’m made of feathers. “Hang on.”

“Anton—” I squeak, but it’s too late. Already he’s jogging down the dock, slowing only to calculate the timing as one passes by a foot away. Then he half jumps, half steps into the thing. It rocks under our weight but doesn’t tip—the mechanics prevent it, he explains, setting me on my feet.

The vessel itself is perhaps twenty feet, including the stretches of curved wood at either end like a waning moon, though the back side rises higher than the front. The inside, however, reminds me of a carriage without a roof. There’s a wide bench along the back, plush with cushions made from oilcloth—a blend of cotton and linen boiled in linseed so that it’s safe even in the rain. The bench is long enough, too, that we can stretch out our legs. “Great for picnics,” he tells me. There are a few other seats, each bolted down and cushioned, about half as wide as the craft. Optional seating, perhaps for better viewing.

The pace feels faster than it looked, but once I’m settled, I let out a relieved breath and find it rather relaxing. The sun drags swaths of pinks and purples across the sky, beginning its descent. Everything feels bejeweled, especially as we drift toward the Arts District, the familiar spill of gold from streetlamps a welcome reprieve. Another sight I’ve missed. So simple a thing. So mortal.

Anton, for his part, perches on a farther seat, dipping a hand in the water. His hair catches the last gilding of sunset teasing the river, which winds as we near the bridges. The city creeps toward us on either side in a hundred shades of milk and gold, intercut by the rainbow hues of prismatic glass.

“Look up,” Anton says, his voice deep and dreamy, as we floatbeneath the first bridge. The underside is a mosaic—hundreds of glass petals fitted together to depict a flourishing garden. “Every year, we hire artists to change the displays. It’s become a tradition that even the local businesses mimic. If you pay attention, you’ll see they swap their stained-glass windows out every few months, some with the season, some to celebrate holidays, name days, and so on.”

His face brightens as he speaks—and more so as the crescent slides out from under the bridge and the final dregs of sun limn him from the side.

And in this moment, he is so irrevocably beautiful that my lungs refuse to fill, and I can do nothing but watch him. Long for him. He shines tonight—not from his jewelry, his decadent attire, but wholly from within. It’s as if coming home lit him up like the lanterns along the water’s edge.

As if he feels my stare, he meets my gaze, a stretch of pearl-white teeth peeking through the softest grin. “When I was young—the absolute terror that I was—I spent far too much time and quatra making panels with rather, ah, obscene images, and I’d swap them out under the cover of night. No one ever discovered that it was me. They called me the Glass Bandit. Put up warrants for my arrest.”

“You are terrible, Sire.”

“In my defense, it wasn’t destructive. They could swap them back easily enough. But not before the morning crowd had a good look.”

“And you callmea miscreant,” I say, returning his smile without realizing it. It only serves to exaggerate his own. “Were you never caught?”

“Certainly not,” he answers. “But it turns out I had a conscience, so the shops I defiled found themselves with generous anonymous donations.”

Again that grin slides my way, a spark setting his irises aglow.

I love him.

The thought knocks into me swiftly, as if I’ve been dropped from the heavens.

And yet it’s been true for some time—a seed planted in Anellthat grew under the soil, beneath my notice, then finally breached the surface, blooming even as I tried to ignore it. Despite my watering it with only rage and denial. Only now I cannot. Because to deny it would be like denying the sun its right to shine.

I love him.

From every angle.

I love who he was when he was young and terrible and mischievous. I love the King of the East I met on Anell, who saw me even when I wish he hadn’t—and more so, when I needed it most. But the girl I was then hadn’t fully understood what love is, or the possibilities of it.

And now I love him for who he istoday.For all his cracks and chips. For all the ways he was broken, shattered, and fitted back together. A mosaic of beautiful imperfections, and yet his heart still radiates, and so does his passion, his humor. His brilliance. I haven’t absolved him of the choices he’s made; he chose to conform to the same mask that worked for him before. The partier, the philanthropist. But he is not lacking. He’s just beenhurt.

I know that I might not get him back, not fully. He deserves to have his memories returned, but if that never happens, I’ll love him still. I’ll love him always.