Page 45 of Mistress of Bones
Having not much use for dancing, he could commiserate. And yet…
“Care for a dance?” he asked before thinking twice.
When she accepted and put her hand on his arm, his chest tightened with surprise.
Perhaps it had shown on his face, because her eyes gained a twinkle of mischief.
“Why ask if you didn’t expect me to accept?” she asked as he led her among the couples and joined their twirling. It was a simple routine that allowed the dancers to remain close, their hands in constant contact as they went through the steps.
“I do not know myself,” he found himself confessing.
Nereida laughed softly. “I had given up on you ever approaching me.”
“Why is that?”
“I have known people like you before. They wait for the perfect moment, but the moment never comes, for perfection is beyond our control.”
Yet her existence belied her words. “Or perhaps there is something in all of us that doesn’t believe we’ve earned the right to perfection, and so the moment is gone without us noticing what we have lost.”
“Does that mean you recognized perfection in me, or is your ego so big that you feel you are owed it?”
He thought about the question, and his lack of a flirtatious, glib answer appeared to warm Nereida’s gaze.
“I think to some extent, we all feel we are owed something in life—but, no, I did not approach you because I thought you were owed to me. Rather, the Lady Dream must’ve been at work, for I cannot explain it myself.”
All he could explain was that when he had first seen Nereida de Guzmán not a month before, standing tall in a small plaza behind one of the taverns in Cienpuentes with a rapier in hand and ready to fight, he suddenly understood why there were stars in the sky. A thought so strange, so outlandish, and so intriguing it had tightened his gut and hastened his heart.
She had stood, tall and defiant, a newcomer to the court, bringing the freshness of the countryside with her. A pure kind of energy hard to find in places like Cienpuentes, where its jaded gray buildings and cumbersome politics eventually wore everyone down. De Anví had thought himself impervious to them—after all, he was here only for the duration of his stay in the Royal Guard—but even he was starting to feel the strain.
“To first blood!”De Guzmán’s opponent had shouted, anger turning his face red.
He had already worn a bloody tear on his sleeve, another on his pants, and a red line across his cheek. By the end of the next bout, the man would be wearing a fresh tear on his shirt, and De Anví, Nereida’s name carved on his heart.
“I do enjoy honesty,” Nereida said with another laugh, bringing him back to the present.
“It’s hard to find in places like this,” he agreed.
“Too much glitter. Too much scheming.” A note of disgust edged her words.
He couldn’t disagree. The ballroom was full of elegantly embroidered waistcoats and finely adorned skirts and Anchor, so much Anchor. Wrapped around throats, dangling from ears, peeking between strands of hair, and winking under the candlelight as if the gods themselves had decided to build a whole new Anchor city and set it inside the Heart of Cienpuentes. “Why are you here, then?”
Her smile was rather wicked. “Why, because I love to play games.”
“Not duels?”
She made a tut-tutting sound. “They are one and the same.”
“Be careful, sirese. I haven’t been at court long, but long enough to know that some games are too dangerous to play.”
“Fear not, De Anví,” she answered in a light but self-assured tone. “For all that I am fresh from the countryside, I know when the lake grows too deep for me to wade.”
De Anví didn’t doubt it and offered no more advice.
By their third dance, he knew he would never tire of conversing with her.
Not a month later, he found himself looking at her on another night, at another ball, thinking of the right words, choosing how much of himself he must lay bare to entice her to stay with him and never leave. She must’ve sensed something had changed in their usual camaraderie, because she had grown serious and somewhat pensive. But a tap on his arm had stopped him from uttering the words. A simple touch from a short woman with Anchor sprinkled into her hair and a lace mask hiding her identity, even though everyone was aware of who she was.
“Who is your companion, De Anví?” asked the queen. “Can I steal her for the next dance?”
