Despite fatigue, I was first in my seat in Dexler’s in the morning. She fawned over my blade, praising me for how good it looked. Then dumped a bag of thirty-two more enhancers in my lap.
“These need to be done before your exam,” she said, and I died a small death inside. Still, I somehow managed to fold in three during class, but Jordan wasn’t kidding when he said each subsequent stone gets harder to fold in. Thankfully the Purifier he folded in doesn’t seem to be giving me any trouble. However, I fought with a translucent gray one for an hour before my toushana flared up and rendered me useless for most of the day. Then I went back to the gray stone only to realize it required four specific enhancers to be folded in first before it could bind with the metal. What a headache. And it’s already Tuesday. Three days left.
I grab my book as Dexler’s class wraps, shoulder my bag of stones, and make my way to a full day of specialty classes that have cropped up on my schedule: Latin, Knowledge-Strand Location, Body Binding, Elixirs 101, and Magic Exhaustion and Rejuvenation. I was hoping to get into Advanced Paths of Change, but no luck.
My brain is mush by the time I stumble into etiquette. My toushana lurks beneath my skin, and I wrap myself tighter in my sweater. I glance at the pile of stones in the bottom of my bag. I’m so close.
“Quell.” Casey and several others say hello, wrapping me in their small talk.
“How’s it going?”
I update him on making headway toward the exam.
“Any tips you can give? Like, what’s on the exam exactly?” I’ve been studying everything, all my notes.
“You’ll figure it out. It’s tradition.” He winks. “Just remember, stay calm. That’s key.”
Has he met my mentor?!
Casey’s Cotillion partner hooks her arms around his waist, and they take their places. “Good seeing you, Marionne.”
I can’t let Jordan frazzle me today.
I will be perfect. He’ll have nothing to say!
I stand on my name, written on a small rip of tape on the floor, and wait for him. Head held straight up, I tuck my chin, making sure my ears are over my shoulders. I imagine my body is a statue, intricately carved. I hold air tight in my chest to keep my posture just so, and I feel a presence behind me.
Jordan steps into position, his warm body hard against my back.
“Afternoon,” I say, creating some distance between us.
“This morning went well, I assume?” He eyes my posture. “With your new schedule?”
“It did.” The shrill cry of a violin pierces the air before Jordan can interrogate me further.
“Places, everyone.” Plume waltzes into the room, critiquing postures. “Today we’ll be working on the basics of dance. It’s all about finding synergy with your partner.” He snaps and a few stragglers find their marks on the floor. I tighten my center. “Miss Marionne,” he says, circling me. “Absolutely flawless.”
My chin rises.
The knot at Jordan’s throat bobs.
“The event involves three dances: First Dance; the Cotillion dance, which we do as a group; and a Sunset Waltz. But before any of you can even think about the proper form, you first have to understand the language of dance. It is led by one partner. The other follows. You can’t have two people stumbling over each other who don’t know their knee from their toe. To demonstrate.” He beckons for Jordan, who joins him at the center of the ballroom. “And who would you like to have with you?” Plume asks him.
“Miss Marionne of course.”
“But I don’t know the steps—”
“That, my dear, is the point,” Plume says. “Dance is all about moving with your partner instinctually. Part of the reason you’re paired with a mentor who out-seasons you is to prepare you for dance.”
But the plan was to be perfect . . .
“What are you doing?” I mutter to Jordan, joining him in the center of the room. “I’m going to royally embarrass you. And me.” A mix of stares surround us, some ripe with curiosity, others with amusement, and a handful with jealousy.
“Not if you trust me.” He tries to take my hand, but I snatch it away. He could literally not ask anything more impossible from me.
“Annnnd . . .” The music bursts into motion like a fireworks display, and my body refuses to move. “One, two, three, one, two, three, one—” Plume claps us along but I still can’t move. Eyes in every corner of the room stare. “One, two, three, one, two, three, one—”
Jordan circles me, close, his breath brushing my ear. “Let yourself go.”
I take his hand. The music croons and Jordan moves as if under the spell of its rhythm. I watch his feet, trying to predict his next move.
“No.” He lifts my chin to look him in the eyes. “Be here. With me.”
