| |
It takes me a good half hour before I finally find Maria in the back of the room, socializing with a couple young men in tuxes. They give me a funny look as I approach, but her good eye pops wide open when she sees me, her lips parted in pleasant surprise.
Warmth floods through me. I think she likes the dress the birds chose.
But really, she should see herself. Her gown is even more exquisite than mine, a bold red dress that reaches her calves. She wears bright, shiny shoes the color of rubies with open toes and matching toenail polish. Like me, her arms are bare, but she doesn’t have the sash. Her ebony hair is piled atop her head in lavish waves, with a pair of pearly pins sticking out from the stylish mess. A pretty diamond earring dangles from her undamaged ear. Her surprise turns to a slow, broad smile across half of her face. She’s only painted the side that wasn’t marred. The other side she leaves plain. While part of me wonders if she’s trying to make a statement, I suspect the truth is that it still hurts to apply makeup to that side of her face.
I force a smile, uneasy within this room of dancing, smiling faces. Does anyone here know that I’m the one who did this to her? That I’m the reason her face has been damaged?
“Could you take this to the used glassware table for me?” Maria asks one of the men politely, handing him her crystal glass. He gives me a sour look, but takes the glass at her request. She turns to me and smiles once more. “The dress looks lovely on you. Do you like it?”
I bob my head quickly. “Of course. The birds...” My voice falters as she narrows her good eye. I’m not sure how much the other SNP members know about Maria and her connection to the NEL. “It looks great.” I bite at the inside of my lips. “How’s the ball going?”
She offers me her arm and my heart skips a beat. “Well enough. Care to dance?”
A shiver races up my spine.
She wants to dance.
For a moment, that single thought occupies my mind, crowding out every other thought I might possibly have. I link my elbow under hers. Heat flashes up my bare arm. She cups her hand under mine, warm and smooth. Our fingers touch... hers so light and familiar, as if she knows this routine by heart, and me so completely, utterly clumsy. I don’t know how I can feel so foolish and so exhilarated at the same time.
Maria Snow has my hand in hers. A bubble of happiness rises to my throat, and I grin, a happy warmth radiating from my cheeks. She ducks her head, blushing the same as I am, and leads me to an open spot on the dance floor. As we pass, everyone turns to stare and marvel, to wonder who the young woman is that Maria has chosen.
There’s a lump wedged in my throat; I can barely breathe. This is real. She wants to dance with me— She slips her hands around the back of my neck, and by virtue of some slight knowledge of how I’m supposed to dance, I settle my hands on her delicate waist.
My cheeks burn. The room feels like it’s on fire and all my nerves buzz like a swarm of delighted bees in a field of clover. We sway in time to the beat—which has slowed since we first entered—and then we cross the room in pirouettes, brushing past other dancers and following a rhythm I didn’t realize I knew.
I guess it’s like training to fight. Once she gave me the basic step, I simply needed to follow her lead. I do that same step over and over again, in larger, sweeping circles.
A giddy, absolute joy rushes through me, bursting... and I forget about all the SNP members around us. I forget about the funny looks they give me or that the music isn’t what I’m used to.
This dance belongs to me and Maria, laughing and smiling, swirling at the rise and fall of the notes.
I’m stunned when the music finally stops. Stunned when I realize that the reason I’m out of breath—less so than Maria—is because we haven’t stopped dancing for five songs. That every time another SNP member tried to get Maria’s attention or tried to ask her to dance, she turned them down with a simple, polite little smile and we just kept on swirling, laughing... as if we had done this together forever.
Now she leads me to the snack table, her breathing ragged, and she hands me a glass of punch. After a minute to down her drink and go for a second glass, she gestures to the chocolate fountain and smiles. “Do you like strawberries?”
“Of course,” I say, and I’m riding the high from the dance so much that I’m not actually sure if I really like strawberries, or if I’d like the sourest of lemons because Maria Snow danced with me. It’s amazing. In the back of my mind, I know it’ll have to end, but I struggle to stay on top, struggle not to think about the guilt that jabs me, reminding me that Maria has a scar because of my actions, and that the reason she’s having such a hard time breathing could be because of pain and not just that she’s had a good time dancing...
