Page 39 of To Dance with Death

I feel the gazes of the assembled audience members between my shoulder blades like an itch, but none more keenly than his. Yet I won’t doubt myself—not now.

Tentatively, I dip a finger into the pool, then flick it out. Droplets disperse in the air like jewels, falling down slowly. I ignore the whispers at my back and pose, balancing into an arc, my right leg poised behind my left. No musician is paying attention to me;there’s no song to cue my dance. I wait for a beat in the existing one—a slow, artful strumming of an instrument that looks like a cross between a lyre and a lute.

There’s plenty of space for me to move and dance between the spouts.

I lift my back leg, point my toes.

Quick as a lash, I swish it outward, pulling a thread of water into the air. Droplets splay into a radius around me—

I twirl with them, dip, gather more water with a flick of my hands. I fling it up and around me, dispersing the droplets outward.

I don’t dare look at Anton. A part of me is afraid he’s already moved on; this is not a dance I had time to choreograph. I don’t know how it looks to an observer. But though I am avoiding his gaze, I can tell from the corner of my eye that two souls are nuzzling against him now, both having crawled into his lap.

My stomach twists, a coil of annoyance tangling between my ribs, but I press on, spinning amid beads of water. They collect in my hair, splatter on my clothes when I come in contact, but I keep as many clusters in the air as I can.

Just when my muscles spasm and I’m about to stop despite the ongoing song, the final beats flutter out like the flapping of wings in a subtle descent. My head pounds and whirls from an emerging headache as I sink into a quick bow, and I keep my gaze averted as I step from the fountain.

Chatter springs up immediately, but I’m so dizzy I can’t grasp what they’re saying. I walk away, leave the hall completely, without a word.

To my dismay, I make it ten feet beyond the doorway before an arm wraps around mine and I’m swept back around.

“Leaving so soon, dancer?” says a male voice—unfamiliar, jovial. Then I’m being dragged back into the fray.

The man gripping me is slender, not much taller than I am, bedecked in a deep purple robe that gapes to reveal a slice of his bronze chest. He offers me a sly grin, lugging me toward a clusterof souls. “Look, friends. She thought she was going to escape after a stunt likethat.”

Before I can form a response, Dahlia is there, a vision in pale pink chiffon, her hair loose and long and threaded with pearls. “Oh, but what a surprise you are,” she says silkily. She almost reminds me of Queen Aesir, what with her milky complexion, the pouty lips that barely curve even when she smiles. “We all saw the way you approached His Gloriousness. You simply must tell us how this ‘agreement’ came to be.”

“I—” I start, but she parades on, removing the man’s arm from mine and sliding hers in its place.

“Fates, Sorrell, did you even introduce yourself?” Then to me, “He could hardly contain himself while watching your winsome little performance. Such impatience; it’s a wonder he’s an Exalted.”

“Can you blame me? I was excited,” Sorrell says, offering me a wink. “You’ll find many of us have grown complacent over the years. You, my dear, are a fresh breath of creativity.”

“It wasn’tthatinnovative, Sorrell,” comes another voice—a woman with deep umber skin that purples under the aurora’s light. Short curls spiral about the straight, unimpressed line of her brows. “She merely tossed some water around. Any of us could have done it.”

“The point,” Sorrell says, “is that we didn’t.” To me, he whispers behind the back of his hand, “Don’t mind Maia. Always in a mood.”

“What, because I am the only one critical of anything that involves His Gloriousness—even his choice of entertainment?”

“A present ruler is better than an absent one, no?” Dahlia says. “And he’s likable, you have to admit.”

Maia knifes Dahlia with a glare. “Oh, he is indeedpresentfor you, isn’t he?”

My breath stutters. Once again, the thought of them on that balcony makes a knot of my insides, and I’m unable to hide it. Luckily, they don’t notice.

“Jealous, Maia?” Dahlia says prettily, setting her chin over hersilk-clad shoulder. “You know, you could entice a night out of him if you tried. Though I might fight you for him.”

“Bold of you to assume he’s my type,” Maia says.

My ears ring, and I survey the space for an escape. Not only am I dangerously close to my emotions giving me away, but if they look carefully, if they see my flaws…

“Let us stop quarreling like children,” Sorrell says, sweeping a gesture at the party. “Drink, make merry. We have earned it, after all.”

Have they, though? I can’t help but wonder. The crowd deemed the Exalted are nothing like Emilia. They don’t seem pure of heart to me.

I smile politely and attempt to excuse myself, only for Sorrell to clamp a hand over my shoulder. “Oh, but you must join us for a game! We were about to play a round of bets.”

I long to slink away, but I’ve already provoked their interest.