A Liar's Twisted Tongue

11. This Oath is a Lie

DESDEMONA

How to foster high-functioning compliance: make sure the people are physically tired. Suggestions: give them vigorous working schedules, give them taxing work, don’t give them free time. Once they are tired, tell them what they should think. Suggestions: pictures and easy-to-read words work fairly well. Make them feel special. Suggestions: tell them that the work they contribute to the universe holds it together. Adopt a strong reward system. Suggestions: give them more rations when they behave, hurt them when they don’t.

– COLONEL JENDA’S GUIDE TO SUPERVISING THE LESSER ORPHIA

You know you need a dress,” Aralia says to me while she swipes black over her long eyelashes.

“A dress?” I ask. I’ve been wearing her clothes since I got here—which, truthfully, I’m grateful for. She hasn’t said a thing about my lack of pence, and thanks to her, no other student has noticed.

“For the Gerner,” she says like I should know what it is. Of course, I probably should. She’s going to be the first to learn I’m the worlds’ biggest liar if I don’t up my knowledge.

Suddenly, I’m pissed that with all the hours I’ve spent with Leiholan, he didn’t bother to tell me about this Gerner.

“Right,” I say, smiling.

Looking at herself in the mirror and running a comb through her hair, Aralia says, “We can go to my favorite seamstress after school.” The comb is embellished with gemstones that could feed a whole family for a year. Or years.

She wraps a braid around her head like a crown and turns to face me. “Don’t worry about the pence.”

Yeah, she knows too much.

“Okay.”

I stop in the kitchen before class, picking up a piece of warm toast with jam as I say, “Morning, Eudora.” I’m gonna miss this when I’m back home.

“Grand day, Desdemona,” she says.

I’ve spoken to her enough to know two things—she grew up in a place called Arson’s Alley, and working as a chef in Visnatus is more than she’d ever dreamed. She enjoys this job. I enjoy our chats. I’m almost certain she’s been able to recognize the telltale signs that I’m from the septic, and I’m also certain that I have enough of her trust that she’d never say anything. The indigent stick by the indigent. That much I know. And despite my reservations against Leiholan’s kind, I also know it’s why he’s training me.

I take a bite of the bread and jam, unable to suppress a groan.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Wild berry,” she answers. If I’m correct about her knowing my truth, then she has every idea that I’ve never heard of wild berries. I’m sure it comes from Viridis. They supply the elites of the universe with all their agriculture. The rest of us get nothing but what we can find. “Goes great with cheese,” she says and slides me a little piece of soft, runny cheese. My mouth waters.

“You’re my favorite Eunoia here. Maybe even my favorite person,” I tell her, plopping the cheese onto the bread and then into my mouth. I’ve never tasted something so good, but I could say that about everything Eudora makes.

“Now you’re just being mendacious,” she says, her deep laugh echoing through the kitchen.

Mendacious. One of those words Leiholan taught me. I wonder who taught it to her.

“Trust me, I have my moments, but this isn’t one of them.” I lock my eyes on hers and smile. “My favorite,” I say again.

Pinching a little flour, she flicks it in my face. “Get to class, kid.”

“See you at lunch, adult.”

* * *

Psychology class has to be my least favorite. Except for the fact that I suck at Elemental Magic, never get picked in Combat Training, and don’t enjoy talking about gods who’ve never given me a damn thing.

I guess they’re all my least favorites.

But when Hogan tells us to “Come up with a new way to inspire compliancy among the masses,” and the masses being those from home, I suddenly feel like maybe I could be great at elemental magic.

Maybe I could burn this whole place down.

Hogan also tells us to “think outside the box” and “find a partner.” The two people in the seats next to me get up immediately, and I sit here awkwardly. I’m sure I could do this by myself. Or just not at all. I don’t care about the grade, and I don’t want to think about how to further torture my people.

Lucian slides into the newly open seat next to me. “Partners?” he says, and my eyes strain away from him to a pair of green eyes that hound into me.

“I think someone else has the same question,” I say, and his eyes follow my gaze.

