Page 127 of A Game of Veils

Giralda’s face pales with each step in time with the rhythm. Every glimpse I get of her tugs at my heart more.

She hasn’t stood up for me against Bianca and Fausta, but I can’t blame her for that. She’s never actually hurt me.

I sashay closer to her until I’m close enough to speak without Fausta overhearing. I have no intention of giving my most vicious rival the benefit of my advice.

“Always lift your feet a little off the floor,” I murmur, following my instructions as I give them. “Don’t slide them over the tiles at all. The rough edges will dig in less that way.”

She gives the slightest nod, her eyes wide.

The strategy isn’t enough to avoid injury completely. Step after rhythmic step, the thin ridges dig in more. My heel stings, and I bite my lip.

I’m not surprised to see smudges of red trailing after my feet as I dip and whirl.

With a stifled hiss here and a flinch there, more and more blood dapples the tiles. Fausta’s eyes have gone vacant, as if she’s retreated into her head as much as I’m trying to.

Little cuts throb all over my bare soles. I dig my fingers into my palms as if I can offset the pain below with a distraction above.

“Look at the art they’re making!” Marclinus calls out, sounding so jovial I’d like to shove my bleeding foot right down his throat. “But I think it’s gotten a little boring. Let’s speed up this dance, shall we?”

He shoots a pointed look at Lorenzo. The prince’s arms tighten around the lyre, but he speeds up the tempo with a flick of his hand.

The quickening patter of my feet sends even more twinges racing up my legs. Giralda muffles a ragged groan, leaving behind whole blotches of crimson beneath her halting steps. Leonette has dug her fingers into the skirt of her dress, swishing it to add to her dance while gripping it as if clinging on for dear life.

Fausta’s breath hitches through her teeth, but she prances on, smattering blood in her wake.

My gaze flits beyond the platform and collides with two pairs of staring eyes: one pale blue and blazing with fury, the other pine-green and horrified.

Raul and Bastien have advanced to the front of our audience. They track my movements across the platform, the muscles in Raul’s shoulders taut, Bastien’s mouth pressing ever flatter.

Are they still upset at me after everything that happened between us and Lorenzo today or is all their ire aimed at the men who set me on this bloody path? I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

If they challenge the emperor, if they even reveal that they care what happens to me, my fate and theirs could become ten times worse.

Beyond them, the crowd shifts. I spot servants in the imperial livery weaving between the nobles along the inner circle, handing each of them something from a box.

Oh, gods, what new chaos is Marclinus about to unleash on us?

At another jab, another shock of agony lances from the ball of my foot to my thigh. My knee wobbles, but I throw myself into a spin that tips my balance onto my other leg. Blood trails across the tiles in a smeared spiral.

The imperial heir gives a whoop of approval. “Such dedication! My ladies have proven they’re up to an even greater challenge. Let’s bring out their dancing partner.”

At his beckoning motion, a page darts onto the platform between us and flips over a larger central tile about the width of his hand. A steel loop juts from its surface.

I peer at the metal ring in a haze of pain, confusion, and growing exhaustion. What in the realms is that?—

A snarl cuts through the hush of the crowd. My veins turn to ice.

The nobles jostle away from another figure cutting through their swarm. This servant holds a long chain, the other end of which is attached to a collar on the neck of a huge, spotted panther.

A leather muzzle criss-crosses the beast’s face, preventing it from doing more with its mouth than snarl and growl. Its keeper yanks on the chain to direct it up onto the platform with us and fixes the chain to the loop in the floor.

Then he detaches the muzzle with a jerk of his hand and dashes away with the leather straps in his grip.

All four of us have slowed despite the spirited tune lilting through the room. Giralda presses her hand to her mouth to muffle a faint shriek. Even Fausta is gaping at the immense wild cat, her skin turned outright sallow.

Emperor Tarquin gives his order with a note of warning. “Dance.”

Lorenzo’s playing has wavered. He looks as if he grits his teeth before digging back into the song.

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