17. The Morale Boosters
The Morale Boosters
It goes on like this for a while. I start losing track of time.
Being this light-headed is pleasant. The buzzing in my skull has dulled right down. I think, without the drinks, I’d be in a lot of pain. Will Meg really be able to remove the blood magic causing it?
More drinks have been brought out. Soldiers and pilots are becoming louder, their laughter looser and movements more erratic.
Riss is still dancing. The top bench has emptied out, the officers busy dancing or socialising.
Dezeeves himself, a drink in hand, is mingling with soldiers and pilots – but Ephraine remains seated, silently observing everything – or rather, everyone.
And I keep finding myself looking out for Cosmer. Like right now.
I spot him, at the top bench himself. He’s engrossed in conversation with someone.
Meg, I realise, the back of my neck prickling.
Why?
Why her, of all people?
She seems to have become even more beautiful as the evening has worn on. Her hair has been pushed back, and her dark, curved face has a slight flush. She’s the kind of beauty sailors drown themselves over in Rhavnan folklore.
I’d actually felt vaguely pretty in the dress borrowed from Riss, which is white, sleeveless, floor-length and clings to me, not unpleasantly. Now, I feel as plain as the serving girls must have felt during balls at the Palace.
I stare at Cosmer’s back, feeling more and more queasy.
Stop talking to her, I will him. Look at me.
I’m going mad.
When can I leave?
“Now,” the conductor of the musicians says, loudly, in a tone that gets our attention, “For our Fully Integrated friends from beyond the Sea of the Sisters, your captain tells me you are all very welcome here. He would like to dedicate this song to you.”
The song the musicians begin playing is different.
And distantly familiar.
The tune from the flute is slow, gentle. Twisting, as if leading the listener down through a forest. If songs could haunt people like ghosts, this one would.
The floor clears of the Hevallans who had been dancing. Rhavnans from different corners of the room take their place.
And I double-take, because Rike is coming towards me.
He holds out his hand.
“Would you like to dance?” he says, with a smile.
I stare at his hand a moment.
“Now you want to talk to me?” I say, flat. “I’ve only been trying to have a conversation with you for the last two days.”
He bobs his head like he’s entering water. “You know I wasn’t ignoring you because I wanted to. Cosmer spoke to me after breakfast that day—”
“Of course he did,” I mutter.
My eyes flicker to where Cosmer is seated across the room. He’s watching me.
I got exactly what I wished for. To be seen by him.
But for some reason, I don’t feel happy about it.
“And he was right. It was safer for us both just to keep my distance.”
“So, why are you even talking to me now?”
He looks at me kindly. “You’ve been on your own all night. You looked like you could use a friend.”
I glance at Cosmer again, and this time our eyes fully meet. Slowly, he makes a motion with head. I don’t need to have blood magic to know he’s telling me not to dance with Rike.
I decide there’s nothing I’d love to do more.
I look back at Rike, and gingerly take his hand.
Bowing my head slightly, the polite Rhavnan way, I say, “Yes. I probably could. Thank you.”
Rhavnan dancing is nothing like Hevallan dancing. It requires you to look upon the face of your partner. Stay close to them, your bodies moving as one. It’s said to be inspired by the movement of flowing water.
I panic for a moment, not sure I know the steps to this song I don’t quite remember. But we begin them, arms around each other, and it all comes back to me.
Of course. How had I forgotten this? It was played at balls all the time.
We’re comfortable together. We’ve danced to this very song before, and Rike has always been a good dancer – fluid and sure-footed. It was one of the reasons his father disliked him and would often beat him. He considered Rike too feminine.
“This was one of the Queen’s favourites, wasn’t it? It’s called…” I strain, but can’t find the answer.
“The Soulmates. One of my favourite songs, too.” He smiles again, all dimples in that soft face. “I’m going to find a love like that. A love the poets write about.”
“Always the hopeless romantic.”
“So were you,” he points out. “Deep down.”
“Didn’t the soulmates from the fairy-tale end as enemies anyway?”
His smile fades slightly. “Their ideals and worldly desires separated them. But they were weaker alone – and they both died because of it.”
“I’m guessing there’s a moral to the story.” Most Rhavnan fairy-tales have one.
“It serves as a warning not to rebel against the Sisters, and what they have fated for us.”
I wince. The buzzing is becoming thunderous. Even the drink is no longer holding it back.
I can hardly see straight.
What is going on?
I stumble, losing time for an instant with the music.
“It’s a silly story,” I say, gaining it back.
“I don’t know about silly,” he says, slowly. “But it’s certainly an old story. Old enough that some might say it’s a prophecy.”
“Old quacks,” I reply. And then regret saying it, because Old Mother is one of the people who believes in the old stories, and she would have scolded me if she were here.
I wish she was.
“May I cut in?” a voice asks.
Drake is by our side.
He’s holding his hand out to me.
He’s still in his prisoner-issued black blouse and breeches. But he’s tucked the blouse in, removed his leather vest, and swapped his longer, flat-soled soldiers’ boots for standard heeled ones – and somehow, those three simple actions have made him look the smartest in the room.
Rike eyes up Drake, his line of sight briefly settling on his body, before lifting again. “She’s all yours.”