“Eleanora!” the girl with the white hair shouts, her voice tight, then her attention is back on us. “It’ll be a group effort.” She sits next to Lucian, pushing him closer to me. A girl with curly light brown hair that matches the color of her eyes sits on my other side.

“I’m Desdemona?—”

“Fleur,” she practically cuts me off, holding out her hand past Lucian and in front of me. Her grip is far from firm. Her skin far from calloused. I’ve never touched hands so soft before. Even Lucian’s were rough and ragged.

“Eleanora,” the girl behind me sings. I turn with a reluctant smile. “Fair to meet your acquaintance.”

“Yes,” I say, drawing out the word and turning back around. “Very fair.”

Lucian chuckles and the sound is almost comforting amidst this tension, but Fleur cuts it from my ears when she says, “So why is the prince so interested in you?”

“I don’t know,” I say flatly. “Maybe you could ask the prince.”

Lucian’s eyes meet mine, playfully, teasingly. “She and I have a common interest.” His gaze does not waver from mine, and in front of this audience, it almost has me shrinking back.

Fleur begins, “And what’s that?—”

“Fleur,” Eleanora huffs. “We have an assignment.”

“Right,” I mumble at the same time that Lucian smugly says, “We do.”

“Marquees,” he says. “Any ideas?”

Any ideas on how to make my friends, family, and people suffer more. That’s what Hogan’s asking of us, that’s what Lucian is asking of me.

That’s who he is.

A prince, who if he even does realize how wrong this is, clearly doesn’t care. He seems to see it as just another reason to poke at me, to have his fun, entirely oblivious to the lives he’s ruining.

The lives he’s taking.

And I thought there was blood on my hands.

I may have killed two. But Lucian’s killed thousands. Inadvertently or otherwise.

But I have a role to play. “Well, the textbook already spells out the basics we need to rely on. Lack of free time, exhaustion, hunger. Once you have that, you make pretty pictures and simple words.”

Your hard work makes the worlds go round.

My mind is bombarded by those pretty pictures and simple words, and it disgusts me that these people here think that we people there don’t see past it.

The things that actually keep us down are the lack of energy to fight and the physical repercussions if we try.

But no, to these three—to this whole school—we’re just dumb. Barely more than a corenth.

“Yeah,” Fleur laughs, “that sounded like a whole lot of nothing.” She looks from me to Lucian. “From the sample propaganda we saw, I think there’s a real lack of emotional ties. Maybe add children or something?”

“Oh!” Eleanora says, like she has some bright idea. “Like instead of only lashing the perpetrator, lash their children too.”

They already do that.

I think I’m going to be sick. All I see are the mangled bodies that Marice was rounded into. Mangled bodies I’ve seen many times.

I’ve been a child tied to those posts. And if anyone here knew that, they’d likely kill me. So I force myself not to puke at the thought of tying more children to those posts.

“And loved ones,” Fleur says, like she’s bored. “Punish the whole family, friends, beloveds.”

Punish the already starving people who are only trying to survive.

“I don’t know,” Lucian sings, sitting back in his chair. I hate him. “It sounds rather routine.”

“Well, if you want to vary routine, you could try actually feeding them,” I find myself saying through my teeth. Too bitterly to not be emotional. “I mean,” my voice almost shakes as I try to save myself, “Hogan—Mr. Bayley—told us to think outside of the box. I think it’d be easier to control a population of happy people who don’t realize they’re missing anything.” I look down fast, but not before I see Lucian smiling.

“As if,” Fleur says just as Eleanora says, “Yeah right.”

But the prince surprises me, saying, “That could work. At the very least, it could get us the top score.” Both the girls scoff, and I’m appalled. This is a grade to them and a reality to me. “Think about it. Who else is going to offer that we treat them better?” His hand extends to me, “And Marquees has a point, if you don’t know there’s anything more to fight for, then you’re not fighting.”

“Yeah,” I say too sullenly, so I look up and smile and hope that it looks like I’m doing more than just baring my teeth. “Exactly.”

* * *

Leiholan calls out the names for the first challenges in Combat Training, then the second round, and the third, and I’ve lost any and all hope that he’ll call me this time. Or ever. The students are going to start to talk soon.

