Feverishly I tried to recall our lessons at Arbenhaw. I recognized the piece—it was one we’d practiced—but its players were adding more trills and flourishes.
Nobles and Orha faced each other; many of the Orha even looked excited. Mawre stood nearby in a dark-purple robe, her hair pulled back with gold clips shaped like wings. When our gazes met, she grimaced faintly:Get me out of here.I widened my eyes in agreement.
“Gentlemen opposite ladies!” came a call. Morgen Cormorant, sapphire gown glimmering. “Come on, Shearwaters, organize yourselves!”
Laughter rippled along the lines of dancers. The musicians started over, grinning down from the gallery.
With dread, I watched Morgen push and pull at the Shearwaters. A skeptical-looking Catua swapped places with Emment. At last I was prodded into line next to Vercha—and found myself standing opposite Llir.
His eyes flashed over me, then he did a double take. Fighting to stop my cheeks from flushing, I glanced away. I had to copy Vercha’s steps.
As the dance began, my memories of it solidified: forward, back, a half-turn here.
For the most part, it was easy to avoid Llir’s gaze. This first section had us remaining apart. When our eyes did meet, we watched each other warily. His technique was flawless, like that of all his siblings.
I was prickly with sweat as the next section started, heart racing at the prospect of stepping badly wrong. We moved closer this time, held up our palms. Circled each other like fencing partners. But our hands didn’t meet. That would come later.
Sidestep and back. Full turn. And away. The ringing of laconite mingled with the music, odd and discordant. My skin felt too warm.
The dance had us step toward each other, and for a second, we were a mere foot apart. My eyes found his, and I hesitated, nearly missing my next twist, my sweep to the side. A moment later, I moved back toward him, my spine to his chest, palms a hair’s breadth apart. His presence behind me filled my whole mind, my senses. From there he’d be able to see every pin in my hair, every freckle on my neck. I swallowed, no doubt visibly.
Down the line, some giggling couples pressed their palms together. They’d gotten ahead of themselves.
I had a verse’s reprieve as we twirled away, clapping in sync with the other dancers. Then it was time for the final section.
The strings dipped low, and the rhythm slowed. The dance grew grand and heavy with meaning. Two steps forward, one away. Half turn, sweep right. And come back together.
All at once, we were facing each other, half a foot between our chests. We raised our palms, this time pressed them together. Slowly we circled each other again.
His hand was smooth, and warm from the dancing. I knew that mine would feel calloused from my work.
My gaze crept upward, past his jaw, his cheekbones. As my skirts brushed his leg, I saw his tongue dart out fleetingly, run along his lips as though his mouth was too dry. His eyes, a deep olive green flecked with tan, met mine, and my pulse thudded dully in my ears, out of time with the music, surely loud enough to hear.
Abruptly applause broke through into our bubble. I started and swept down into a low curtsy. The dance was over; the couples were separating. Vercha clapped delightedly at the musicians.
When I rose, chest thumping, Llir had vanished, but I soon sawhim standing near Emment and Tigo. He was taking a lengthy swig from a glass flute: a pale-green liquid, a special punch Cook had concocted. He gulped down more, almost draining it in one, and touched his sleeve to his mouth, eyes fixed and staring.
My own nerves frayed, I went in search of a glass myself.
No more dances were sprung upon me. It seemed, bar the traditional first set, we Orha were expected to linger on the periphery, as always. The merriment thereafter was all for the Hundred—and make merry they did, twirling long into the evening. I nursed my green punch, still strung out from trying to remember the dance steps earlier. But I knew there was more to my edginess than that.
It was time to finally admit to myself that Llir Shearwater was affecting me. Rattling me.
He’s one of the Hundred,I reminded myself. He’d blabbed to his father and gotten me dumped in that cove. He was stuck up, standoffish, little better than Vercha. Not to mention, I thought nervously, completely off-limits.
But despite all that, when I was in his vicinity, I couldn’t help but find myself intoxicated. Snared. I was beginning to find his features bewitching. The way the shadows underscored his cheekbones. The sweep of his lashes; his quick, knowing eyes. His smiles were rare, and never sent my way, but when I happened to glimpse one, my stomach seemed to free-fall.
My fingers trembled as I gripped my glass. I had to squash this, to hide it, while it lasted. It was a silly, fleeting fascination, stoked by the heady luxury of the ball, and it would surely pass as quickly as it had come into being.
I just needed to distract myself.
With that thought, I surveyed the guests. They were tipsier, rowdier from the pale-green liquor. Dance steps were increasingly beingmissed; hats and headpieces were sliding awry. The roar of laughter and conversation was wilder.
This was my chance.
I placed my glass on a table and slipped away through the crowds, unnoticed.
24