I don’t think I really want to dance with Drake. But it’s like I can’t say no. My hand slots into his. It feels small and dainty inside it – two words I never thought I’d use to describe my hands.
Placing his other hand on my waist, he begins moving me through the steps. He leads faster, firmer – more confident – than Rike did.
The intensity in his eyes I’ve seen a few times now is back. It frightens me.
I want to stop.
But I don’t.
“Are you making me dance with you?” I ask, in Rhavnan. Good luck Riss, if you’re trying to listen in on us this time. “With your magic?”
He looks amused. “I promise you are dancing with me because you want to.”
My eyes go to the place where Drake’s bruise had been on his face. It looks at first sight like it’s gone – but then I see the powder covering it.
“Your face—”
“Do not worry yourself about that.”
“The conversion hasn’t worked yet, then? You’re still loyal to Rhavna?”
“Always will be,” he says, leaning in close. “And that’s why I need you to keep being my friend. And trusting me.”
His fingers are entwining mine.
I realise there’s something between them. He’s handing me a folded note.
As subtly as I can, I shift it from his fingers into mine. As if brushing my hair out of my face, I tuck it inside the neckline of my dress.
He covers the movement by spinning me out, then drawing me back in quickly. It’s done so smoothly, so neatly, it makes me gasp. His hand lands carefully on my waist again, and we are connected once more.
And this time, I feel the familiar rush of sparks between our palms. Like our bodies are emitting flares of warmth.
“You… dance well,” I say, a little breathless.
“You sound surprised.”
The room and people around us are a blur. The heat his body is radiating into me, and mine is radiating into his, is all encompassing.
“Can you feel that?” I whisper, knowing he’ll know what I mean.
“It would be hard not to.”
“It’s so strange,” I say.
“Is it?” he asks softly, slowing our step, as the dance demands at this point.
“I wish you’d answer me in proper sentences.”
He smiles. “I am.”
I frown. “You’re infuriating.”
He smirks. “Am I?”
Now looking over his shoulder, I realise that, at some point, we became the only couple left on the floor. Even those that had been dancing are watching us.
Why? What are they seeing in us?
“Where did you say you’re from?” I say, into his ear.
“I told you. West.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then don’t.”
“You can dance,” I press. “You can speak Hevallan fluently. You have a rare talent—”
“Enough,” he warns. “Other Rhavnans might hear. Or Dezeeves.”
I ignore him. Press further. “Are you a cousin of the Queen’s, or a nephew? I still think you look familiar. Did we meet as children?”
He spins me out again, fast. I’m more light-headed than ever, barely keeping my footing. But he keeps me stable and continues to lead me across the floor in this dance that I’ve only seen performed, to this complexity, by nobles. Including the Queen herself.
He says, at the shell of my ear, body pressed against mine, “I have never lived in, or even visited, the Palace. And – if I can trust my memory, and I believe, on this at least, I can – we have never met.” He pauses. “Whether we know each other is a different question.”
Over his shoulder, I glimpse Cosmer.
He’s staring at us. At me.
Not with warning, or anger, anymore.
With complete and utter revulsion.
It stings me. He’s repulsed by me?
Why? Has my dancing reminded him, yet again, that I’m nothing but a prisoner?
Nothing but Rhavnan scum?
I let my rage give me the confidence, the resolve, to ask Drake the questions burning holes in my brain.
“What does that mean? How can we know each other if we’ve never met?”
“That remains to be seen. But…”
“But what?”
His face looms by mine. In a voice that moves me like a tremor, he says, “Is your favourite colour seafoam green?”
My foot almost knocks his. He steps aside so naturally it makes it seem part of the dance.
I feel faint. I find myself holding onto him tighter to steady myself – even though all I want is to let go of him. Why is it so difficult to do?
I need answers.
Practically choking on my words, I demand, “How do you know that?”
“It came to me.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
I gawk at him. “Who are you?”
“I’m just a nobody.”
I’m just a nobody.
My own words, echoed back to me, from when we first met. Is that deliberate?
He separates us one last time.
And as he does, his hand slips from mine.
I realise the song is over.
He’s walking away.
I still have so much to say to him. But I’m rooted in place.
There is disjointed applause. As if the soldiers aren’t sure whether they should or not.
At the top bench, Meg is watching me, back straight and body perfectly still.
Cosmer is no longer there – and I can’t see him anywhere.
And Dezeeves is on his feet.
Just as I start to panic, he says gushingly, with a slow clap, “Wonderful. That was wonderful.”
He wipes a tear from his eye.
I make sure no one is looking, and that I’m well away from Riss, who is dancing again, before I open the note. It’s scrawled in extraordinarily neat Rhavnan script.
I need to get hold of a radio. It’s about Integration – and perhaps, Rhavna.
It's too risky for me to try to take R’s with the talent they have. I regret to have to ask you to do this. But I need you to retrieve C’s and leave it for me outside my cabin. Knock once. I know you’ll think of a way. I’ll return it by morning.
–Your friend.
On the back, he’s added,
P.S. Soak this in water to destroy it.
P.P.S. Stop stealing people’s drinks.