Page 40 of The Scarlet Ball

“What kind of disaster is he, anyway? Some plague that killed all the babies in Egypt, some famine that wiped out thousands in the Balkans?”

“So far as you are concerned, he is Sebastian Rowe, grandson of Admiral Charles Rowe, and son of dear departed Wentworth Rowe who served in the Civil War. It seems as if his mother has finally recalled him from abroad to venture out into the season. It is good to see her out and about again after losing her husband these two years past. I must have her over for lunch at some point.”

Under my stitches, I seethed. I might have hated her calm maneuvering in these dark waters more than I hated the monsters that swam naturally in them.

I nearly said something unforgivable, but the majordomo, at Mrs. Astor’s direction, called out the first dance. It was a processional designed to show off everyone’s fine clothes and make sure the wealth and beauty on display were noted by all, followed by a pair of redowas, a faster waltz that sent us spinning around the hall like beautifully colored tops. I saw Odile Dryden clasped in the arms of a demon lord in the guise of a slender blond, and the look on her face was dazzled, enthralled, as if she finally understood what all of this was for.

Just wait ’til he smiles at you with all his teeth, I thought.

As I passed in the arms of the son of some prominent financier, I caught Sebastian out of the corner of my eye. He was not dancing. Instead he lingered attentively by his mother’s chair as if he was her good son. His eyes were on me, his mouth set in a hard line, and it was all I could do to keep my attention on my partner.

“Are you well?” he inquired. “Your face has gone quite pale.”

“You look too closely,” I said, because I didn’t want to say that I was afraid I would see him ripped up from back to front.

After the redowa, my partner escorted me back to Mrs. Howard. I thought she would have some instruction for me, some scathing thing to say about what I was or was not to do next, but instead she only touched my face, the gentlest press of her fingers against my cheek to blot away some spare powder.

“Do you know, you are beautiful,” she said almost to herself, almost sad.

“Thank you,” I said with surprise, and then Sebastian was there, bowing and offering me his hand. In another world, in another time, I would have made it clear that I was considering it, that there was a possibility that I might say no. Here, there was no chance of that at all. With my head up, I put my hand in his and allowed him to lead me to the center of the floor.

We came together like a pair of posed porcelain figures, his hand light on my waist, my right hand in his left. A moment of complete stillness fell over the assembly. In the falling starlight, there was a gentle anticipation after the frenetic pace of the redowa, breath waiting to be exhaled, and then with the first notes from the violin, we began to dance.

The valse lente was true to its name, with a dreaming quality to it that nonetheless demanded precision. It was meant to look effortless, but you had to be slow and utterly controlled; if you stepped too wide or too narrow, if you misheard the count, it was obvious to everyone watching—and of course everyone was watching. Sebastian danced it with the same elegance he had displayed at the Gracens’ ball, confident in every motion.

His regard rested like a subtle heat on my skin. It was a kind of devouring, public and sanctioned as it was, and suddenly I was furious.

“Close your eyes,” I said angrily. “Don’t look at me.”

I felt it when he did. My skin cooled and my heart, which I had not realized was beating so fast, slowed down almost immediately. He never missed a step, but his hand briefly tightened over mine.

Still dancing, always dancing, I lifted my head. There was something angelic about his face in repose, some lines smoothed out, others given a pleasing depth. His eyelashes were thick and black as if he had used kohl, his brows smooth strokes of charcoal. It felt like defiance to see without being seen.

As if he could read my thoughts, his mouth quirked up at the corner. “I can feel that.”

“What?”

“Your anger. Your discontent. Your fear underneath it, and always your hunger.”

“How does it feel to you?” I had not meant to speak at all, and he smiled, his eyes still closed.

“Like I would know them anywhere.”

“Then I cannot escape you, can I?”

“You may try.”

I wasn’t sure I had wanted anything more than I wanted to strike him right then, to halt in my steps and smash my fist into his mouth, send teeth and blood flying over the tile and him reeling back for being a monster that looked so much like a man.

“Do it,” he said.

“Of course you know I can’t.”

Much as I wanted to force him to let me go, to hurt him for daring to make me his prey, there was no world in which I could do such a thing. The rules we were given might be foolish, might be pain and trouble, a terrible cage, but those bars could keep worse things out. I had an idea of what I might start with a sudden act of violence, and it would not end well for me.

Suddenly I was sick and tired of this, and I dropped my eyes to dance with him in silence. It never grew easy. I could never forget what he was no matter how well he moved or how natural his hand, though cold, felt in mine. It was standing on the edge of some high place and knowing how far you could fall and how painful the end would be. Mrs. Howard and her friends lived in that place, and I realized that even before this, I had known it too. There was the last night in Paris, which even if I had stayed for a handful of nights after, would always be the last night. There was blood running into the cracks on the street. I was almost two years from that night, and in some ways, I had never left it.

“Why are you crying?”