Page 90 of To Dance with Death

I love him—even if he never choosesme.

The realization is so intense I turn my gaze away, unable to bear the sight of him, if only for the fear my feelings might tear from my lips and frighten him away. Because he is afraid to let himself be loved.

“Vasalie,” he says. I close my eyes, and I don’t realize I’m tracing the lines of tissue scarring my wrists until the craft rocks, just a little.

Then I feel his hand sliding along my own. Amid a breath, I dare a look, only to find his brows notched. He holds my wrist up and into a swath of lamplight. “It is time you tell me what these are from.”

My eyes fall to my wrists, and I swallow thickly. I saw his gazedip and linger earlier this morning. Though they’ve faded, an uneven pattern still mars them in a subtle, flesh-toned ring.

But I can’t tell him, not without explaining the full truth; the curse would prevent it from reaching his ears. If he knew I worked for Illian without knowing I sided with him in the end, he would never trust me again.

I think about telling him a vague version of it, a half-truth—that I trusted a man and he framed me for murder—but it would spur questions from him I cannot answer.

I tug from his hold. “I can’t bear to speak of it, Sire.”

“Because you are ashamed?” he asks. “Or because it is a truth you’ve decided I’m not yet ready to hear, as you once said? When will the day come that you keep your word?”

My word. My vow to tell him everything. I’d promised him under the waterfall.

“I will tell you,” I say, “once you have my trust.” An excuse, though I suppose it might be true in its own right. I withhold the fact that he has my heart.

“I have kept you a secret from Moranya. How do I not yet have it?”

He does—in many ways.

“You have hidden me thus far because you have not yet tired of me. Wasn’t that our deal?”

Threads of music slide between us, loud and coming from somewhere I can’t see. But with another twist of the river the theater rises high, grand as the palace itself.

We are about to pass right under it.

A wide, glowing tunnel has been carved through its base, seemingly for the waterway, as if the theater were built atop so that it might shower the river with song and light. Because even from here, I can see hundreds of colorful lanterns hanging from the top of the tunnel, flickering as if to the music itself.

“Welcome to one of Ansa’s most famous sights,” Anton says, the pride in his voice undeniable. “It has long been said that those whoshare a kiss under the lanternlight are fated to blaze with passion until they breathe their last. Many travel here to do just that.”

I could believe it. As the boat floats us beneath the theater, which is built over the bridge itself, the scene underneath is far beyond what I had thought. The ceiling arcs upward, the heavens painted over layers of glass—some being clouds, some the celestial realms beyond. Others for depictions of the Fates, translucent creatures that look as though they’re made of silk. And from their hands, thousands of star-shaped glass lanterns drip down in tiers. I notice, too, that the crescent has slowed, the track underneath ridged and designed to allow spectators time to soak it all in.

The music grows softer, the crescendo fading to make way for applause that from here sounds like a whisper against the current of water. Restless, I rise from the bench and tread to the front of the crescent, gripping the prow.

“Hold on tight,” Anton warns as he stands, the craft rocking softly under his weight. He unspools what looks like a grappling hook, then tosses it so that it grabs onto a beam in the ceiling. The crescent jerks, then alters course, and he uses the attached rope to guide us down another path. “A secret route,” he explains as we float toward the edge of the domed interior, past what looks like a landing with a set of doors that lead into the theater itself. An obscure entrance, perhaps for staff.

There the hook keeps us in place, even as the river slides beneath.

“You fear I will tire of you,” he says, coming close. “But have I not showered you with attention? Have you not seen how I can’t seem to depart from your side?”

“How long will that last?” My heart picks up speed at his nearness, now that he’s all but hovering over me.

“Last?I have even agreed to be something akin to a friend because you wished it. Does one usually tire of friendship?”

Friendship.The word is like an arrow nudged against my breastbone, the pain of it too much. I won’t be able to hide what I feel—the ardency, the jealousy.

Honesty spills from me before I can cage it between my teeth, my hand finding his heart without my consent. “I can’t be your friend, Anton.”

An admission I already regret. He no doubt sees the tears glossing my eyes.

A swift breeze blows in and spirals around us both, the lanterns above stirring. Curls drift into my face, but he bats them away. Cups the side of my face, thumb drifting to my lips as he leans in—just like he had under that willow tree in the Sky Garden, his voice a whisper in my ear. “Then I won’t treat you like one.”

He swallows my gasp.