A crooked smile crossed his lips. He peered at her, his eyes gray and mesmerizing. “I prefer the slow dances,” he purred, committing a slow survey of her form.
Zyana coughed on her wine beside her. Trista took another sip of her own, unable to come up with a response.
“Would you grace me with a dance on the next one?”
“Oh, uhm, yes,” she said, “but don’t be mad if I step on your feet or trip over mine.” A nervous laugh bubbled out.
“I’ll find you when one plays,” he promised and then stepped off into the crowd. She watched him disappear into it, swallowed up by waltzing bodies.
Demurielle found them a song later, slightly flushed and breathless. “Have you danced yet?” she asked them while fixing her hair.
Zyana grunted. “The only way I’m dancing is if it is with you two.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Zy,” Dem vowed, and Zyana stiffened but smiled.
“Not yet, but I owe someone a dance,” Trista replied, and her friend made an excited squeal in return.
They chatted through the entire next song about the identities of the dancers, but even Demurielle hadn’t figured anyone out yet. “Whatever magic they’re using in here is good,” she muttered to herself.
Trista saw him walking toward her at the same time she heard the slow and somber notes of the next song.
“Sorry to interrupt, but this witch owes me a dance,” he said to the other witches.
Zyana shrugged. Demurielle inclined her head elegantly, but as the mage took her hand and tucked it into his arm, she winked at her.
Her partner led her out to the dance floor, picking out an open spot not far from where they had been standing. He pulled her expertly in, his hand possessively on her lower back, causing it to arch slightly so that her hips leaned into him. She kept the hand he was holding loose like she was taught in the dance lessons they had received the week prior. They didn’t say much at first, him giving her ample time to understand the steps. Though not complicated, they did turn and change directions and come apart, holding on to each other’s forearms and back again.
“Can I ask your name, or does that defeat the purpose of a masquerade?” he whispered, tilting his head down to be heard.
She shivered from his breath on her neck and ear. He smelled of a winter’s night and mint. “But the rules,” she started, realizing how silly she sounded.
“Ah, yes, best to follow the rules,” he drawled, a smile playing at his lips. He twirled her out softly, and she reveled in the feeling. When he brought her back in close, he bent to whisper in her ear again as they swayed. “I’ll just have to make sure I find you again without knowing your name.” The thought of him doing so set something ablaze inside of her. All she could do was offer a sound of agreement.
The song ended as he spun her out again. She snuck a peek at his face, not wanting to forget who he was. Gray eyes, shockingly white hair, impeccably dressed in dark silver. She could find him too, she thought. The music changed, and people surged around them. Tucking her hand into his arm once again, he escorted her back.
“Until we meet again,” the mystery mage murmured as he bowed over her hand, brushing his lips against her flesh.
“Oooo, he looked handsome—strong jawline. And he knew how to dance,” Demurielle said excitedly, offering her another glass, her dance partner already lost to the crowd once more.
“How did Lord of ‘I Prefer Slow Dances’ treat you?” Zyana asked pointedly.
Trista laughed at the title. “He was fine, Zy. Truly.”
The mountain witch muttered, “Doubtful.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I was dancing with Prince Roan on that last one. He was so dreamy,” Demurielle sighed happily.
She told them about why she thought it was the prince due to eye color, height, and how he danced and held himself. Demurielle turned down someone else who asked her to dance as they discussed the song choices and the subtle differences in witches’ masks. Trista didn’t spot her partner again, even when the next slow song played. She wasn’t sure if it was the magic that kept her from doing so or if he had left altogether.
A raucous beat began to play that she recognized from the tavern she used to go to with Kace. Demurielle didn’t say a word as she pulled them both out to the dance floor. Zyana tried to protest, but the sun witch was relentless.
Most of the witches were dancing to it, and that surprised her as she thought it was such a rural song and definitely not one she would imagine at a masquerade. Demurielle and Zyana were a pair to start as they swung each other and clapped their hands to the beat. But then the idea was to spin your partner into another witch’s arms to start the jig all over again. She ended up with Zyana next, who was smiling despite herself and laughing at both of their sloppiness.
Trista soon lost sight of them both as they continued changing partners. She panted lightly when it finished, clapping along with everyone else. Perhaps it was because of the drink or the energy of the room, but she felt alive and happy and suddenly believed that this may have been the best thing that could have happened to her.
“Dance with me,” a deep voice commanded from behind her. She turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered mage dressed in all black with gold accents and a matte black mask. She didn’t recognize him.
The song that was beginning was a waltz, and she weighed her options. She could decline, but then again, she liked this song. And she felt soalive. He offered his hand. Placing her palm in his, a shock of warmth coursed up her arm as she did. As the tune picked up, she engrossed herself in remembering the dance steps. At one point she misstepped, but he easily saved her and set her into the next movement. She whispered a soft ‘thank you’ to him.