Luckily, I manage to make it through without watching Lucian and Yuki too much.

Then I go to Leiholan.

“What’s the Gerner?” I can feel the scowl painted on my face, my lips being perpetually pushed further down anytime I’m in his presence.

“Fundraiser for the school,” he says. “All the money made from the clothes and decorations goes back to ‘em.”

“You mean they steal the money back?” I ask.

He smiles at me. I can tell by now that this is one of those highly unamused smiles. “Look at you, perceptive. Who would’ve thought.” He claps for me like I’m a child. “And make sure when you’re stealing from the already poor seamstresses that you get a silver or blue dress.”

“Why?”

“Soma’s colors,” he says with a wave of his droozen hand. Like I didn’t already know that. “Founders of the school. Blah, blah, blah.”

“You never thought that this was important for me to know before? You know, in all our hours of training?” I ask, but it’s rhetorical and he knows it, I’m sure. He’s annoying, but he’s not dense.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Leiholan says, equally annoyed.

I clench my jaw. “Well, my roommate almost found out I’m a filthy septic liar because of you.”

He matches my nasty tone. “Or the school thinks you’re a perfect Utul princess because of me.”

“I don’t like you,” I say like a child. I have no better words.

“The feeling is mutual, sweetheart.”

I say nothing, worried I’ll sound furious or—even worse—wounded. Walking backward, I give him two thumbs up, then a middle finger, and storm out of the room.

I’m about ready to throw a dagger at someone’s throat, which has become much too common of a longing as of late. Back in the room—Aralia’s room? Our room? I don’t know anymore—Aralia lays with her head off her bed.

Her eyes meet mine. “Finally.” She’s on her feet and upright in a second.

It takes me too much effort to not say something other than, “Ready?”

“Yep.” She extends her arm toward me, bending it at the elbow. I think she’s expecting me to clasp mine to hers, and I don’t know how to tell her that I’d prefer not to touch her, so I bite my tongue and just do it. But Aralia frowns and says, “I don’t want you to get lost in the portal.”

That’s somewhat sweet—she doesn’t want me to die. I have to say, if I were on her end of this conversation I would let her take her chances.

I hunch through the portal she makes in the dresser mirror and end up on a street that’s bustling with life. Merchants line the streets, shouting and haggling and selling their goods. It’s almost comparable to the saul, one of the few stone buildings in the septic. Like the septic, there are dilapidated buildings, homeless on the ground—made of rocky cobblestone—and unlike home, trash.

Trash was a luxury.

I quickly notice that the streets are filled with all kinds of orphia. We must still be in Visnatus: it’s the only planet where Nepenthe, Eunoia, and Folk all live side by side like some sort of rendezvous.

“This is where you get your clothes?” I am genuinely surprised, but sounding like a snob will also help my case. Especially with the girl who sees entirely too much.

“Only my dresses. Portricia is the best, trust me.”

“I wasn’t talking about the seamstress, I was talking about the village,” I say.

“It’s not a village.” She gives me a look, up and down, assessing me. “It’s Arson’s Alley.”

I’m guessing I should’ve known that.

Aralia pulls me down the street. She doesn’t even yelp when an austec scurries by. I wonder if I should yelp and make the mental note to at least flinch the next time I see one.

The door we enter is made of glass, which means the orphia of Arson’s Alley can’t be as poor as they look. They are getting our handiwork.

A woman with gray-and-black hair tied up into the highest hairstyle I’ve ever seen hurries to greet us. “Oh, Aralia, you look stunning as always.” The woman smiles in a way that lights up her entire face—including her gray eyes.

I inch away before she can get too close.

Aralia hugs the Nepenthe. “As do you, Portricia.” Then she gestures to me. “This is Desdemona, she also needs a dress for the Gerner.”

Portricia eyes me up and down and sticks out her tongue, which is long and thin and forked at the end. Gross. I smile as best I can.

All Portricia says is, “Gold.”

“Excuse me?” I’m really trying not to sound offended.

“Your complexion,” she says. “It’s suited for gold, not silver. I’ll put you in gold.”

