Chapter 10
Her hand trembled in his. Thallos felt it—the faint quiver running through her fingers like a plucked string—and something in his chest tightened. She was here. She'd said yes. And she was terrified.
*Easy,* he told himself. *Don't spook her.*
"First thing." He kept his voice low and conversational, like they were discussing wine varietals instead of something that felt seismic. "Forget everything you think you know about dancing."
"That shouldn't be hard." Her laugh came out strained. "I don't know anything."
"You know more than you realize. Your body knows." He stepped closer, and she tensed—just slightly, just enough for him to notice. "The problem is your head keeps getting in the way."
"My head is very good at getting in the way."
"I've noticed."
The corner of her mouth twitched. Progress.
He positioned himself beside her rather than in front, giving her space to breathe. The lantern light played across her features, catching the nervous dart of her eyes, and the way she kept worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
*Gods, she's beautiful.*
He'd known she was attractive since the moment he first saw her, but this was different. This was Marigold in his grove, wearing a dress that made her look like spring personified, choosing to trust him despite every instinct screaming at her to run.
He'd never wanted anyone more in his life.
*Focus,* he commanded himself. *This isn't about what you want.*
"The dance we'll do at the festival is a waltz," he said, forcing his mind back to practical matters. "Traditional, simple, nothing fancy. Three beats to a measure. One-two-three, one-two-three. Can you count to three?"
"I think I can manage that."
"Then you're already halfway there." He squeezed her hand gently. "The rest is just movement. And movement is just listening."
"Listening to what?"
"To me. To the music. To your own body." He turned to face her properly, and she drew a sharp breath. "May I?"
She nodded, a jerky little motion that suggested she wasn't entirely sure what she was agreeing to.
He lifted her left hand and placed it on his shoulder. He felt the warmth of her palm through his shirt like a brand, and he watched her fingers curl reflexively into the muscle beneath.
"Good," he said hoarsely. "Now I'm going to put my hand on your back. Is that alright?"
Another nod. Faster this time.
He settled his palm against the small of her back, just above the curve of her hip. The sundress was soft under his fingers, but it was the heat of her skin beneath that made his breath catch. She was so warm. So alive. So achingly close.
His other hand found hers, lifting it to the proper height between them.
"This is the closed position," he said. "The hold we'll use for the opening dance. It might feel formal at first, but—"
"It feels intimate."
The word hung in the air between them.
"Yes." There was no point denying it. "It does.
That's the point, actually. The waltz was considered scandalous when it first appeared in Europe.
All that touching. All that looking into each other's eyes.
" He tipped his head, catching her gaze.
"It was the closest a respectable man and woman could get without causing a riot. "
"I can see why."
Her voice had gone slightly breathless. He filed that information away for later—the knowledge that proximity affected her, that she wasn't as immune to this as she pretended.
"The man leads," he continued, keeping his tone light. "Which means I'm going to move, and you're going to let me move you. Not follow me—that implies you're always a step behind. Let me. Trust that I know where we're going, and let your body respond."
"That sounds easy in theory."
"Most things do." He smiled. "Ready to try?"
She swallowed. "I suppose."
"Such enthusiasm."
"You get what you get."
He laughed—he couldn't help it—and some of the tension bled from her shoulders. Better. He could work with better.
"Alright. I'm going to count out loud at first, so you can feel the rhythm. When you've got it, I'll stop. One-two-three, step back on one, to the side on two, feet together on three. Simple as breathing."
"I sometimes forget to breathe."
"I'll remind you."
He started moving.
The first few steps were a disaster—not unexpected, but still somewhat impressive in their chaos. She stepped on his hoof almost immediately, then overcorrected and nearly fell, then tried so hard to anticipate his next move that she went the wrong direction entirely.
"Sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry, I told you I was terrible—"
"Stop apologizing." He tightened his grip on her back, steadying her. "And stop thinking. You're trying to predict what I'm going to do, but you can't, because you don't know yet. You have to feel it."
"Feel what?"
"This." He pressed his palm more firmly against her spine. "When I move, I move you. Not with my feet—with my hand. My body. The pressure changes before I step. Can you feel that?"
She frowned in concentration. He shifted his weight slightly to the right, and—
"Oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh, I felt that."
"Good. Now let it happen. Don't think about your feet. Think about my hand."
They started again.
It was still clumsy—she was too tense, her movements too jerky, her brain clearly working overtime to process every sensation—but there were moments. Brief flashes where she stopped fighting him and simply moved, her body responding to his guidance like water flowing downhill. Natural. Easy.
*There,* he thought each time it happened. *That's it. That's what you're capable of.*
"You're counting in your head," he said after they'd been at it for several minutes.
"How can you tell?"
"Your lips move."
She pressed them together self-consciously. "I can't help it. If I don't count, I lose track."
"You don't need to keep track. I'm keeping track." He pulled her fractionally closer, eliminating some of the distance between them. "Let go of the numbers. Just feel the pattern. One-two-three is the shape of a triangle. Up, over, home. Up, over, home. Your body knows triangles."
"My body knows how to trip over its own feet."
"Your body knows how to walk. How to breathe. How to balance." His thumb traced a small circle against her back, and he felt her shiver. "Dancing is just walking to music. Your body figured out walking before you could think in words. Trust it."
