A fiddle’s tune drew her gaze to the corner where she, Cole, and Kurtz had played earlier. Arbin Roxley perched on a stool, tapping his foot to his music. Wiry, with thick black hair and rolled-up sleeves, his fingers danced across the strings while his bow hand coaxed a lively melody.
Clapping started. Boots stomped. The rhythm quickened, and two couples leaped up to dance.
“Be right back.” Mistel rose as more pairs crowded the fiddler. She wove to Torin Oxbow’s table, where the bald soldier sat laughing, ale in hand. “Torin Oxbow, is it?”
He raised a brow, eyeing her. “That’d be me. And you are?”
“Eager to dance,” Mistel said with a curtsy. “Care to prove if the Fighting Fifteen are as quick on their feet as they are with a sword?”
Cheers erupted. Oxbow chuckled, setting down his mug. “Think you can keep up, lass?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.” Mistel seized his calloused hand and led him to the dance floor.
Despite Master Oxbow’s burly frame, he moved with surprising agility, boots stomping to the beat. Mistel matched his pace, skirts flaring as they circled. He twirled her under his arm, and her gaze flicked to the keys on his belt. Timing her movement carefully, she brushed close, fingers poised to snatch them and?—
“Mind if I cut in?” Gunnar Gedmund stood there, his crooked grin and scruffy cheeks far too confident for his young face.
“Go ahead.” Master Oxbow winked at Mistel as he stepped back. “But don’t let her wear you out, Gun. She’s got more energy than you can handle.”
Before she could protest, Master Gedmund grabbed both her hands and spun her. “You’re light on your feet,” he said, twirling her again.
“And you’re a windstorm.” Mistel’s vision blurred as the room tilted, and she stumbled. “Less spinning, more dancing—unless you’re trying to send me through the rafters.”
He laughed, unfazed, and spun her again. Mistel’s mind raced. Oxbow, back in his seat, clapped along, his keys still in plain view. She needed to reach him.
The next time Gedmund spun her, she misstepped just enough to stagger into an olive-skinned man by the fire.
“Oh, pardon me!” she exclaimed, disentangling herself.
Before Gedmund could reclaim her or she could slip away, the olive-skinned man caught her hands. “If you insist,” he said, pulling her into a quick step.
Thunder and rats. She recovered quickly, matching her partner’s movements, until a pockmarked man cut in. Soon Mistel found herself at the center of a rotating line of eager partners.
Mercy. Were there not enough women in Tsaftown? She laughed and twirled, but her focus stayed sharp. The moment she was able to break away, she spun back to Oxbow’s table.
“Back so soon?” he asked, his brows raised.
Mistel reached for his hand. “Some men can’t keep up.”
Around the room they went, and when Oxbow finally twirled her, Mistel leaned in, feigning dizziness. Her hand brushed his waist and slipped the keys free. She tucked them into her sleeve and kept dancing, grinning until the song ended.
By the time Mistel reached Zanna, her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing hard. She dropped into her chair, the keys safe in her lap.
“Got his keys,” she said.
Zanna leveled her with a flat stare. “Must you make a performance of everything?”
Mistel fanned herself. “Where’s the fun in doing it any other way?”
“Eat,” Zanna said. “Then we’ll fetch the men.”
Mistel bounced on her chair. “Thank you.” She took a bite. Rich gravy filled her mouth, and she gasped. “Oh! That’s very good.” She dug in like a starving woman.
Zanna watched, brows low.
“What?” Mistel asked.
“I was just thinking—if Kurtz Chazir had a sister…”
