Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [107]
"Come dance with me, then." She held out her hand. We danced well together. Roshana moved with supple grace, her lower body melded against mine, following my lead effortlessly. Growing aroused, I drew back a few inches, holding her away from me. The quirt that dangled from her wrist hovered between us.
She laughed low in her throat. "You are afraid of me!"
"No," I said. "It's just—"
"Then dance with me." Behind the black velvet of her mask, Roshana's eyes were a dusky, phosphorous blue, aglow with challenge. I wondered if mine looked the same.
"All right." Reckless, I drew her close.
When it was done, we were both of us breathing hard. Roshana regarded me with new respect. "Your friend's right, you know," she said. "Anything can happen on the Longest Night." Tilting her head, she kissed me, swift and unexpected. I felt her tongue dart between my lips, tasting of joie. "Don't forget your family." She laughed, leaving me.
I stood for a moment, swaying, gritting my teeth against the sharp stab of desire.
"Imriel!" Eamonn's hand descended on my shoulder. He looked happy and a little drunk, his mask shoved up onto his disheveled hair. Somewhere, he had lost Donar's silver-leafed hammer. "I've been dancing with one of the married ladies. I think she fancies me. Come on, let's get some wine, and you can tell me about her."
I took a deep breath. "I need to sit down."
He glanced down at me. "Dagda Mor! I think maybe you do."
We found chairs at the Queen's table, which was piled high with food. There was no formal dining hour on the Longest Night, only a constant supply of abundance. Revelers paused to eat or drink, plunging back into the fray. It was a relief to have a respite from it. Once the ache of desire passed, I filled a plate, listening with half an ear to Eamonn's story.
"Will her husband challenge me, do you think?" he asked.
"What?" I glanced at him. "Who?"
"Lady Osmont's husband," Eamonn said patiently. "Like Fionn mac Cumhaill, when Diarmuid stole Grainne from him; my mother was named for her, you know. He hunted them without mercy. I wouldn't mind if he did; challenge me, that is. But I don't want to marry her, that's all."
I looked blankly at him. "I wouldn't worry, Eamonn. The lady knows her mind. And this is Terre d'Ange, not Alba."
"Eire." He sighed. "It's an Eiran tale, Imriel." Across the ballroom, a horologist called the hour. It was later than I had guessed. Eamonn heaved himself to his feet. "Ah, now! I owe the little princess a dance. I'd best claim it, hadn't I?"
"I'll go with you," I said. "I asked as much of Sidonie."
He chuckled. "Mind you don't get chilblains."
It was somewhat to behold, Eamonn and Alais. He was twice her height, and her small hand was lost in his brawny grip. To his credit, he was gentle and kind. Knowing full well he danced poorly, he deferred to her, letting her lead him in subtle ways. I smiled to see it, then turned to Sidonie and bowed.
"Shall we dance, Dauphine?" I asked her politely, conscious of Maslin's watching gaze.
She raised her chin. "All right. Why not?"
Although she was skilled, it could not have been less like dancing with Roshana. Sidonie's hand was cool in mine, almost impersonal. She held herself at a distance and I touched her lightly, scarce letting my right hand rest on the small of her back, formal and proper. I wanted to think of her as a sister, as I thought of Alais; and yet I couldn't. We were kin, but we were strangers to one another.
"You dance well," she said grudgingly.
"Phèdre taught me." I smiled, whirling her into a complicated turn. She followed it with ease, her dark eyes watchful. "You know, you can trust me, Sidonie. I'm not your enemy."
Her throat moved as she swallowed. "I'd like to believe it."
"Who says otherwise?" I asked.
As I watched, her glance slid sideways. Who did it seek?