She was quiet for a moment. "You're very patient with me."
"I told you I would be."
"I know. It's just…" She trailed off, and something flickered across her face. Old hurt. Old suspicion. "Most people aren't."
His chest ached. He wanted to ask who had taught her to expect cruelty. Who had made her flinch at kindness like it was a trap. Who had broken her trust so thoroughly that she approached a simple dance lesson like walking into battle.
But he didn't ask. Not now. Not when she was finally starting to relax.
"Again," he said instead. "And this time, close your eyes."
"What?"
"You're watching your feet. It's making you worse. Close your eyes and just feel."
"I'll fall."
"I won't let you."
She stared at him for a long moment. Searching for something—the lie, maybe, or the catch. The hidden cost.
She wouldn't find one. He'd made sure of it.
Slowly, her lashes lowered.
"Good." He started moving again, and this time—this time she listened.
The transformation was gradual, but unmistakable.
Without her eyes to distract her, she stopped anticipating.
Stopped calculating. Her body softened against his guidance, responding to the subtle pressure of his hand, the shift of his weight, the unspoken language that dancers had been speaking for centuries.
*Yes,* he thought, a fierce joy blazing through him. *Yes, that's it. That's you.*
They turned. Stepped. Turned again. Her feet found the rhythm almost accidentally, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought had failed.
She still made mistakes—caught her heel on his hoof twice, stumbled during a rotation—but the quality of the errors had changed.
They were learning mistakes. Growing pains.
The kind of clumsiness that preceded grace.
"You're doing it," he murmured.
"Don't." Her eyes stayed closed. "Don't say it out loud. I'll jinx it."
He laughed softly. "Superstitious?"
"Practical. Anything good I have, I lose the moment I acknowledge it."
The words were light, but underneath them lay something darker. Something that made him want to pull her close and promise that this—whatever this was becoming—wouldn't be taken from her.
*Too fast,* he reminded himself. *You'll scare her.*
Instead, he said: "Keep going. You're safe."
And she did.
Time became slippery in the grove—another quality of the place he'd never quite understood.
Minutes stretched or contracted according to some logic he couldn't follow, and before he knew it, they'd been dancing for what might have been an hour or might have been ten.
The lanterns flickered overhead. The sky beyond the branches deepened from purple to true dark.
And Marigold danced in his arms like she'd been made for it.
Her eyes had opened at some point, but she'd stopped watching her feet.
Instead, she watched him—his face, his shoulders, the subtle movements that telegraphed each turn.
She'd learned his body's language, even if she didn't realize it.
Had memorized the shift in his weight that meant we're going left and the tightening of his fingers that meant prepare to spin.
She was a natural. Under all that fear and self-doubt, she was a natural.
"One more turn," he said, "and then we'll stop for a breath."
She nodded, and he guided her through the rotation—smooth, steady, perfectly timed. Her dress flared around her ankles. The lantern light caught her hair, sparking copper threads amongst the brown.
The turn ended.
They stopped.
But neither of them moved apart.
He became aware, suddenly and viscerally, of how close they were. Her hand on his shoulder, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. His palm pressed to the small of her back, feeling each rapid breath she took. Her face tilted up toward his, lips parted, eyes wide.
The grove held its breath around them.
"Thallos." His name sounded different on her tongue. Softer. More uncertain. Like she wasn't sure she had the right to say it.
"Yes?"
"I…" She swallowed. He watched the movement in her throat, wanted to press his lips to the flutter of her pulse. "I don't know what I'm doing."
"You were dancing," he said. "Very well, actually."
"That's not what I mean."
He knew. Of course he knew. But he waited, because this had to come from her.
"I don't trust people." The confession fell between them like a stone into still water. "I don't trust charm, or flattery, or men who make me feel… whatever this is. I've seen where it leads. I've watched my mother chase that feeling my whole life, and it never ended anywhere good."
His hand tightened on her back. Not pulling her closer—just holding. Anchoring.
"I'm not asking for your trust," he said carefully. "Not yet. I'm just asking for this. One dance. One lesson. Whatever you're willing to give."
"But you want more."
It wasn't a question. He nodded anyway.
"I want everything you'll let me have." The admission scraped his throat raw.
"I want to know why you love flowers. I want to know what you dream about.
I want to know who hurt you badly enough that you flinch when someone's kind to you.
" He raised their joined hands, pressed his lips to her knuckles.
"But I'll wait. However long it takes. Because you're worth waiting for, Marigold. Even if you don't believe it yet."
Her breath caught.
The grove pressed in around them—ancient trees and soft moss and lantern light, the smell of earth and wine and something sweeter. He felt the moment stretch, crystalline and fragile, aware that whatever she said next would change everything.
"Another dance," she whispered.
His heart stuttered. "What?"
"You said we'd stop for a breath." Her fingers tightened on his shoulder. "I've had my breath. Now teach me again."
She wasn't saying yes to everything. He understood that. She was saying yes to this—to one more dance, one more lesson, one more moment in the circle of his arms. It was a small step. A tiny crack in the wall she'd built around herself.
It was enough.
It was more than enough.
He smiled down at her, and something in his chest that had been clenched for years—something he hadn't even known was tight—began to loosen.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She did.
And they danced.