We ease into the dance, turning, twisting, mimicking the reverse of each other’s steps, arms folded behind the other’s back. I hold my form perfect, counting in my head, focused on keeping in line with him and the music. I set my focus on those viridescent moons beneath his lashes and imagine myself bathing in their moonlight, letting myself go wherever they take me.
“Two, three, four . . .” Plume chants, clapping with the tempo.
Jordan’s hands curl around my waist, pulling me closer to him. I stutter for breath, frozen inside, as if a single exhale could shatter me. I warm all over, and it has nothing to do with magic. And everything to do with him and me. Let go. I exhale and melt into his grip, trying to find his rhythm. He moves like silk, pushing my hips back, then forward, and I follow like a tousled breeze, moving with the slightest request of his hand. His lips curl in a full smile. The first I’ve ever seen.
My arms are slung over his hard shoulders as I move with him, a part of him. I see his intention in the direction of his hips, and my body moves in anticipation of it. He releases me and for a moment I quiver at the loss of his touch, but his fingers lace tightly to mine. The world spins as he turns me out. Now back to me, his body seems to say as he tugs on my hand, and I flee to him, spinning in his grasp, until I’m tight against his chest. It feels safe.
The music’s pace picks up, and Jordan moves more quickly, asking more of my body, and I give in to his every request, twisting and turning, until Plume, the ballroom, and the world fade away. And all that’s left is me, twirling across those rolling hills in his eyes, untethered. Free. The feeling fills me up in a way I’ve never felt, and my grip on his lapel tightens. I give in to the urge I felt last night and press our bodies closer. His arm curls around me tighter in response. He smiles again, so close his breath licks my skin. I feel it in my soul, a warmth, a wanting, a twinge below my navel. I take a deliberate, deep inhale. I will be alive in every beat of this moment.
“Now back,” he utters. His fingers trace down my back, my spine curling at his touch. He dips me, his mouth brushing my exposed neck. He holds me there, tight in his grip. I’m not sure where he begins and I end.
“You’re magnificent,” he breathes.
I don’t know what to say, and I realize the entire class is applauding.
He pulls me up, and I finish in a deep curtsy, him in a bow. Applause drowns out the sound of my thudding heart. He squeezes my hand. But I keep my head straight ahead, for fear of what my expression might show.
“I see you’ve found your match, Mister Wexton.” Plume beams. “Take notes, ladies and gentlemen. That’s how it’s done. Now, places . . . again. I want to see Cotillion starting positions.”
Jordan reaches for me, but I step back.
“I need a minute.” I rush to my bag, pretending to look for something just to have a moment to catch my breath. What’s come over me? I know the answer, but it’s so ridiculous, so unwise, so dangerous, I don’t believe myself. Once my breath eases, I return to the dance floor and fall in line with the group routine. This one doesn’t require as much one-on-one, which helps my pulse simmer down. Jordan glances over at me every few minutes, but when I catch him looking, he promptly looks away.
We finish the session, and I can’t bolt for my things fast enough.
“Quell?” Jordan follows.
No, every second I’m around him confuses. I walk faster.
“Quell, listen . . .”
“Look, I have a lot of enhancers to work on.” I force myself to face him so he knows I mean every word. “I don’t have time to talk, really.”
His expression is a far cry from last night, and the shock of it snaps my lips shut. The frustration and contempt have melted away, and I’m reminded of the first time he looked at me this way. When he saw that I’d emerged.
“Have lunch with me.”
“No.”
“Quell, I think you’re . . .” He tugs at his shirt. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I know I’m hard on you.” He sighs.
I twist my bag strap into a knot.
“Can we start over, please? Lunch, we can eat wherever on the grounds you like.”
“Me making a choice for us for once?” I shift on my feet, but the humor doesn’t buffer as I hoped it would. I stare back at him, and my insides do weird things. He slips his hands in his pockets, waiting. My skin tingles remembering the way his arms felt, he felt, around me. How I could live in that feeling, die in it, and I’m not sure I’d have any regrets. I’ve never felt more alive. I gnaw at my lip, trying to chew off the foolishness on the tip of my tongue.
“Say yes, please.”
It’s just lunch. I nod, reshoulder my bag, and follow Jordan out the door.