I hide my confusion behind casually crafted words. “But Soma’s colors are silver and blue.” That was Leiholan’s only instruction.

“Yes, they are, but I don’t dress my clients for Soma, I dress them for themselves. And you, sweets, are a gold.”

I don’t think I should say that I don’t know what gold is. Obviously, I’ve put together that it’s a color—but not one I’ve heard of and certainly not something I’ve seen. But if she knows gold here, then I would be expected to know it in Utul.

“I don’t want to stand out,” I say sheepishly. I’m already so used to all eyes on me, and not in a good way. They’re always either fearful or full of pity. I don’t want more of that.

“I couldn’t in good conscience put you in silver!” Portricia basically shouts.

“How about blue?” I say.

“How about I put you in both and you decide.” She smiles and whispers, “But you’re gonna choose gold.”

“Fine,” I say, and Aralia smiles at me.

Portricia claps, but only with the tops of her hands. “Splendid!”

I give Aralia an unsure smile back. The next thing I know, she and I are standing in front of a mirror and Portricia is covering me in dark-blue fabrics. Wrapping them around my arms and waists, then doing the same for Aralia, but with silver.

I try not to shrink back when her skin touches me.

“Remember how this looks, sweets,” she says while she chews on something.

And then she covers me in the most beautiful fabric I’ve ever had the good luck to see, let alone wear.

Portricia tells me to step into a dress and pulls it up around me, pulling the fabric snugly against my waist. The dress hangs low and loose around my chest, with straps wrapping around my neck, creating a slight choking effect. I don’t see the back, but it feels entirely bare. Good thing I have Hogan’s glamour. The dress cuts off before my ankles, where Portricia is now pinning extra material so that the dress hangs down to my feet.

“A leg slit?” she asks from the floor.

“Definitely a leg slit,” Aralia answers for me.

I can’t take my eyes away from my reflection. I look… I don’t know how I look, but it’s different than I’ve ever looked—ever felt—before. So different that I can’t stop looking.

Air brushes my thigh, and I see that Portricia’s cut the dress almost to my hip. I don’t have the energy to feel threatened by the shears in her hands. I just feel… different. A warm feeling bubbles in my chest, and I actually smile. Really, really smile. I can feel it, like a laugh, like a hug. I’m happy, over a dress I guess, which feels ridiculous, but suddenly I’m thinking that this feeling is so rare, so fleeting, that I’ll do anything to hold onto it.

I look at Portricia, into her gray eyes. “Thank you,” I tell her.

She waves a hand through the air. “Anytime, sweets.” Then she is pulling my hands into gloves that reach halfway up my bicep, the same shimmering gold as my dress.

I’m still smiling when I look over at Aralia, whose dress is shining and silver, like a star. It’s tight around her torso and flowing from the waist down, unlike mine, which is straight all the way down. Two sleeves hang around the middle of her bicep, not on her shoulder. I don’t know how that works, but it looks lovely.

Dangling from her ears are straight, long, silver earrings. They make me want to poke holes into my ears. I’d never given it a thought before. My mom always wore the same dull silver earrings. They were never anything special, just familiar, the same, so similar they were almost dependable. I could always count on them being there, unlike most other things. They didn’t make me want to poke holes in my ears, but they do make me miss her now.

“You look like a star,” I tell Aralia. She smiles, and her too-big teeth are on full display. She’ll grow into them, and I get the swelling feeling that I am glad I get to see them before she does.

“Thank you, Desy.” She reaches her hand to mine and hangs on to it, rubbing her thumb against it. It takes effort not to pull my hand from hers. I guess this is what friends do if that’s what she thinks of us. Which she must, if she’s paying for my dress.

“Desy?” I ask.

I’m slightly relieved when she takes back her hand. “Do you like it?”

“It’s better than inferno,” I mumble.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Portricia tells us it’ll take her three days to have our dresses ready thanks to her super speed, which leaves me guessing that three days is fast.

“That’s why you’re the best, Trish,” Aralia says and pulls out a little blue bag. She collects a huge handful of silver coins and puts them in Portricia’s hands.

