Chapter 12 The Art of Dancing
The Art of Dancing
Iheard it’s for sure happening tonight!” The words pierce the fog of sleep still clinging to my skull like wet wool. I blink, slow and disoriented, as the scent of honeyed bread and citrus tea wafts past my nose.
“They say he chooses his favorite within minutes,” Vivian whispers, eyes wide, voice half-drowned in the clatter of silverware and nerves. “He’ll lavish you with jewels if he likes you and punish you with silence if he doesn’t.”
“And if he doesn’t,” Seraphina adds flatly, “you get fed to the dragon.”
The words slice through the chatter, and I nearly spill the tea I haven’t touched. I glance around the long table, where the other girls are draped in silk and hope, trying to smile like lambs pretending the butcher is only a myth.
The morning light filters through stained glass in slivers of gold and crimson. The brightness sears my eyes. I press my fingers to my temples. My head aches, and my limbs are heavy. I couldn’t wake from my dreams last night, dreams that granted me no rest.
Mariel nudges me gently with her elbow. “You look like death.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
She squeezes my hand, then places a pastry into it.
By the time I drag myself down the corridor after breakfast, I can barely keep my eyes open. The weight of the day and the dreams and the dread clawing at my spine is too much; I just want to sleep. I just want one hour without the memory of fire blazing behind my eyelids.
“Fireling!” A blur of green light zips into view. Marb hovers in front of my face, hands on her tiny hips, wings beating so fast that I can feel their breeze.
“Hi, Marb,” I mumble. “What is it?”
She beams. “I heard you don’t know how to dance!”
I sigh. I guess the Noctryas really does have ears.
Before I can protest, she’s dragging me by my index finger. Well, tugging me, as if her pixie-sized strength could somehow overpower my exhaustion. If only she knew it wasn’t my feet that were heavy, but everything else.
We find an empty, sunlit room tucked behind a velvet-draped archway. In the corner, a dusty harp sits untouched. The marble floor is worn smooth from centuries of footsteps.
“Okay!” Marb pipes up. “Let’s start with a basic turn!”
I try and fail. Twice. Then trip over my own feet and nearly crush her with my elbow.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, wincing. “This isn’t going to work.”
Marb pouts. “You’re stiff. You’re thinking too hard. You’ve got to loosen up!”
“Marb…” I sigh, collapsing onto the nearest velvet-cushioned bench. “Thanks for trying, but I think I just need to rest.”
She hovers beside me for a beat, her tiny brow furrowed. “You have to know how to dance if you ever hope to impress the king.”
I look up. “I don’t want to impress the king.”
Marb gasps like I’ve just told her something unthinkable.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I continue, “but I just need to rest.”
Her expression softens as she reads my face. “I’ll bring you more tea.”
I shake my head, more forcefully than I intend to. “No, no more tea. Please.”
She gives me a solemn little nod, wings drooping, and disappears in a blur of green light.
I sigh and make my way back to my room, where I sink back into the velvet soft covers.
I hate to disappoint her, but there really isn’t anything she can do.
I stare out the window, praying for rest. Real rest, like the kind that comes after a long day of mucking stalls or fixing fences or hauling water, the exhaustion that drags you into dreamless sleep.
Outside, the light shifts. The palace breathes. And deep beneath it all, I feel the storm coming.
I sleep the day away, dreaming of the dragon.
Of the vision in the garden. Of the mysterious gardener who wanders this cursed keep, bound, like all the others, to a monster.
For a fleeting moment, I imagine what it might be like to be protected by those steady hands.
To have someone like him fight for me. With me.
Under different circumstances, in another lifetime, maybe I could’ve had something like peace. But that dream shatters the moment I remember the sound of my sister’s name being called. The moment my blood sealed a deal I didn’t fully understand.
My future is no longer my own.
By the time Marb rouses me, the sun is just beginning to kiss the horizon, painting the sky in a soft mosaic of purple and gold, stars slowly blinking into existence.
When I was little, Father used to say they were tiny insects that got stuck in the black tar of the universe.
My mother, on the other hand, believed each star was the soul of a departed loved one, shining down on the living to offer guidance and bring hope.
I bathe quickly. The water is cool and steeped with herbs that smell faintly of mint and crushed pine.
When I step out, Marb is already waiting with my gown draped over her arms. She helps me dress in silence, her tiny hands surprisingly steady as she weaves my damp hair into a half-up braid, fastening it with a jeweled clip that glimmers across my brow like a crown, shimmering like starlight against the waves of red.
At midnight tonight, we Bloodmoon Brides are to be paraded before the mysterious king—unless the elusive harbinger of death decides to delay the ball once again. But with the banquet only hours away and the brides all bathed and preened, I’m certain that tonight is the night.
We’ve been promised a feast. But I have a sinking feeling the only thing that’ll be devoured tonight is us.
I sit beneath the willow tree on a low stone bench, my fingers curled against the edge as I tip my head back to stare at the sky.
Shadows stretch, long and soft, across the garden, reaching for the stars.
The scent of soil and roses wraps around me, intoxicatingly wild.
For a moment, I pretend the palace isn’t behind me.
I pretend tonight doesn’t exist, and I’m in a world far away.
