Chapter Sixteen
I leave Sundar for the Modiste’s Hall, promising to meet him in the pavilion.
We spent far too much time in the Abyssal, meaning I am wholly unprepared for tonight. Swallowing thickly, I cast a searching gaze around the Modiste’s Hall for anything that might spark an idea. There are racks of gowns, jewels, accessories, but nothing I haven’t used before.
It helped seeing Anton through Sundar’s eyes, but it doesn’t erase what I’ve witnessed thus far. He’s so different, and yet—I glimpsed the Anton I knew in that throne room. The Anton I fell for.
I think that’s the worst part.
Spouting a frustrated huff, I snatch a silky dark blue dress.
It’s less fabric than I feel comfortable in—an angular, V-shaped bust, the back dipping below the arch of my spine.
The only splash of color is on the flare of the skirt—sapphire beads that crackle outward in the shape of flames, almost as if the end has caught fire.
Fire.
The beginnings of an idea—or a curiosity, rather—kindles.
I tread toward one of the several bobbing lights that float midair. There are many of them throughout the palace, lining the halls like sconces or dancing along walkways. This one is centered midway along a row of shelves displaying a treasure trove of jewelry.
A closer inspection tells me that it isn’t actually fire, even though its white-blue light twists and undulates within the glass globe the same way fire might.
Even so, I press a finger to the glass, expecting heat.
Instead it’s cool to the touch. I reach inside the small opening just above its base on one side.
There’s oil at the bottom, a minuscule pool of it, the middle containing a wick.
The not-flame coils softly atop, like silk in the wind.
I dab my finger into the oil. That, at least, is like what I might find in our mortal world—thick, viscous. Slippery.
The flame itself is a burning, albeit bearable, cold. When I brush my finger against it, a trail of it catches onto the oil as if I were a candlewick.
Taking a breath, I blow it out.
The pavilion is flush with laughter that rings from every direction along with the heady smell of spirits and wine.
I find myself extra irritated by it, fatigued as I am in every way—body, soul, and mind.
All I want to do is lie down. Sleep, maybe forever.
Too bad that’s not exactly what death offers.
I spy Sundar idling near the table, cramming a wedge of magenta fruit into his mouth.
He winces when he sees me, then offers a meager, not-so-reassuring nod.
I bypass him, taking stock of the pavilion.
It looks a little different this evening, almost themed.
Tonight it is decked out like a woodland, with garlands of perennial blooms strung from the ceilings.
Antlers and sprigs burst from large urns.
The Exalted are decadent in vests of velvet and moss and gowns of silk-made hostas and peonies, their crystalline jewelry scalloped like drops of dew.
Anton leans against a column near the back, partially hidden in shadow. Dahlia lingers at his side again, her dress composed of a hundred magenta phlox hugging her luxurious curves. I look away when her hand comes to rest on his hip.
I refuse to look at him even when I curtsy and announce my presence.
“Climbing the table was a nice touch,” he says to my back the moment I turn away. “I wonder, will you swing from the rafters next?”
I swing around. His profile is limned in a haze of azure, a bauble of light bobbing at his right. I wasn’t going to do this here, not in such close proximity. But my spite boils over.
I snatch the bauble next to him and smash it against the ground. Crunch it with the sole of my slipper—a crunch for every ounce of frustration I feel toward him. His attitude, his complacency. The way he’s no longer himself, and yet he is, and all this is happening because…
Because he sacrificed a vital piece of himself for me.
I won’t forget that. But I won’t absolve him of his carelessness, either. So I make a vow and hold to it like the last thread of hope.
I will save you somehow whether you like it or not, you beautiful, pompous ass.
Glass fragments across the floor in shards, and it has the effect I intended. I drag the edge of my dress into the flame, letting it catch.
White-blue fire runs up the skirt in flourishes and swirls—the pattern I had drawn with the oil back in the Modiste’s Hall. It shimmies up to my thighs, and when I twirl, it releases a flurry of cerulean embers.
There are six slits in the flare of fabric beneath my waist, each fluttering as I tread toward an open space before the fountain.
This dance, I keep simple, allowing the fire to do the work.
My hips swish and dip so that my skirt whirls just right, threading licks of blue through the air as I move.
My anger grows as I dance, too—a fuel even stronger than the flames.
My movements become determined, impassioned.
Furious, until I’m working up a sweat, perspiration haloing my forehead.
Even so, I persist, almost as if I need this dance to work something out of me. To confront my fears.
Or perhaps something in me is fighting to break free.
And this time, I watch Anton. I glare at him every chance I get, even as I drag a finger across one of the flames, letting it spread along the lines of oil I also drew on my skin.
It doesn’t stick as easily, but little wisps flicker along my palm and up my forearm, and when I repeat the motion with my other hand, it draws a sinuous path there, too.
It’s uncomfortable, a burning cold. But it does offer a modicum of relief—for now, I feel only this.
A distraction for the clamp of my muscles, the knots of tension throughout my body.
Soon, however, my mind adjusts to the level of pain, and the rest comes swarming back. The music grows thinner—just in time. As it fizzles out, I cup my palm and blow a shower of sparks from the gathered flame. Like a spray of moonlit motes, they rain down.
Through them, I find Anton’s gaze once more, and this time, I hold it like a clench.
Like a dare.