“Aralia.” Portricia smacks Aralia’s upper arm with the back of her hand.

“This is too much!”

“Hide the extra,” Aralia whispers with a wink and a smirk.

* * *

As per my routine, I go to Leiholan again before school, who I’m getting really fed up with. He’s always drinking and rambling, and I swear he purposely tries to get on my nerves. But he teaches me to fight, something I’ve always envied when I watched Damien, something that is going to aid me in the fight for my mom and protecting us back home. So I keep coming back.

Immediately, Leiholan starts rambling about how I need the kids to think I am important, even though I’m just a septic bum. He doesn’t say that exactly, but it’s what he meant and I know it.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” He gives me a pointed look that I can easily translate to what he thinks but doesn’t say: that it’s not true. “You have to seem sophisticated. Fear is good too, it’ll keep the self-important kids from picking on you. You’re a Fire Folk, so you already have that in your corner. Though I’m sure you know that the Fire Folk are the feral group of you creatures because of your…” he waves his hands in my general direction. “Less-than-pleasant nature.”

He always begins these lessons with lectures, and I’m itching to unsheathe my spatha sword. I’m determined to tip the blade to his neck this time.

“Yes, I understand, walk like there’s a book on my head and don’t speak unless I have something important to say. And when that happens, be a pompous ass about it too.”

Leiholan looks at me and smiles. It’s a real, droozen smile, but it lights up his entire face. He should do it more often. His finger points at me and he says, “Exactly! Only took you three weeks to piece it together.”

“Can we fight now?” I cut him off.

He looks at me with a wide grin, about to say something, but all I’m hoping for is a yes. He points at me, his mouth opening in anticipation. Then it all dwindles. “No!” He grabs his bottle from his desk and takes a sip. “Droozed. And getting more so.”

“Leiholan?”

“Hm.”

I lift my spatha. “Unsheathe your sword.”

With his eyes on my hands, he laughs. “Sweetheart, with one swing I’d knock that thing outta your hands.”

I drop the spatha to my side, one of its edges poking into the floor. It’s a real pretty thing. The hilt between the two blades is silver—real silver—and there are blue stones engraved where the handle meets the blade. Which is pretty pointless, if you ask me. You’re using it to injure someone, not put on a show. But if Damien’s dagger could get a bottle of rena, I wonder what this could manage.

“Pick it up,” he groans and walks to me, readjusting my hands on the hilt until it actually feels comfortable in my hand. Then he pulls his sword from his waist. “Alright, sweetheart. Swing.”

I do as he asks, swinging again and again, but even droozed, he blocks my hits like they’re not worth his time. With my blade struggling against his, he flips his down, fast and precise, and my sword falls from my hands.

“What are you? Scared of hurting me?” He assesses me like I’m a book that’s so easily read. “Come on now.”

“Trust me,” I pick up my sword, “the last thing I’m scared of is hurting you.”

But am I? It was only a few days ago that I started a fire. That I felt the exact sensation I felt when I murdered two Folk. It was awful.

It was power.

Leiholan lazily taps his blade to my chest and keeps it there. “The weapon’s not a weapon. It’s an extension of you. Prove it.”

I knock his blade away with my own, and then I swing again. Yeah, maybe I’m scared of hurting someone, but I’m not scared of hurting him. A Nepenthe deserves it. I bring my sword back down on him, and I get another lovely speculation.

“You’re predictable.”

I don’t have time for his babbling. I swing, and he knocks my sword almost out of my hand, but I flip it around in time, raising the other end of my dual blade. Again, and our swords are locked in battle, each taunting the other with the threat of losing.

Leiholan, much to my annoyance, continues, “You always step with your left foot before you swing to the right, which is your most preferred move.” Then my sword is knocked from my hand and to the ground. He says, matter-of-factly, “It makes you predictable.”

Not all of us can slip off out of life with a bottle of vesi and a habit of annoying his students.

“And you step back before you swing. Every time. Predictable. But I still can’t seem to beat you.” I pick up my sword. “Predictability isn’t the problem.”

Leiholan laughs. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s try again, and this time you tell me the problem.”

He must enjoy pushing my buttons.

