Chapter Twenty-Nine
The trek along the outer wall of the palace is not easy.
I stumble over rocks, clinging to his arm for balance, until we come upon a small market with an inlet hugging a long dock that runs parallel to the water’s edge.
Lapping water glows a soft orange underneath the slowly receding sun, and it carries a current of curved wooden boats rimmed in glass that drift lazily along, as if taking a stroll.
A few civilians empty from each one, ushered by dockworkers in green velvet vests.
“The city is unusually quiet tonight,” he murmurs.
And indeed, even the patrons who stroll along the docks aren’t lingering, and many of the stalls are closing. I remember Sundar telling me that many of Anton’s loyalists are challenging Gustav’s rule.
Two days until the Syndicate arrives. And Miridran is far from united. It seems the tension is palpable, like the eerie stillness before a squall.
But Anton dispels my unease for the moment, gently guiding my chin toward the boats. “The famous crescents,” he says.
“How do they work?” I can’t help but ask, noticing that there are no rowers inside.
“They are hooked to a track underneath the water that circles the Arts District,” he says.
Indeed, the crescents are spread evenly apart, gliding along in perfect unison down the riverbank, only to disappear underneath an arching bridge as the waterway curves away.
The chime of bells resounds in the air, shattering across the river like a dissonant song. The uniformed dockworkers help a final few from the returning crescents as we near, then tie red ropes across the dock.
“They will board no more people tonight, though the craft will continue to run. Meaning,” Anton says with an arch of his brow, “when they leave, it will be the perfect time to hop in.”
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 to make a run for it—the crescents never actually come to a full stop. Ready?”
“You mean we have to leap into one while it’s moving?”
“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 float beneath 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 call me a 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 Anell that 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 is today. 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 been hurt.
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.
I love him—even if he never chooses me.
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 gaze dip 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 who share 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.
Though I brace myself, the kiss is decadent. Slow and warm. Tender, like I’m treasured. Like he feels the way I do.
Like his longing is a rival to mine.
It turns out I don’t have the strength to pull away. So I tell myself that I will kiss him in such a way that I will have no regrets. A kiss I can take with me, preserved in my memories like a butterfly in amber. Mine to keep forever—even if he moves on without me.
I can’t tell him how much I love him, but I can show him. So I put every ounce of it into the way I pull him closer and press against him. The way I fist the fabric above his heart, even as I swallow down the burgeoning tears.
He, in turn, responds with such tenderness, it weakens my knees. His lips graze across mine in sweeps, and then he spends time in the corner of my mouth, kissing his way to my dimple then back again, his palm hooked around the base of my neck.
But it ends before I’m ready, and he brushes a thumb across my lips.
“Do not think this fulfills the kiss you owe me, Vasalie,” he says, pulling away, “when this one you would have given to me for free.”