Page 98 of To Dance with Death

“Those,” Anton says, “are ornaments that catch the sunlight and fragment it across the garden in the areas the sun cannot reach.”

And indeed, upon the passing of a cloud, drops of light spear through the leaves above, making the canopy shimmer, as if the stars themselves are cascading around us.

Anton directs me off the stone path, near a large white wisteria that rises past the thicket. It’s larger than any I’ve seen before—perhaps another import. “Follow me.”

To my surprise, he hops onto a small knob on the tree trunk, using it as leverage to pull himself up and onto a larger bough. I stare at him, incredulous. “You want to climb a tree?”

“Trust me,” he says, offering a hand as I tentatively, skeptically, mimic his steps. Once I’m with him, he sets his hands around my hips, helping me up yet another branch, and so on until we’re halfway up. Pale petals feather the closest turret, perhaps twenty feet to our left. “This was my preferred escape from the palace when I didn’t wish to be seen. No one else knew about it.”

“You really did drive Basile mad, didn’t you?”

His head snaps to the side, and he shoots me a look I can’t read. But then my hand slips from the next branch, bark scraping my palms raw. Quickly, he grabs my wrist and steadies me until I find my footing.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “The palace is too far. We couldn’t possibly jump.”

“We don’t have to.” Anton releases my hand, balancing on the bough and using the branch above to steady himself. Then, to my utter shock, he leaps—

And lands on…air.Or it seems that way, though of course it’s glass.

Spinning, a satisfied little grin curves his lips. “It’s perfectly safe. Come.”

I summon my courage, draw in a deep lungful, and throw myselftoward his open arms. He catches me, steadies me as I land, then pries open a window and helps me climb in.

Inside is a library—one of many, he tells me. But this is the one he used most, and I immediately understand why. A large stained-glass dome, painted to mimic the garden outside, filters in rainbow hues of light across the crescent of shelves that wrap half the room. Stairs curve around them, offering access to each tier. We’re in one of many nooks, and on the other side are more shelves, except those are behind walls of glass. “Historical records,” he says. “Dating back to the foundation of Miridran and beyond.”

He tugs a book from its place, and the shelf opens inward into a tunnel, which should not surprise me in the least. It almost feels as though we’re adolescents, sneaking about a palace, afraid to be caught in some forbidden dalliance.

Oh, how desperately I wish that were the case.

“Before we return,” I say, “show me your bedroom.”

“My, Vasalie,” he says with a crooked grin. “Rather forward today, are we?”

I shrug a shoulder. “My curiosity knows no bounds.”

“I suppose I can oblige—if you promise to behave.”

“I promise no such thing.”

“Miscreant.”

These tunnels are darker, more dated, but we aren’t in them for long. As it happens, we weren’t far. A minute later—up two sets of stairs that leaves me breathless though he takes them slowly on my account—and we finally enter a quiet marble hall.

Near the end, he pushes through a set of rounded double doors that are, unsurprisingly, an opaque glass mosaic. But his grin wavers as he steps inside. “Let’s see if my so-called friend took over this, too.”

Spirals of dust curl into view, and it’s clear that Gustav never did, in fact, take up residence here.

I could have told Anton that.

His room is surprisingly serene. The bed, on a raised dais, isswathed in deep sea-green velvet and silk. Clear, vine-fringed glass windows curve between stone arches on one side, offering a grand view of the river and the theater beyond. In fact, if I squint, I can make out the black stone spire we slept under last night. Past Ansa, the tips of the southern mountains spike upward and slant into rolling, green hills. Then there’s a desk and a sitting area near another window-circled nook.

But my attention is pulled toward a raised section of the room to my left upon which stand three stone busts, each displaying a gilded robe or outfit, the heads capped with magnificent yet varied crowns. It isn’t until I’m standing before the last one that I realize it’s the bust of a woman. The crown atop is a gem-encrusted circlet arching upward to a point, where an emerald anemone blooms at the center. Gilded leaves decorate each side, too, just above the ears.

“It would have been for my wife,” Anton says. “This one was to be a coronation crown. One of many I designed myself.”

Like the crown he’d given me on the isle, armed with two crystal daggers at its apex. My heart sinks a little, recalling what he told me about the princess.

I touch a finger to a petal.