I hate the Nepenthe.

Three fights and zero wins later, I try to leave but Leiholan stops me. “You have a better eye than I thought.”

“Guess you should scrap whatever else you thought. Or maybe not, seeing as I’m so predictable.”

“I was trying to give you a compliment.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for one.”

“My Gods, Desdemona. If you could be a nice person for just,” he raises his thumb and middle finger, holding them close, “a second of your time, you’d get a lot further than you think!”

“That’s rich,” I say, my voice deep with humor.

“I already know where you’re going with that, and I don’t want to hear it.” He shakes his head and crosses his arms. What? He’s really just… giving up?

“How would you know anything? Right, right! I’m sorry I forgot, I’m predictable.”

Leiholan just looks me in the eye, shaking his head slowly. “Because I know you, sweetheart, much to my distaste.” His voice is laced with the venom that he holds in his teeth. He scoffs. “I may be droozed most of the time, but all I do is help you, and all you do is bite me.”

I laugh bitterly. “Then why do you insist on helping me?” I start listing all of my less-than-pleasant qualities he’s bestowed upon me on my fingers. “I’m insufferable, distasteful, unlikeable, predictable. Is there anything else you want to add?” I shout.

He sucks in his cheeks and I can see the indentations of his fangs, reminding me of what he is, what he does. But his words sound the opposite of menacing when he speaks. “I’ve been where you are.”

I think of my mom, trapped and probably tortured. Then I have to stop myself from thinking. I look him in the eye and I say, “Doubtful” and am ready to leave when I remember that there was something I needed his help with. I watch him take a long pull from his bottle of vesi.

Is he right? I’m about to ask for his help, again. Did I not just bite him before?

I know I did—but he bit me first.

“Thank you,” I say quickly, even though I don’t really want to. I can feel the hairs on my arm rise when he looks at me. He just nods once and frowns at me. “And my apologies,” I say even faster than my thanks, getting it over with.

Leiholan laughs, like a full, deep laugh. A real one. “You know, I wasn’t holding my breath.” He sits down on the floor. “What do ya want?”

I think of all the Nepenthe I’ve encountered in my life, how they treated us Folk, trying to stop this strange feeling of guilt for someone as vile as him.

“I don’t want any?—”

“Like I said, sweetheart, I know you.”

Now I’m wondering if he really does. I mean, he saw right through me. The thought is anything but comforting.

“The Gerner,” I say. “I got a gold dress.”

“Gold?” He laughs, then he claps once. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re going to be the belle of the ball,” his words drip with sarcasm.

I ignore his laughter the way I wish I could ignore some of the other things he’s said. “What do I do?”

He shrugs and takes another sip of vesi. “Use it to your advantage.”

When he says nothing more, I ask the obvious question. “How?”

“By doing what I’ve been telling you to.” He waves his hand in the air, saying, “Walk the walk. Prove yourself. Can you waltz?”

“I’ve never worn a dress before,” I say instead of saying the much more telling fact that I’ve never heard the word waltz.

Then he belches and washes it down with vesi. I don’t know how his body can handle so much of the stuff. “It’s a dance,” he says, and I grow embarrassed at how easily he saw through me, again. “Learn. And fast.”

“I can’t exactly tell anyone that I don’t know how to dance,” I whisper, but not harshly the way I’d like to. I’m trying hard to be nice, see if it really gets me as far as he thinks it will.

“Say your parents sheltered you. Most balls in Utul are for debutantes, the kids here know that.” Then he gives me a smirk and raises an eyebrow. Taunting me. “Lucian knows that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, making sure to maintain eye contact and not overheat when I think about who else has watched me watch him in class.

“Oh, please?—”

I cut him off, “And how do you know any of this? About the debutantes and Utul?”

Leiholan gets real quiet. He looks down and says, “I haven’t been home in a while.” And that’s the only answer I get.

* * *

The next time I meet Lucian, I ask if we can dance instead of train—which is a change that I welcome, because I don’t like starting fires or being pissed in order to start a fire.

“Why would we dance?” he asks, watching me with amusement in his eyes. Something I’ve gotten used to, seeing as amusement seems to be his default emotion.

