“Relax,” Thorne whispers, so quiet only I can hear. “You’re doing perfectly.”
That brings to mind his earlier compliment.You’re perfect. Warmth dances over my palm, my back, my chest, everywhere our bodies touch, no matter how slightly. Contrasting that is the chill that remains where we don’t touch, thickening the air between our stomachs, our faces, our arms. It’s a palpable cold, one that begs to be warmed. Caressed. I’ve never felt this way when we danced. I suppose that’s because this is only the second time I’ve danced with his true body and not his dream form. The only other time was when he tricked me in the glade, but I hadn’t been aware he was real then.
Now there’s no denying he’s real. Touching me. Holding me. In my dreams, physical contact between us lacked the right firmness that should be there in reality, whereas now it’s all I can feel, his palm holding mine like an anchor. The hand bracing my back as protectively as a shield.
He spins me again, then brings me back to him, even closer this time. My eyes lock with his, then fall to his lips, to his soft smile. I find myself grinning as well, and my heart pounds a rhythm with the waltz.
Thisis what I’ve always wanted.
A dance. A real dance with a real partner. Someone to smile at me when I move. Someone to lead me with ease, our moves in time with the beat, allowing me to enjoy my most favorite activity of all.
I may not be at a society ball, butthisis a dance.
A shadow falls over us. Lifting my eyes to the ceiling, I find a wash of black melting above us, bedecked with multihued falling stars. “Shit,” I mutter.
“What is it?” Thorne keeps his voice to a whisper. His gaze flashes up, but he shows no sign that he sees what I do.
“I’m conjuring a dreamscape.” I try to keep half my focus on the dance while the rest battles the ever-spreading illusion. This hasn’t happened before, where a dreamscape forms against my will. Not during the day, at least. When I sleep, I lose all control, my mind taking my dreams wherever they want to go. My daydreams, on the other hand, are normally intentional. Except when it comes to summoning Thorne, that is. Maybe that’s why this is happening. In the past, I’ve conjured Thorne against my will when I’m dancing. Maybe now that he’s here and I’m getting swept in the dance, my magic is taking control in a new way. I feel it tugging at my will, begging to be freed.
“That’s all right,” Thorne says. “If it helps you feel more at ease, let the dreamscape fall. I can’t see it, so no one else can, right? I’ll lead you. Just don’t pull me into the dream or we’ll both look like idiots.”
A laugh escapes me as I picture what he means. If I use my magic to pull him into the dreamscape with me, he’ll fall under sleep paralysis, while I’ll continue the dance with an invisible partner. That was fine in my glade, but here…
I release a breath, giving my dreamscape permission to remain, but only halfway. The tug of my magic lessens, as if placated by my acceptance of it. The dreamscape stretches over the ceiling but doesn’t melt down the walls. A perfect compromise.
We finish our dance without further incident. My dreamscape disappears as Angela’s song slows to a stop, and my heart sinks with it. Thorne releases me, and I’m struck by the urge to pull him back, to ask for another dance. How I wish our waltz could have continued far longer, for I’ve never felt so much joy—
Something dark clouds my heart, my gut. Guilt. Embarrassment. Or is it shame? As Thorne and I step apart, I remind myself who he is. He may be responsible for my momentary elation, but he’s also liable for every awful thing I experienced at my birthday dinner mere days ago.
Thorne.
Vintarys.
The man who tricked me into putting my family to sleep.
He gives a formal bow, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to look away from him. To distance myself from the emotions our dance conjured. They were false, just like my dreams have always been. A lovely side effect of dancing, but nothing more.
I plaster a too-wide smile on my lips as I face Monty. He sits at the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees. I expected to find disinterest on his face, but he seems thoroughly impressed after all. The only one who seems displeased is Cosette, who sits beside him on the couch with her nose in the air.
He rises to his feet and claps his palms in slow applause. “You were a vision of perfection, Princess Rosaline, just like Thorny said.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips.”
“No, Rosey dear, we might soon be married. You’ll call me Monty.”
I bite back my urge to tell himnotto call me Rosey, and I somehow manage to smile instead. “Thank you, Monty.”
“Let us end our game here, for I don’t think anything else could top that lovely dance. I’ll bid you good evening.” He takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips, where he plants a single kiss. I expect a second to follow, but it doesn’t. Instead, he drops my hand.
“Just one kiss?” Angela says from the piano bench. “Surely you’re forgetting we played two games today, brother.”
“I’m not forgetting anything. The dance was lovely, but the dress…” He gives me a piercing look. “The dress wasn’t for me.”
He exits the parlor, leaving his last words ringing in my head. I could trust he simply didn’t like the dress, despite admitting I looked pretty. And yet…why do I get the feeling there’s a double meaning hidden between the lines—one that asks, if the dress wasn’t for him, who was it for?
29
THORNE