I promised Marb I’ll return an hour before the ball, but I need this. One last breath of freedom. One last moment to myself before whatever fate unfolds tonight.
Rising slowly, I smooth my gown and step into the heart of the garden. The path is ringed with lilies and pale ivy, a circle of white petals beneath a canopy of stars.
I close my eyes and lift my arms.
Step. Turn. Stumble. I frown, trying to recall Marb’s instructions.
Again. Arms raised, I attempt the steps she so patiently tried to teach me—only to trip over my own feet and nearly lose my balance, letting out a curse.
“That’s a dangerous move,” a voice drawls behind me. “Careful, Fire. Try not to burn down my garden with your fury.”
My heart lurches. I whirl around, and there he is—leaning against the edge of the trellis, arms crossed, cloaked in silver light.
I scoff. “Your garden, huh? I thought you said it belongs to the king.”
He holds my gaze. “Everything in Noctryas belongs to the king.”
I freeze. Something in the way he says that unnerves me.
He pushes off the wall and strides toward me. The air shifts, warm despite the cool of the night. He stops in front of me, close. Closer than he should.
“We can’t let you go to the ball like this.” A ghost of a smile graces his lips. “May I?”
He bows elegantly and extends a hand, but I freeze.
“I may be a humble gardener,” he says, raising one brow, “but time is running out, and you clearly need the help.”
I sigh, then nod once, resolutely, and place my hand in his. He steps forward and gently guides my other hand to his shoulder, his own settling at my waist. The warmth of his touch hums through me as we begin to move.
I immediately step—well, more like stomp—on his toes.
“Oh!” I gasp. “I’m so sorry!”
“It’s alright. Try again.”
Then we’re moving again. I glance down at my feet awkwardly shuffling beneath me.
He tilts my chin with one finger, and I meet his gaze, as blue and dark as a bottomless pool. “Look into my eyes,” he says. “The rhythm is there.”
Silence stretches between us. Not heavy, just full. Eyes locked, we dance. I begin to ease into the rhythm, but panic rises in me at the sheer intimacy of it, and I look away, stumbling slightly.
“Trust me,” he whispers, leaning in close, bringing my gaze back to his.
And I do. For reasons I cannot comprehend, just for this moment, I trust him.
We fall into a slow rhythm. My steps are unpracticed, but he adjusts to match my pace, covering for me. Guiding me.
“Who taught you to dance?” I ask. “You’re definitely a better teacher than Marb.”
The gardener cracks a smile. “Fairies, for all their gifts, forget what it’s like to have feet. Always fluttering, never grounded.” He twirls me once to the left, then brings me back to him.
My cheeks burn. “I suppose you’ve figured me out, then.”
“No,” he says softly, then answers, “My mother taught me.” And if it weren’t for the moonlight casting its silver shadow across his features, I might not have noticed the faintest flicker of sadness in his eyes. A look I know all too well.
“I’m sorry.” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “I lost my mother, too.”
He blinks in surprise. “How did she die?”
“She fell ill while carrying my brother. When it came time, she… Well, neither of them survived.”
His thumb grazes mine in a soft, soothing motion. My heart squeezes at the unexpected tenderness. “I’m sorry, Fire.” His voice is so soft, so full of compassion, that it takes everything in me not to lean further into his touch, to allow myself this small moment of comfort.
Instead, I take a deep breath, and the dance continues in silence.
Two orphans dancing in a cursed garden, I think. What a pair we make.
“What happened to your mother?” I finally venture to ask once I’ve steadied my mind.
“She was murdered.” His voice is quiet. He clearly doesn’t want to explain any further.
That’s okay. It seems we’ve both had enough sorrow and loss for one lifetime.
Then he tosses me a small smirk and says, “Now that we’ve established I’m a better teacher than a fairy, the next thing I’ll have to convince you of is that I’m a better match than a king.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I tease. “I’ve heard the king is breathtakingly handsome.”
“Breathtaking?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. And I believe a certain gardener told me he was a man of great wit and charm. Irresistible, even.”
His eyes darken, dropping to my lips. Suddenly, I’m overcome by the desire to know what his would feel like pressed against mine.
“Fire.” He says my name like a prayer. Or a promise. Like a caress.
And that’s when I remember his words. Everything in this place belongs to the king.
Even me, I finish silently. The words slam into me like a blow.
It doesn’t matter if I’m beginning to like the king’s gardener. I am the property of the king, cursed and cruel though he may be. What kind of husband would he be, the man who sends a monster to collect brides from across the land every other year, brides who never return home?
And based on the fact that the king still hasn’t married any of them—and that the six of us brides seem to be the only mortal women left in the keep—there’s a very real chance I won’t make it out of here alive.
I step back, heart hammering. The warmth between us vanishes. For a moment, he doesn’t move. And I almost—almost—wish he would.
“I—I should go.” My voice comes out hoarse. I stumble over my thoughts as much as my feet. “Thank you for the lesson.”
He doesn’t stop me, but as I turn away, his voice follows.
“Fire…” he breathes. “Whatever happens tonight, know you are not alone.”
I don’t look back. I can’t. But I feel his eyes on me until I disappear into the shadows.