“I don’t know how,” I answer quickly. I’m good at lying, but I hate showing my cards. “My parents were really strict.”

“That puts much into perspective,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re gauche.” He smirks. “A terrible flirt too.”

I give him a quick—annoyed—flash of a smile back. “Just teach me to waltz.”

“Sure thing, darling. But we’re not doing it here.” He gestures to the nature around us.

I don’t argue, I just follow him through a portal back to the school and up dark steps. He grabs my hand, gently guiding me left and right, over and over, effortlessly navigating the dim halls, taking me to a room on a floor I didn’t know existed.

“What is this place?” I ask when the lights flicker on. The room is full of dusty books on shelves, fancy clothes on racks, and foreign silver and wood contraptions on counters.

“The floor was made for the Royals, back when every world had monarchies.” He pushes a round table from the middle of the room to a corner lined with bookshelves, then dusts the contraptions. “Now it’s just my family and Kai’s, and we don’t come here often.”

A whole floor made for people who don’t even use it. Meanwhile, we have a family to a room this size and two beds—if you’re lucky—back home.

Music fills the room, forcing me away from my thoughts. It doesn’t sound anything like the music I’ve heard in my life. It’s slow, with different sounds and tones melding together. The music I know is upbeat, something they play in the factories to get the Folk’s feet moving when they’re tired or to lift spirits when they’re down over the many things there are to be down about.

Music must serve a very different purpose to the elites.

Then Lucian bows on one knee and holds up his hand to me. I worry I’m not doing a very good job of hiding how utterly shocked I am. “My pleasure,” he says, and I grab his hand.

He stands back, guiding one of my hands to the back of his neck. I don’t mean to pull away when he reaches for my waist.

“We can switch positions for practice, but you’ll be expected to dance the part of a lady during the Gerner,” he says, not at all unkindly.

I prefer the usual mocking edge to his tone. Kind is not an adjective I want to put to the prince, even for a second.

“It’s fine.” I step forward, and his hand comes back to my waist. This time, his grip is much lighter, like he doesn’t want to touch me, whereas before he didn’t mind at all.

He explains to me how I’m supposed to move my feet, then says, “Just follow my lead,” like I don’t understand.

“Your explanation was lesson enough.”

Lucian lets his hands fall down my hips, his grip almost nonexistent before he lets go entirely. “If you already know how, we don’t have to dance.”

I hold onto the back of his neck tighter, pulling him closer. “Just start.”

“Unless this was all a ploy to get your hands on me. If so, well played Marquees. I’ve been waiting for you to make a move.”

I laugh under my breath, drop my hands, and take a step back. “You have quite the ego.”

“And you’re bruising it right now, letting go of me like that.”

“So you’re the one who wants my hands on you?” I smile up at him.

Lucian smiles back. Different from his usual smirk. This is big, bright. The kind that highlights the dimples I didn’t know he had. “I didn’t know that had to be said aloud.”

Is he flirting with me? It’s by sheer force of will that my cheeks do not redden.

I grab his hand and put it on my waist. “Then you better milk it for all it’s worth,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. Then I decide to just grit my teeth—better for Lucian to think I’m angry at him than myself. “Because this is the first and last time.”

“You know,” he lifts his hand from my waist and begins to tuck a loose piece of hair behind my ear. “You’re a temperamental little thing.”

I hit his hand with the back of mine. “Am not.”

“Oh, no.” He lifts his hand with a smile. There’s a red mark where I hit him. “Of course you aren’t. My mistake.”

“Is that a problem? Because I’m thinking of stepping on your toes next.”

He laughs. I don’t want to like the sound. “Anything but. I find it amusing.”

I raise an eyebrow and ask, “You like when people step on your toes?”

“No, darling. I’d like to watch you try.”

“Start dancing,” I demand.

I watch my feet for the first steps. He steps forward with his left foot and I step back, just like he said. But when it’s my turn to step forward, I aim right for his foot.

He steps back quickly with a laugh.

When his foot comes forward for mine, I pull my leg up. “Hey!”

