“To curtsy?” Enne echoed, eyebrows furrowed. Curtsying was rather old-fashioned, even for Bellamy and the South Side.
“That’s what they do in all the Sadie Knightley novels.”
“But those aren’treal, Grace. Not anymore.” While Enne loved those books, she found it difficult to understand Grace’s fascination with them. But Grace seemed full of unexpected contradictions.
It made Enne like her even more, though. After all, she was full of contradictions, too.
Grace pouted her lips. “Neither of you are very romantic.”
“I can teach you both some dances,” Enne suggested.
“Please don’t,” Lola said.
Enne rolled her eyes. “You can play us music for now, but you’ll have to learn all of this later.”
Enne directed Grace to stand in front of her, then she positioned Grace’s hands on her shoulders. Enne was quite short to lead the dance, a role usually assigned to the man, but Grace hardly seemed to mind. While Lola played her harmonica, Enne showed Grace the steps to a few dances common in both Bellamy and the South Side. Grace laughed at the conservative twirls and kicks.
“This isn’t how I’ll be dancing next time we go to the Catacombs,” Grace said.
“This isn’t relevant. You should be teaching Enne something more important than just street legends,” Lola told her. “After all,I’mno criminal, but I know all of the history.”
Grace took a step closer to Enne, looming over her with a frightening gleam in her eye.
“What did you have in mind?” Grace asked her. “I could teach you all the ways to kill a man. My favorite technique, unfortunately, takes hours.” She purred the words, which made it difficult to decide if Grace was truly talking about killing a man...or lying with one.
Enne took a careful step back. “I’m just looking to impress.”
“You’re five feet tall and look like you’re thirteen years old. You’re not exactly going to instill fear in the hearts of many.”
Enne stood on her tiptoes, smirking. “I mean, you don’tknowthat.”
“You’re a good dancer—which means you’re good on your feet,” Grace admitted. “That’s helpful. What are your talents?”
Enne still hadn’t shared that information with Grace. After all, Grace had yet to swear to her, and until then, there were some secrets that simply couldn’t be told. But there were other truths that, alone, wouldn’t be a cause for alarm.
“I’m an acrobat,” she told her. Lola shot Enne a warning look.
“That’s useful,” Grace said. “If you spent some time training, you could be a strong fighter. Hand-to-hand combat is my specialty. Do you have a preferred weapon?”
Weeks ago, that question would’ve scandalized Enne. Now she considered it without hesitation.
She’d once fought Lola with a broken wine bottle. She’d used a poisoned dart to kill Sedric Torren. And she’d shot the whiteboot at the House of Shadows with a revolver. Of all of them, she preferred the last—it was quick, and the least personal.
“A gun,” she answered.
“As an acrobat, you’d be able to reach otherwise inaccessible places. You could be a proficient sharpshooter. But...” Grace frowned. “You obviously don’t see well enough for that.”
“What?” Enne asked. She had perfect eyesight.
“Your eyes are always so red and irritated. I just assumed. You always look like you’re about to cry.”
“Oh.” Enne rubbed her eyes, as if that would make the redness from her contacts disappear. She would have to resign herself to feeling uncomfortable and looking emotionally distraught for the rest of her life. “I can see fine.”
Grace’s lips slid into a smile. She reached into Enne’s purse and pulled out a tube of black lipstick. “This color suits you,” she told her, before drawing a circle on one of the invitations lying across the desk. She walked to the back of the classroom and pinned the card stock to the wall with a hair clip.
A target.
Once she moved away, Enne pulled her revolver out of her pocket. The feel of it in her hand made her breath hitch. Last time she’d held it, aimed it...
