[i]The music comes from something descended, distantly, from a gramophone. It is a huge thing of turning gears, and from it issues forth music from a thousand years ago. An orchestra would be a security risk; a record cannot be a disguise, a trap or a traitor. So they are alone, the three of them: Xanthippe, Redana, and her Bella.

One-two-three, one-two-three, the waltz demands, unwilling to be patient enough for Dany to be careful, marching her forward relentlessly. One-two-three, one-two-three, and Bella must allow herself to be a mannequin, because the Imperial Princess must lead: on the battlefield, in the polis, and on the dance floor. Her duty is to be limp and pliable, to follow the movements of the princess without question, to be silent and never, ever offer a hint. No matter how distressed Redana might get, no matter how Xanthippe snapped at the princess, Bella is to exist for the benefit of her mistress. That’s what it means to be a good girl.[/i]

Skotia is not an excellent dancer, but he is an eager partner. He follows Bella’s footsteps smoothly, picking up every small cue that the Praetor provides; when he hesitates, he allows her to take control and show him where he needs to go. When dipped, he lets one hand brush against the floor ever-so-slightly, and the flash of his neck begs to be bitten, to be bruised, to be marked.

“I’m glad you’re here to show me what to do,” he murmurs. “Truth be told, I never was particularly good at it. Not like you.”

[i]”—because I expect great things from you, your highness,” Xanthippe says, with cloying sweetness. “Now, go get a drink. A young girl’s head needs water to turn the wheels of the mills of the mind.”

Redana slinks over to the pitcher of water, head bowed, wearing that same look of slightly hurt frustration she gets whenever she’s bashing her head against something that refuses to budge. If it was about speed, she could do it; if it was about tossing Bella up in the air, she could do that too. If it was about making up whatever she wanted, well, she and Bella had already had their own dance parties, in this very room, jerking around and wiggling, laughing, as the strings on the record played something jaunty and bouncy. But dancing isn’t about fun. Dancing is about sending a message. It speaks to nobility, a life of leisure, absolute control of mental faculties and physical prowess, and a steady poker face— all things Redana lacks.

The ice clinks in the pitcher; Redana doesn’t see Xanthippe put her hand on Bella’s arm and squeeze hard, doesn’t hear her whisper: “And as for you, slut, stop distracting her highness! Hold your upper body still and do not look her in the eyes again…”[/i]

“—and as I climbed,” Skotia says, eyes dancing quicker than his feet as the music goes slow and stately, “I decided to lie down on the slope. I didn’t even need a blanket; the grass underfoot was so soft that sinking into it felt like I was already in Elysium. So I propped up my head and stared down into the sweet-scented valley between, and considered myself, perhaps, the most fortunate young man in the world.”

They sway together, slowly, even as the Azura around them twine their bodies in elegant spirals; bereft of such lower bodies, all they can do is press close together.

“And that’s when I had the sudden urge to taste the grass,” he says, and rests his head against her. His heart, beating so fast and hard, knocks politely against her ribs. “I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like in my mouth— but what mountain climber hasn’t ever had a thought like that?”

His hand drifts lower and, for one daring moment, squeezes, lifts one cheek ever so slightly— and when he glances up, it’s both to be sure he’s allowed and to dare her to punish his impudence.

[i]The trick is to imagine that her feet belong to somebody else, isn’t it?

That the pain belongs to someone else. When Redana is done, she can slip out of her heels and groan and sit down. But someone needs to refill the pitcher, doesn’t she? And someone needs to wind the great organ that spits out songs from ghosts long-gone, and someone needs to take dinner out of the oven, and someone needs to see Xanthippe to the exit and signal Alexa to let her out, that the chamber is locked and sealed behind Xanthippe, once the instructor of dancing has finished telling Bella what a useless little whore she is, and someone needs to not daydream about locking her in the chamber and walking away on feet like knives, no, waltzing away, and someone needs to do it with a smile and a curtsey, and someone needs to do it all fast, and her reward at the end of the day is getting to unbuckle the shoes from her numb feet.

And if she does it all right, her reward is that, alone, her princess wonders what’s wrong with her if her feet are pinched and sore in a way that’s so very different from running on the track, but her Bella doesn’t feel it at all. What is she doing wrong? Is she broken? She can’t be, but what if she is? What if Hera spoke to Terpsichore so that her feet would always hurt while dancing? What if she was going to make a fool of herself at the ball for her thirteenth birthday, and in front of Odoacer of all people?[/i]

When the music (does not stop but instead becomes a low and all-encompassing hum that is the spine of the world), Skotia remains pressed to Bella for a moment, willing himself to remember this when he is no longer confident and daring, when the clock strikes midnight and all his magic leaves him: that he was allowed to hold Bella in his arms like this, and she’d never know that he was ever anyone different.

In the moment between songs, when some couples choose to leave and more, many more, join the dance, Skotia holds to Bella as if afraid that she will toss him aside, unworthy, bad at dancing, a brat who takes liberties beyond what she invited. He holds her as if he is drowning and she is the whole wide color-clogged sea.

“Will you allow me another, Praetor?” he asks, simply.