Lucian smiles at me. “It’s only fair.”

“Okay, okay.” I meet his gaze. “Truce?”

“Do you think I’d believe that for one second?”

I pucker my lips, and in one fast movement I smother his shoe under mine. “Nope,” I let out the word with a giggle.

“Dirty work, darling.”

I shrug. “It’s what I’m best at,” and I smile, “darling.”

“And there I was calling you gauche.”

I step in, tugging a piece of his dark wavy hair out of his face with a smirk. Just as he had done. “A horrible mistake,” I whisper mockingly. “I’m quite the flirt when I want to be.”

Lucian grabs my hand where I had smacked his. “I knew I made you want to be a flirt, Marquees. Is it the hair or the eyes?”

He smirks, his fingers drawing idle circles around my wrist. It shouldn’t feel this good. I shudder at the sensation that ripples through me—the burning, the adrenaline, the churning in my stomach.

But I don’t back away. Backing away would be a confession—to both myself and the prince.

“More like a sense of superiority.” He grabs my waist, pulling me closer. My breath catches. I don’t let it happen again when I say, “Someone has to put you in your place.”

“If my place is here,” Lucian says, his gaze going from my hand that he holds to my waist. “I’d say you should put me in my place more often.”

I will not let his touch bother me. I do not care that his hands are on my body.

That his eyes are on my body.

I do not care.

“You still want to try to step on my toes, don’t you?” I ask because I do care, and I need to back away before he notices.

“Darling, how could I possibly be thinking about anything other than how much my hands seem to be affecting you?”

“Well I happen to like beating you,” I say, twisting out of his hold. “So give me your all, Prince.”

“Oh, darling. I was planning on it.”

His right foot lunges for mine and I twirl out of the way and around him, running to the other side of the room and surprising myself with a laugh. A real laugh. The kind that leaves you breathless.

He pursues, laughing right along with me. We stand, facing one another. He makes mock movements toward me and I pretend to step back, but neither of us stretches the distance between us.

The prince runs for me and I jump on top of the dusty table. He waves his hand in the air and sneezes.

“You should get used to the dust, seeing as I’m gonna leave you in it,” I tease.

He comes to the edge of the table. “How do you feel about flying?”

“What?”

Then he picks me up by my legs, places me on the ground, and steps on my toes.

“Not fair!” I laugh, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance while he holds me by the waist.

He shrugs. “A page from your playbook.”

“Quick study,” I say.

“And there you were, talking about dust or something like that.”

“Leave you in the dust,” I correct, lifting my chin. “You’ve never heard anyone say that?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh,” I laugh, feeling a little silly now. “It’s just like saying you’d surpass someone.” Suddenly, his hands feel very hot on my skin.

What is wrong with me?

This is the prince. Someone who’d likely have me killed for a discretion like… kicking a rock. Or something. I just need to make sure he’s on my side, because so far, he’s the only one with the means to find my mom.

And I still don’t believe him when he said he didn’t know where she was.

“A dance?” I ask.

He releases one side of my waist and grabs my hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The dance is rather simple, really. It’s just taking steps. The only thing that has the power to make me lose focus is the fact that his touch burns through my shirt.

I look up at him with a smug smile after three rounds of monotonous dancing.

“See?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “Easy.”

Then he spins me to the side and tilts me down so fast I don’t know what’s happening until I feel his hand pressed to the small of my back, keeping me from falling to the floor, and I’m staring up into his midnight eyes. I never noticed before that there’s a lighter shade of blue around his pupils, like the rarity of light in the night sky back home.

I never noticed the little divot in the middle of his bottom lip either.

He leans in closer and whispers, “Don’t get cocky.”

My heart is beating so fast I fear he can see the pulse of my neck. I just swallow and say, “I think cocky is your territory. It goes with your ego.”

Then he pulls me up straight, again, and a little closer to him. I do the same.

“The one you refuse to stroke?” Lucian says.

“There are other kinds of flattery.” I dare to look him right in the eye. “If you can prove to me that you deserve them.”

“Consider me at your mercy.”

But I was wrong—there is another thing that can make me lose my focus.

The whispering.