The platform had been erected in the center of the square, a raised wooden structure about twenty feet square that looked sturdy enough but had suspicious creaking sounds whenever the wind blew.
"How exactly does one test a platform?" Alaric asked.
"Dancing, traditionally," the land steward said, appearing with his usual talent for being present whenever something potentially embarrassing was about to happen. "But since you probably don't know our local dances..."
"I know how to dance," Alaric said, offended. He'd been taught by the finest dancing masters in London, though he suspected their elegant ballroom techniques wouldn't translate well to whatever rural enthusiasm passed for dancing in Hollingford.
"London dancing isn't the same as country dancing," Marianne said.
"Dancing is dancing."
"Oh, Mr. Fletcher," she said with a grin that promised trouble, "you're about to learn otherwise."
Someone had produced a fiddle, there was always someone with a fiddle in these situations, and struck up what Alaricrecognized as a country reel. Several villagers immediately pushed Marianne toward the platform.
"Go on, Marianne! Show Mr. Fletcher how it's done!"
"I couldn't," she protested, but she was already moving toward the steps. "Someone else should..."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Morrison declared. "You're the best dancer in the village, and Mr. Fletcher needs educating."
Marianne climbed onto the platform, which groaned ominously but held. She held out her hand to Alaric. "Well, Mr. Fletcher? Are you coming?"
"Is this wise?"
"Probably not. But it's on your list."
He climbed up beside her, very aware that most of the village had stopped whatever they were doing to watch. The platform creaked again but remained standing.
"The key to country dancing," Marianne said, taking his hands in a way that was probably perfectly proper for rural dancing but felt anything but, "is enthusiasm over precision."
"That sounds like chaos."
"Controlled chaos. Follow my lead and try not to think too much."
"Not thinking isn't my strong suit."
"I've noticed. Ready?"
"No."
"Perfect!"
The fiddle struck up properly, and Marianne began to move, pulling him into the dance. It was nothing like the stately quadrilles and waltzes he knew from London ballrooms. This was wild, energetic, full of spins and stamps and moments where they were pressed close before spinning apart again.
Marianne was magnificent; graceful and strong, her face flushed with exertion and joy. She laughed as she danced, and her hair, already loosened from the morning's adventures, came completely free, streaming behind her as she spun.
"You're thinking!" she called over the music.
"I'm trying not to fall!"
"Same thing! Feel the music!"
"I'm feeling the platform shake!"
"That's just enthusiasm!"
They whirled and stamped, the platform protesting with increasing volume. Other villagers had begun clapping in time, shouting encouragement and occasionally helpful suggestions like "Don't let go!" and "Mind the weak board!"
