The dance floor clears until it is only the king and me. The orchestra strikes up a new song, one that only we can share.
Keeping his eyes on mine, the king advances a step, and I move backward with the motion, following his lead. This style of dance is more improvised, rather than having a set choreography to adhere to, and I can’t help but wonder if the king is somehow testing me with it, seeing if I can keep up. When he steps to the side, I mirror him. He keeps his arms crossed behind his back, but dancing is not meant to be so stiff, so I let mine move with me.
At first, it’s difficult not to become distracted by the tendrils of black dancing around him. The shadows are so unusual, so fascinating. I wonder what would happen if I reached out to one. Would it curl around my finger? Dissipate at the touch of my skin? Feel as though I’d plunged into a fog?
I remember myself when the Shadow King holds an arm out to me. I know I’m not meant to take it, so instead I twirl for him, letting my overskirt lift off the floor to show more of the tight-fitted pants beneath. I close my eyes and feel the motion more deeply.
The tempo picks up and so do the king’s movements. I seem to sense his actions rather than watch for them. The dance turns exhilarating and frantic, almost as if there’s something desperate in the music itself. As the song grows faster and faster and the king’s eyes burrow into mine, I can’t help but feel as though he’s trying to communicate something to me through dancing alone.
I see nothing but those green eyes, feel nothing but the floor against my feet. I lose all sense of time and purpose.
When the music comes to a crushing halt, I dip my head backward as the Shadow King lets one gloved hand tilt toward me in the imitation of a caress.
I’m breathing heavily while staring up into two swirls of emerald green. We right ourselves seconds later.
When the king finally looks away from me, he raises his voice for all to hear. “That’s enough revelry for one night.”
And without another word, the king turns on one heel and stalks from the room, grabbing his sword on the way out.
I’m staring at the spot where he disappeared in stunned silence.
In the next instant, servants dressed in silly wigs usher everyone from the room. Father takes my arm, and I silently follow his lead.
What just happened?
I thought the dance was perfect. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t get too close.
The king, who has never publicly danced with anyone since his coronation, asked me to dance.
And then he left without another word.
Men do not dismiss me. No one has since Hektor. I feel my nostrils flare and my face heat up.
“It was a valiant attempt,” Father says as he hands me up into the carriage. “Devils know you achieved more than any other woman has. Not only did His Majesty bother to look at you, he asked for a dance. He will remember you. This isn’t necessarily over.”
The carriage moves slowly, halting and rolling in small increments as the traffic backs up from all the other people leaving the palace.
“Just a moment!” a voice calls out. The carriage comes to another jerking stop.
The head of a man appears in the open window of the carriage. A palace servant, by the way he’s dressed.
“Lady Stathos?” he asks. “I am she.”
He sticks an arm into the carriage and presents me with a black envelope. When I take it, he doesn’t leave. He waits patiently for me to open it.
Forgive me, Lady Stathos, but I’ve changed my mind. I do not wish for you to leave just yet. You’re far too interesting for that. Will you come join my court? Consider this an invitation, not a demand.
My man will await your reading of this note in the event of your acquiescence.
—KM
I wonder at the signature. Could those be the king’s real initials? I suppose I shouldn’t have expected him to sign SK. Shadow King isn’t his name, after all.
Elation rushes through me as I realize what this means. “What is it?” Father asks.
“The king asks for me to stay at court.”
“Then why are we still sitting in this carriage?”
I turn toward the servant. “I will accept His Majesty’s invitation.” “Very good, my lady.” He opens the carriage door for me but shuts it
before Father can descend the steps. “I’m afraid the invitation extends only to the lady, my lord. You’re free to return home.”
And before my father can utter a word of protest, the servant leads me back toward the palace.
 |
WE DON‘T GO THROUGH the main doors. Instead, I’m taken through a side entrance, something that appears to be used only by the servants.
Indeed, curious laundresses and kitchen workers stare at me as I’m taken down long corridors with black carpeting. Past sconces in the shape of thorny vines. Through doorways lined with vases painted with stallions and eagles.
Is the king trying to hide me? Or perhaps simply not make a spectacle of my more permanent arrival?
Eventually, the servant deposits me in front of a door. He reaches for a key within his coat and lets us in.
The room is grander than anything I’ve ever stayed in, with thick light-blocking drapes, wooden furniture detailed with exquisite roses, and cushions of the softest down, but it is nothing compared to what a queen’s rooms would look like, I’m sure.
A maid is waiting in the room, likely having just finished turning down the bed.
“The king has already sent for your things, my lady. They should be here first thing tomorrow,” the man who led me here says.
“But I’ve only just agreed, and you haven’t yet told him I accepted.”
The servant holds himself a little higher. “The king was hopeful you would accept.”
Hopeful? More like presumptuous. Arrogant. “I see.”
I have a lot of work ahead of me.
