Midnight on the Celestial

Prelude

We are swept into a sea of dancers, the desperation and terror that has become our daily uniform buried in the tide of one night of freedom. The faces of the people I’ve come to know, to care and fight for, warm me like the rush of my magic.

“How can you dance when everyone’s watching?” he says, bending down to my ear.

An unbidden wave of heat prickles along my skin at how close his mouth is to my cheek. So the performer gets stage fright offstage. “Pretend you’re onstage. You can criticize my foot placement to make it feel more real for you.”

“Very funny.”

I twirl myself under his arm, pressing close to his chest. He may be all sure of himself with the guests, but around me, he’s shy.

There’s something frustratingly attractive about that.

The truth is, once he finds the courage to dance with me, he’s much better than he knows.

The muscles of his arms and the effortless flexibility of his legs and spine outpace my stiffer movements I learned from formal dancing at our estate’s balls.

He whirls me around the dance floor and makes it feel like we’re flying.

For a moment, I swear we are.

Until I hear the screams.