There’s a shift in the air. A chord of tension plucked, reverberating down the line of our gaze. He watches me in a way he hasn’t before. I see it in the way he straightens a degree, the way his gaze brightens, as if containing a flame, his brows ever-so-slightly notched.
It’s how he used to look at me, all those nights at the Gathering. That intensity, the game between us, the way we never broke eye contact as if it were a challenge. A thread, always pulled taut, until it finally snapped.
In that brothel.
Although we both pretended otherwise, we lost ourselves, and I knew—knew in that moment, despite my denial—that he had a power over me.
That he could make me melt with only a glance.
That he could stir a maelstrom of both longing and fury within me, a passion that left me frighteningly breathless, time and again.
I had been so afraid of it—afraid of the way he made me feel then.
So worried he would be like Illian, in the end.
I am slammed back into the present when Dahlia cups his face and tilts it toward her own.
Her lips cover his—even as he watches me—and still he does not look away.
It’s like a knife sliding into the cavity of my chest, one inch at a time, until I can no longer breathe at all.
A sudden, familiar numbness sweeps over me, and then I’m turning, walking away, my surroundings tunneling to the closest exit—an archway to my left. Sundar barrels into my path, but I edge past him. “Not now. Please, Sundar, let me go.”
His brows squeeze together in concern, but I’m gone before he can protest.
Descending a set of stairs, I plunge through another arch. It leads me out onto an arcade lined by columns, and past that, I spear onto the raised walkway that curves all the way around the waterfall itself.
Only once I’m behind the waterfall do I slow and catch my breath. That feverish feeling is back, pulsing hot behind my eyes.
A path descends to the natural pool beneath, where the water is still, shining under the aurora like the surface of a sapphire.
The waterfall is not a rushing thing but a slow glide, like gossamer drifting down and sliding serenely into the pool.
But here I can feel the mist layering over my skin in a cool, thick sheen.
For a moment, all I can do is breathe in and out, my heart a painful pulse.
He might never come back.
He might decide he doesn’t want me, even if he does. I have no claim on him. And he certainly has no obligation toward me. It’s more realistic that he would want a political alliance, even if his memories return and he reclaims the Miridranian throne.
A darker thought slides in after that.
I might not want him.
Might not be able to bear the contrast between the Anton I knew and the Anton I see here if I am forced to confront too much more.
But then I recognize that for the lie it is.
Harden your heart.
Turn it to stone.
It is the only way.
“I do not remember dismissing you.”
Startled from my thoughts, I whirl to find Anton feet away, the nighttime aurora making peridots of his eyes.
I had thought Sundar might follow. But not Anton.
It takes me a moment before I find my voice. “Our deal was that I would dance for you, Majesty. Not that I would participate in the revelry afterward.” I am careful not to lift the veil off my heart, to reveal the pain sitting heavily underneath my breastbone.
“That dance,” he says. “It was meant to entice me, no? Or capture my attention, at the very least. Congratulations on a job well done.”
You have indeed captured my attention, he had once said. And after, he had sought me out much like this.
“Not everyone is vying for your affections, Sire,” I say, forcing a flippancy I do not feel.
“You knew very well what you were doing.”
Watching him as I did—it was a mistake. But I’d been so angry. “Believe what you will,” I say, nudging past him and back toward the palace, intent on escaping him before I break altogether.
His fingers close around the bud of my shoulder. “Wait.”
I merely angle my head, but he spins me all the way around.
“You might as well try.”
I keep my eyes trained on the waterfall. “Try what?”
“If Sadira put you to the task of seducing me, then will you not at least try?”
At this, I jerk my head up and pull from his grip. “Do you mean to insult me? I am not interested in whatever leftovers you might offer after you have your way with every soul in your vicinity.”
“I—” He shuts his mouth. Licks his lips.
He’s shucked off his robe, I realize, wearing only a thin, sleeveless vest, the hammered brass bands encircling his biceps catching that dim, bluish light and tossing it about. Like what he might have worn on Anell.
“Do not misunderstand me, Sire,” I say. “Every night, I will dance for you. And in turn, you will hold to your vow to let me stay without alerting Moranya to my presence. Let that be the extent of our interaction, Your Gloriousness.” It hurts to say it.
He barely reacts. Instead an amused brow inches up. “And now you are angry with me. Why?”
“I—I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I am not.”
“Swear it on your stepmother’s good name. On her very soul.” At my obvious exasperation, a smile dawns on his lips. “Ah, you cannot. Tell me my offense so that I might have the means to defend myself.”
I blow out a breath. “Are you happy here? Is this really the type of life you want?”
“What’s not to like?” he says. “I am afforded any luxury I desire.”
“And your desires are the only ones that matter?”
“I would very much love to indulge yours as well,” he says, stepping toward me. “Only I doubt you would admit to them.” He taps a finger to my breastbone—right above my décolletage. “How very fast your heart beats for me, dancer.”
“Anger spurs it, Majesty.”
“How fine a line is the one that divides fury and passion. One could say it’s rather pleasurable to blur the two.” Again a smile, this one broadening as he shifts on his feet. “You know, I think I will change the terms of our agreement.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Of course I can. I will continue to allow your presence here in exchange for your nightly dances—and for your joining me for a dinner of my choosing. Tomorrow evening, I think. I will send someone to collect you.”
This time, he walks away from me.