Page 126 of A Game of Veils

Emperor Tarquin claps his hands, and the murmurs that were passing through the crowd halt.

Marclinus grins down at us so eagerly the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Maids, please assist your ladies by collecting their shoes and holding on to them for safe keeping.”

Our shoes? I blink at him for a second and then bend over to peel the thin leather slippers off my feet. Nothing good ever comes from questioning His Imperial Highness.

Rochelle takes my shoes from me with a furtive squeeze of my hands. Clutching the slippers to her chest, she steps back a few paces to the inner edge of the crowd.

My competitors have similarly bared their feet. I’d feel glad that’s the only part of us Marclinus is demanding go naked, except I’m sure there’s much more to his challenge than this request.

His grin hasn’t budged. “I need a wife who can keep up with me through any revelry, no matter the circumstances. Who can celebrate our union and our empire during times both joyful and dire. So let us see you dance for as long as your body will keep moving!”

He gives another extravagant swing of his arm. “Up onto your dance floor you go. Frolic until one of you proves too weak for the task. All you have to do is stay up there and cavort your hearts out.”

His laugh peals off the high ceiling. Restraining a shudder, I step onto the low platform.

As soon as my bare feet touch the tiles, alarm jitters beneath my skin. The surface isn’t as smooth as I was expecting. Some of the irregular edges prick at my soles.

There has to be a reason he set up this special setting for our dance rather than holding the trial in the ballroom.

Emperor Tarquin turns in his seat. “Prince Lorenzo? There you are. My heir and his potential brides deserve the liveliest melodies you can conjure. We have your instrument right here.”

He motions to the base of his tall platform, where one of the pages is waiting with a lyre.

Lorenzo pushes through the crowd into view, his stance tense. He accepts the lyre, glances down at it, and then looks toward me.

His mouth twists. His dark eyes burn into me with as much anguish as I saw in them when he walked in on me with Bastien and Raul, but it’s not all because of me now.

A crease forms in his brow. Then his jaw clenches as if he’s gathering his resolve. His gaze flicks from the emperor above and back to me, his lips parting, and all at once I know down to my core that he’s about to refuse. To rebel against the man who keeps him leashed.

For me. Because no matter what he thinks of me tonight, he doesn’t want to play a part in tormenting me.

Panic jolts through my nerves. My hand twitches at my side, a hasty gesture I hope he’ll see without anyone else realizing it’s more than anxious fidgeting. Play.

Lorenzo hesitates, the furrow in his forehead deepening. Tarquin glances down at him, probably wondering what’s delaying his pet prince, and I twist my fingers in another swift gesture. I’m all right.

I don’t know if it’ll make this night better or worse to be dancing to the music of the man I trust most in this place, who might not trust me at all now, but I’ll be damned if I let him get any more hurt because of me.

“Well?” the emperor says in an ominous tone, but Lorenzo is already bracing the instrument against his abdomen. He sets his fingers against the strings and draws out the first strains of a song.

I can’t help thinking I pick up a faintly sad strain beneath the spirited tune that spills out into the air. My throat constricts.

There’s nothing I can do but lift my arms and move my feet to follow the melody.

It only takes a few steps to confirm my fears. Giralda gasps, and Fausta’s face tightens into a pale, fierce mask. Even Leonette can’t suppress a quiver of her chin.

The uneven edges of the tiles scrape against the unprotected soles of our feet. They don’t slice straight in—I suppose because then this trial would be over far faster than suits Marclinus’s need for entertainment—but they pinch and nip and jab, sending slivers of pain up my legs with every movement.

Quivering through the bone in my shin that isn’t quite finished mending. Waking up the dull ache that’d almost died down again after Fausta’s latest attack.

I gird myself against the building pain, focusing my attention on the music instead. On the other sensations flowing through and over my body with the sway of my limbs. On the center of calm inside me—shrunken but still there.

Giralda shows the first evidence of actual injury. A whimper slips from her mouth, and a thin smear of blood marks the tiles with the next movement of her feet.

Marclinus, the sadistic prick, lets out an approving chuckle. Emperor Tarquin simply smiles.

The vibrant red stands out starkly against the pale flooring. No doubt that’s why they picked the color scheme.

They want everyone to see how much we’re enduring to appease them.

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