The light in the man’s face brought his fiddle under his chin and the bow to the strings. Some of the other pub-goers cleared a space in the middle of the room. Reluctant Tuna stood there with his hands at his sides. I managed to be a pretty competent dancer. I could help him through the steps of something simple.
The fiddle struck a high note that whipped Tuna’s hands in place, with no coaxing from me. A magic current crackled through the air and I felt the smallest amount of my power ignite. Tuna swept me right off my feet and I worked hard to keep up with the steps of the Banty Pint. Thank the Godds my friends Ruby and Emrys practiced the bar favorite with me. My secret human settlement hardly saw the latest in entertainment.
The man might have a stupid name–that wasn’t his real name, right?–but he danced like a kitchen demon. My feet flew over the boards and a ring of grinning faces surrounded me. Abruptly, the song ended and a pint made it to my hand. Now wasn’t the time for my careful diet. I wasn’t dumb enough to get drunk, but taking the edge off my madness would do.
“My turn,” a towering, thin man declared and the fiddle began again.
I almost put my hand up. This was just to soften them up, not make my soul leave my body. But the entire crew looked like they would cast me out bodily if I said no.
I didn’t know this dance, but my next partner was excellent enough to lead me through it.
Five dances later, I cried mercy and slumped down next to the fiddler after I handed him another pint. The rest of the men argued over something, the dance floor still clear of tables and chairs.
“You’ve done started it now, girlie,” the fiddler said.
“Are they about to slug each other?” I checked all possible exits.
“Worse,” he replied.
“Halberd’s Market, double time.” One of the heavy-set men called out.
And then two neatly arranged rows of brawny, rough-cut fishermen began to step-dance together, in time. Halberd’s Market was the opening of The Fisherman's Odyssey, as the fiddler told it. There had never been a more manly display of strength and stamina. This was everything Noth would hate - out of control, rugged, boisterous. I clapped along to verse after verse, ready for my main event. Topped up on sex magic without Rat Faced Pickle Pants, I would use it against him to boot. My life was perfectly fine the way it was. This was normal, wonderful. I was in complete control.
The dancing only stopped because they shouted for another round.
“You lit the spark, girlie,” the fiddler said as he gulped his next pint. “Portsgrave Harbor trained the finest step dancers in the territory before everything dried up.”
“The Measuring!” A cheer went up from all the men–the signal for a different contestto begin.
One by one, each man held their leg extended until exhaustion made it drop. The winners then faced off against each other, angling their legs higher and higher until my eyes almost popped out of my head. Inspiration stuck. This I could do.
Tuna was about to declare himself the winner when I stepped up to take the loser’s place.
A gasp ringed the pub. “Don’t be daft, girlie. Tuna works the boats–double shifts.”
I didn’t quite understand what that meant, but I wouldn’t lose. My shin touched my shoulder. Years of stretches and deep meditation kept it there.
All the men cheered and not because my dress hiked around my hips. I had underclothes on. They didn’t see much. But that wasn’t the point. Tuna saw something. He got his shin to his shoulder just as easily, eyes trailing down my body. Neither of us moved, locked in a leg-trembling tension that might have almost been fun until Tuna shook a bit too hard and I realized I would have to lose. A humiliated man didn’t take you to bed. I resented him just a little. Noth took my full effort, my full fury and he didn’t make me cater to him, other than to annoy me. Big as it was, I couldn’t imagine soothing his ego. I dropped my leg and crumpled to the ground in a dramatic heap. Tuna graciously came to my side.
I stared up at him, arranged in a gracefully disheveled pile.
“I’ll never live down my disappointment. How are yougoing to make it up to me, Tuna?” I even batted my eyelashes for good measure.
He scooped me into his arms and I resisted the sudden impulse to twist out of his grip. This is what I wanted. What I needed. Why did my stomach slosh as he jogged us to his little home and burst in the door? I clenched my stiff hands, urging them to rip off his clothes but they froze into claws. I wiggled down and went to step toward him, only to shy away.
Godds curse it. Forcing into his space, I moved back again against my will. We faced off in his tiny entryway–him unsure, me doing whatever the fuck was happening to me. I looked around to buy time, finding a shabby but warm home full of lace. Since nothing–from the worn side chair to the fish decorating the mantle–stood out as feminine. Maybe Tuna had a secret hobby.
I covered my hesitation by walking into his quaint kitchen, opening the few unvarnished cabinets, knocking aside his lace curtains.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Any sort of alcohol.” I clearly kept too sober at the pub but he didn’t have much.
Tuna wasn’t an ugly man. Muscled and tan from working all those shifts on the fishing boat. He still had a thick thatch of blonde hair on his head, sticking out in all directions as he took off his cap and ran his hand through it.
“Third cabinet, secondshelf.”
I could do this. I remained the queen of bad decisions and reckless behavior. While I grabbed the bottle of clear liquid, he snatched the glasses. I poured generous doses for both of us.
