Daughter of Dusk by Livia Blackburne

twirled in pairs in front of the musicians, weaving patterns between and around each other that were hypnotizing to watch. “The dancers. It’s
amazing how they can keep it up for so long. Hours and hours of this, with only champagne and delicately frosted cakes to fuel their exertions.”
    “It all looks unnecessarily complicated,” said Kyra. “How does anyone remember all the steps?”
    “I would have thought you’d like dancing.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “You’re not exactly someone who trips over her feet.”
    She turned her head to hide a smile. “I do like some dancing.” There had been a few dancing girls at The Drunken Dog. Kyra had never bothered to learn what they did, mostly because
she hated how the tavern’s men leered at them. But once in a while on a festival day, someone would start up a circle dance in the dining room. Kyra had loved those. The steps were simple,
and there was plenty of laughing and clapping and cheering. This Palace dancing was completely different though. The elegance of it intimidated Kyra, the feeling that everything had to be done
exactly right.
    “It looks complicated,” said Tristam. “But really, the patterns make sense after a while.” He nodded toward the dance floor. “This one, the valsa, you don’t
even have to learn any patterns—the gentleman chooses the steps and guides the lady through it. They say a good leader should be able to teach his partner to dance without
speaking.”
    “Are you a good leader?” Kyra supposed Tristam must have been trained in these social graces at some point in his upbringing.
    A smile touched his lips. “I’m decent.”
    Before Kyra could react, Tristam moved toward her, ringing her waist with one hand and taking her hand in the other. Without warning, he lifted her onto her toes and pivoted them both around
until they stood at the edge of the dance floor. Kyra was speechless for a moment, then, seeing the sparkle in his eye, punched him in the chest.
    “I could have stabbed you for that.”
    “Words, words, words. Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to catch you if you trip.”
    Maybe it was the pure absurdity of the situation, but the misgivings that had been weighing Kyra down all night dissipated. Kyra laughed and let him guide her through the steps. He kept them on
the edge of the ballroom, out of the crowds. This was a stately dance, with tambour and bells keeping the rhythm as a trio of cornets trumpeted a dignified melody. Though Tristam had downplayed the
dance’s complexity, Kyra still found it a great challenge to keep up. It was only after the first few repetitions, after she started getting the hang of when she was to twirl and when she was
to curtsy, that Kyra became more aware of his hand on her waist, the confident strength with which he led her. The frame of the dance was firm, and their bodies were separated by a good distance.
But there was an energy between them, and Kyra wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be farther from him or closer.
    “I must be making a mess of things,” she said.
    “Not at all. You’re doing great.” He spoke calmly, his eyes intent on her face. In the strict confines of the dance, Kyra had no choice but to look back at him. Kyra found her
mouth suddenly dry. It was hard sometimes to tell the difference between happiness and dread.
    The dance floor was getting more crowded, and though Tristam kept them to the edges, more couples twirled around them. The occasional whiff of perfume wafted by, layered over the mustier
backdrop of bodies in motion. Kyra stumbled just slightly when she noticed Tristam’s brother Henril looking at them, his brow furrowed. But it was the sight of Willem dancing nearby that
brought her to a complete stop. He was partnered with an older Edlan noblewoman, well coiffed and tastefully adorned with a headdress of three peacock feathers, and he paused as well to address
them.
    “By all means, keep dancing,” said Willem. “It’s not often