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I don’t know why he’s explaining this to me. He might be lying to confuse me, but that doesn’t make any more sense than him telling the truth. The Garnet doesn’t contradict him. The Star, on the other hand, sputters a bit, her spine going ramrod straight. “Did you just call me a puppet?”

“I only speak the truth.”

Her facade of perfection fractures. She glares, hatred in her pale blue eyes. “Spare me,” she spits. “You may take that superiority complex and shove it up your ass. I don’t have to sit here and be insulted by the likes of you.” She shoves her chair back and practically prances across the room, drawing every eye in the place. A trio of Cups appears from the crowd and pulls her into its midst, casting sharp glances back at our table.

“Is she always like that?” I don’t mean to say it. I’m just flabbergasted that this dramatic woman who looks like a stubbed toe would send her into a fit of weeping somehow managed to become one of the Cinque in the last Tarot Trials. More than that, I don’t understand why my mother would choose to ally with her. She’s terrible.

“Don’t underestimate the Star. She relies on trickery, and will bend the rules to suit her purposes.”

I frown. “What are you talking about? Violating the rules of the Trials means risking execution.”

“You foolish child.” Death sighs, as if this entire conversation is boring him. “It would be wise to remove the sleeve she touched. The Star likes her poison. It will take a few hours to work into your skin enough to be fatal, but the process has already started.”

I stare. Surely he’s bluffing … But even as I think it, I notice a faint burning sensation where she patted my shoulder. “It’s not nightfall.”

“And she is too savvy to break the rules.” Death cuts a bite-sized piece of his steak. “You wouldn’t die before the Sun sets.”

I grab the knife on the table and use it to hack off my right sleeve. There’s nothing there to see, but the discomfort eases almost immediately. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Even if it wasn’t a fatal dose, who knows what it’s going to do to me? If I learned anything last night, it’s that I’m already out of my element and without an advantage.

I toss the fabric onto the seat the Star occupied. I open my mouth to ask why Death bothered to say anything at all, but I don’t get a chance. The music—previously a perfect volume to encourage small talk—swells and picks up its pace. Apparently they really do intend for us to dance. This is going to be a nightmare.

No matter what measures are taken, the worship of Death will never be fully eradicated. To fear Death is at the core of what it means to live. As such, Caelrians will always offer up little rituals to avoid Their attention.

—EXCERPT FROM THE MAJOR ARCANA: A TREATISE ON THE HISTORY OF THE OLD GODS

CHAPTER TEN

THE ROOM IS big enough that I can probably hide behind the ridiculous fizzy fountain and avoid making a spectacle of myself. Or, gods, maybe I can just leave, press through the tittering crowds of Cups gathering around the perimeter of the dance floor to watch us as if we’re their own personal entertainment.

I don’t know how to dance. No, that’s not true, but I hardly think the wild movements of pure abandon that we escape to in the Dregs are the same way we’re expected to dance here. In the Dregs, it’s a celebration of life, an acknowledgment that Death remains one step behind, at least for this day, this strike, this moment.

The Garnet pushes back his chair and nods at me. “Thank you for sharing a meal with me. I hope to see you tomorrow at the Pentacles party.” He moves away before I can decide how to respond. He ignored me the entire time he was at the table, so I don’t see why he’d look forward to seeing me tomorrow. Fucking politics.

I’m so focused on watching the Garnet disappear into the crowd that seems to swell alongside the music, I almost miss Death pushing slowly to his feet. I fully expect him to follow in the wake of the Garnet and the others around the room streaming onto the dance floor, but he turns away. Is he leaving? I haven’t had a chance to ask him a single question.

I shove to my feet and round the table before he can get away. “Wait.” A small voice in the back of my mind whispers that this is a bad idea, but I’m too busy planting myself in his path. “Dance with me.”

His cadaverous features appear garish in the blue and copper tints from the stained glass overhead. The light of the setting Sun almost hides his eyes entirely, giving him the look of a skull. “Move.”

I would like nothing more. Unfortunately, I’ve put myself in this position and now I’m going to see it through. “Surely you aren’t going to sneak away instead of giving these Cups the show they’re so invested in.” It’s exactly what I’d prefer, but he’s made it clear he’s not interested in talking to me. This is the only way, no matter that I don’t know how to dance like they do up on the hill and will surely be humiliated. It’s not as if their opinion of me can get worse. When Death continues to hesitate, I say, “Your opportunity to slip away unnoticed is gone. You might as well dance before people start noticing you’re making a scene.”

He glances over my head and seems to come to the same conclusion. With a sigh, Death holds out a skeletal hand. “Come, Moon. Let’s get this over with.”

As we walk to the dance floor and join the other couples there, whispers rise around us. The music is too loud to pick up the individual sentences, but there’s a lot of shock in the expressions of the nearest Cups. It’s only as Death swings me around to face him that I have to admit I might have made a mistake. “I don’t know how to dance,” I mutter. “Not like they do here.”

“It’s not difficult.” From the Star, the sentence would have been passive aggressive. From Death, it’s merely fact. He pulls me just close enough to set his hand on my waist, keeping a careful distance between our bodies. I don’t want to appreciate the small courtesy. Not from him.

Over his shoulder, I catch sight of the Tower dancing with Cato. He glares down at the Sun as he talks, though they’re not quite close enough for me to pick up the words. None of that matters right now. This is my chance to question Death. I might not get another. “Why did you make the Tower kill Judgment and the others without your assistance?” It’s not the question I really want to ask, but it seems safer to start this way. If Mouse knew I was literally dancing with Death right now, he might keel over in pure shock and rage.

Death raises his brows. “You were wise to use the Moon’s shadows to hide on that rooftop, but your cover was incomplete. The deeper the shadows, the more difficult it will be for others to see you; too much light, and the outline of your body is still visible.” He guides me through the dance as I gape at him. He was right—it’s not difficult with him leading the way. Damn him.

I struggle to find words. Of all the things I could have anticipated he’d say, that isn’t one of them. “If you knew I was there, why didn’t you send the Tower to kill me? Why did you stop him when he almost did on the street?”

Death spins me out and back, easily catching me with that same polite distance between us. “I’ll answer a single question for a question.” His voice is craggy, as if someone poured live coals down his throat at some point in the distant past.

A singular question? I have dozens. To give myself time to think, I say, “Ask your question first.”

“Why did you enter the Trials?”