21st of Thira, Continued

I pressed my teeth together and pasted a smile on my face as I rose and allowed Braeton to lead me through the doorway to the ballroom.

Braeton swept me out to the middle of the dance floor and brought me around to face him. "Shall we warm up with a pacharal?"

I nodded. I didn't particularly care.

Arramy was still sitting in the dining room, watching us through the open doorway.

Braeton frowned slightly, studying me as the musicians began playing in their corner. He took a step back and assumed the opening stance, right hand lifted.

I dipped into a half-sweet curtsy, and placed my right hand in his, absently studying his shirt collar as he pulled me into the first figure.

"You're distracted," he said, voice low.

I tipped my head back. "Am I?"

He was staring at me, and I had to force myself to hold his gaze. It was unnerving. He even looked out of his eyes differently when he was Braeton, cold and still. Ice in dark-green cut-crystal. He made Arramy seem warm and welcoming, sometimes. I told myself it was just another mask, but he was doing a marvelous job of acting like it wasn't, and I actually found that I missed the incorrigible, ever-smirking NaVarre.

Braeton shot a glance over my head as we passed the dining room doorway. "You can't let him back in. You know that. It's too dangerous."

"I haven't," I said. Firmly. Laughing with the Captain didn't mean I had let my guard down.

The music swelled around us, sweet and elegant, as we moved through the final figure, revolving in a graceful cloverleaf that brought us back to face each other in the middle of the floor. I sank into the ending curtsy, Braeton bowed. There was a pause, then the lead string player traded his formal Altyran instrument for a larger six-stringed Ronyran hasolle. His fingers moved quickly, plucking out a complicated, rhythmic Ronyran melody.

It was the new dance we had been working on. I straightened and glanced at Braeton.

He raised a rakish eyebrow and lifted his left hand.

My face went warm as I placed my left hand in his, then I let out a quick breath when he tugged me close. Too close. His right hand slid over the small of my back, bringing me up tight against him. The top tog of his shirt was directly in front of my nose, and I could smell the subtle, exotic scent he favored. It wasn't anything I hadn't experienced dozens of times during practice, but that didn't do much to take away the sting of what felt very much like shame, or the flicker of panic in my middle.

"Right hand on my shoulder," he murmured. "Relax."

I ground my teeth and did as he said, annoyed by the furious blush creeping up my neck. If I could learn to break a choke hold and fire a rifle, I could get used to this year's new mode of dancing. 

Braeton caught the beat and moved his right foot forward.

I stepped back on my left.

"Shoulders square. Spine loose. Step from the hip."

He stepped forward again, this time with his left foot, and swept me into a turn, his hand at my back keeping me with him as he began dancing us in a tight, revolving passavada box. The opening was easy. It was what came next that made me wish Arramy would hurry up and finish his wine.

The music became heavier, the drums joining in, the rhythm rolling and more pronounced. Braeton cued a spin, and I twirled away from him, only to be pulled right back in again. I squared up, then we were flying through a rapid exchange of steps, our feet scissoring together as he trotted us sideways across the floor.

Braeton released me, and we circled each other, right shoulders nearly touching, his arm curved as though to catch me. Eight counts later, I was ducking beneath his arm, first one way, then the other, never touching, as if he were some sort of puppet-master controlling my strings.

A long, complicated bunch of in-tandem footwork followed that had me breathless, and then I was spinning back into his arms as he hauled me close again, his touch demanding, his eyes never leaving mine. Braeton moved us through the closing steps and brought his leading hand up to frame my jaw. The musicians finished with a flourish, and then I was bending backward over Braeton's right arm, my ankles crossed, my right hand trailing toward the floor.

Braeton's voice was a husky purr. "Well done." Slowly, he brought me up to stand on my own two feet, a tiny smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"Thank you," I managed, dipping my head. I turned to accept the tumbler of ice-water offered by the tray boy, my gaze automatically sliding to the dining room. Arramy wasn't sitting at the table anymore. And he had taken the wine bottle with him.

I should have been relieved. He was gone. That was what I wanted. I closed my eyes for a moment, but it didn't help. When I opened them, all the color and warmth had still leached out of the room. The musicians struck up the familiar opening bars of a galavant, and I tossed back the rest of my drink, wishing it was something stronger.

"Ready?" Braeton asked, shrugging out of his dinner jacket and handing it to the tray boy.

With a dull nod, I took the required eight steps away and struck the first pose.

"Who is Lady Clarestine Monfyrre?"

"Second daughter of Lord Delmyrre. Set to inherit a large estate. She'll probably be with Lord Steighan," I provided, my feet moving into the first figure of the dance.

"And her father?"

"If I see Delmyrre, I am to let you know immediately."

Braeton's smile grew as the steps brought him closer. "What does he look like?"

"Tall, hair like a bristle-brush, walks with a cane."

"Good," Braeton said, offering his arm. "Is he dangerous?"

"Yes. Very. Rule Six: don't let him get me alone, not even in an alcove, and don't accept food or drinks from him either."

As usual, the rest of the evening passed like that, with Braeton quizzing me on an ever-growing list of high-society names and details while we went through our dance repertoire.

And as usual, when it was all over, I fell into bed so tired I was asleep before I could pull the covers to my chin.

22nd of Thira

My body was already sitting up and moving before I became aware of what I was doing, and there was a moment of sleepy confusion when my fingers started pulling on my thick-soled boots without my conscious permission to do so. I blinked. Were they even the right shoes? I wracked my brain, then groggily remembered that I had to do endurance training with Arramy and pulled on the other boot while wondering if I was going crazy.    

There was another quick, firm knock at my door – the first one had been what woke me – and Arramy's gruff, "Come on, kid."

"M'coming," I slurred, getting to my feet. Then I looked down, and realized I was still wearing my nightdress. Splendid. With a sigh, I bent and started taking off my boots.

~~~  

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thighs burning, I topped the observation deck stairs, heart thundering in my ribs, breath searing my throat.

Ahead of me, Arramy jogged along, his stride a little uneven but steady. For the first few weeks, he had whipped me on from the sidelines, leaning on his cane as he called me names and told me I couldn't eat until I finished another lap. The last few days, though, he had joined me, and any progress I thought I had made suddenly got a dose of reality. I was fairly sure he could outrun me walking backwards.

Still, I never would have thought I would be able to run the entire length of a ship and climb two flights of stairs more than once.  After training for three weeks with Arramy, I could do a whole lap sixteen times. My legs were stronger, my body leaner, and lately I hadn't gotten that awful ache in my side.

Arramy finished his last lap and began cooling down, turning at the far end of the deck and coming back toward me at a walk. He didn't look at me as I reached the railing after him. He only limped past and went thumping back down the stairs to the main deck.

There was no, "come on, kid," no "get your butt down here," just the sound of him getting the sparring mat ready.

I stumped down after him and gave him a long look, tempted to ask what had gotten up his nose. Something clearly had. He still wouldn't look at me for more than a hair of a second, and when he did, his eyes skated over mine. 

That hot, aching knot of guilt churned in my chest again, but I didn't say anything. I just wrapped my hands with linen and faced off with him.

He was as thorough a teacher as ever, putting me through my paces, but there was no easy banter that morning. Not even a "get up," or a "try again."

It hurt. I hadn't thought it would. I hadn't realized how much warmth there had been between us until it was gone, and its absence sat uneasy in my chest. I didn't fight it, though. I ignored his silence and that wooden expression on his face and kept going through the drills he was teaching me. I told myself it would be easier that way – safer – while another piece of me began crumbling apart.

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