Page 87 of A Dance Macabre

“I’ve never felt like this before, Wolfgang. You — you madden me. You’ve left me unguarded and have made me …carefor someone outside of myself. To trust you, Wolfgang,” I press, my voice cracking, “I must place my heart into your hands and believe you will not damage it — trust that you won’t strangle it with your fists and bleed me to death.” Another tear falls. “I could not bear the thought. I could not bear the threat of this kind of agony.”

Wolfgang stays silent. My hands still wrapped around his.

“And what made you change your mind, my ruin?” he asks softly, his gaze searching mine.

I choke on a sob. “You.” I swallow the tears down. “I realized that it was too late—that my heart was already beating outside of my chest. You had already claimed it.”

Wolfgang gives me a weak smile, his fingers caressing over my cheeks and lips.

“Do you trust me, Mercy?” he asks solemnly.

“Should I not ask you the same?” I can’t help but say.

He lets the silence linger. His blue-gray eyes piercing. “Not today.”

My stomach drops, fear snaking tightly around my throat. “What can I do, then? To prove to you my loyalty? My devotion? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

He lets my question hang between us for a beat before his morose smile slowly turns into a cocksure grin as if my question has brought him solace. As if whatever answer he’s come up with has restored him to his typical arrogant demeanor.

“The servant of death on her knees is a good start.”

46

WOLFGANG

Mercy stands next to me while we are transported down the streets of Pravitia on a large gold palanquin, half-enclosed and high enough for us to stand in. Ten bearers carry us, large poles resting on their shoulders as they rock gently from side to side. They take one heavy step after another while the crowd cheers boisterously from the side.

The weather is particularly mild for early January. The cloudless skies are crystal blue, and the sun’s rays are warm and inviting.

Mercy’s expression is a masterpiece of power and authority, the curves of her face enforcing the very image of a Crèvecoeur as a Pravitian ruler. The collar of her dress undulates up the length of her neck, a large diamond necklace resting overtop the fabric. She is a regal vision, and I match her energy perfectly with my long velvet coat of a deep burgundy with gold stitching.

Although the threat of Dizzy had vanished, we had no way to tell if the threat of the insurrection was over. But the unexpected visit from the Oracle in our bedchamber early morning after Dizzy’s death did soothe some of our anxious ruminations. Shetold us that the gods were pleased and to not disappoint them again. She left shortly after.

It only took a few days to organize the parade.

Advertised and broadcasted through every medium Vainglory Media controls.

Which is every single one of them.

However, celebrating the two rulers of Pravitia isn’t why we’re parading down the streets of Pravitia today. No, this is a deliberate warning.

A reminder that the fate of a treasonous rat is much worse than merely being ruled by us.

A few feet from our palanquin is an even larger float, this one needing hundreds of bearers to carry it, the poles over twenty feet long. Atop the float is a rectangular table, and around it sit six scarecrows, each created in our likeness.

Because this parade is a traitor’s parade.

A Feast of Fools just for Dizzy.

If she craved to overpower us—craved to rule this city in our stead—then let her. If she wanted this so badly then let her have it.

Her body has been dismembered. Six body parts for the six scarecrows representing each of us. The legs, the arms, and hands. All are carefully stitched and attached. And right in the middle of the table, amongst the plethora of large plates of food is the centerpiece.

Dizzy’s head on a spike.

Whatever is left of it anyway.

All six scarecrows face the centerpiece while they feast. A mockery of Dizzy’s death and her moronic dream of ever stealing the power from our grasp.

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