Maria grins as she hands me a skewered strawberry. Then she takes her own and dips it in the running, molten chocolate that pours over three tiers of the fountain. I follow her lead, turning the strawberry slowly until every part of it is covered. I remove the strawberry and take a juicy bite. Wonderful flavor explodes in my mouth, a perfect mix of dark, bitter chocolate and sweet ripeness.
Maria chuckles, laughing at my shocked amazement, and she takes a miniature porcelain plate from beside the fruits. She discards the bamboo skewer, then carefully cuts her dessert into tiny chunks.
My excitement fades and my heart sinks as if Maria has tied rocks to it. She takes each little bite and chews slowly. There’s no evidence of pain, but I know that’s why she didn’t just take a bite out of the fruit like I did.
I’ve denied her this simple enjoyment. My fault. If I had listened to Ebs...
But she doesn’t seem to notice me watching her, or can’t, because I’m standing to her left—the side of her scar.
“Was there someone you wanted me to talk to?” I ask hesitantly, hoping to distract my mind from the guilt and the ache in my chest.
She shakes her head, still concentrating on the strawberry. “Not yet. For now, they just need to see you and wonder who you are. They’re already asking questions.”
My throat seizes, because if they know who I am, they won’t want me back. I fight the urge to claw my way into a dark corner where no one can find me. Where no one knows I exist.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I ask, my voice catching. “Them asking questions?”
“Of course. They’re curious.” She flashes me a sly grin. “They’ll want to know who my date is. And I’ll tell them you’re a friend from a corporation... someone who sees our side. Then, next time, they’ll want to talk to you. They’ll want to hear what you have to say. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
I nod, mute. She has this all figured out. She knows what to do to get their interest, to make them want to listen to me. Sure, it’ll be because I’m someone she knows. But that’s networking. That’s having a contact.
That’s... how politics work.
And I’m her ambassador for Koenigin Corp.
“Yes,” I murmur. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. The night’s not over.” She finishes her strawberry and daintily dabs her mouth clean before putting away the plate. “Care for another dance?”
I swallow hard, working to smile because, as much as I want to dance, my mind has returned to Koenigin Corp, to the events of a couple nights ago... back to the fifth basement floor.
I do my best to push those thoughts aside and focus on Maria. “I’d love to,” I say, though part of me is ready to escape from this crowded room where everyone is watching.
Where everyone is trying to figure out who I am. It’s so different from being a huntress, where I stayed out of sight, and those who did spot me did their best not to notice.
Maria and I spend the rest of the night dancing. I keep an eye on the clock above the exit—an analog clock, of all things—and an hour before midnight, I take my leave so I’ll have enough time to get back to the inner city.
Maria bids me a pleasant evening and invites me to join her at the next ball tomorrow night. All those happy butterflies return, fluttering inside me. Tickling my stomach. Another night of dances. I’m more nervous than I have been for any mission, but the excitement—the thought that I’ll be in Maria’s arms again...
There’s no comparison.
Outside, the night is dark, even with the yellow lamplight. A cool breeze floats down the street, which is surprisingly empty. Only a few cars pass, and most of the shops are closed. A little coffeehouse beside the bakery is still open for business, and will remain open until two in the morning.
I retrieve my bike, the silence of the outside world strange after being inside with the party for so long. I’m thankful when my motorcycle’s engine rumbles to life.
It sounds alive... not like the rest of the night’s dead silence.
I take off into the night, the wind riding behind me.
Once I’m out of the main row of street lights, I’m surprised to see just how many stars are hiding in the sky away from the big city’s smog.
I’m about fifteen minutes out from civilization when I come up on a barricade that blocks the road ahead. I slow my bike, confused. Nothing on the Network suggests an incident, and I didn’t pass road construction on the way here.
Several low, shadowy forms enter the center of the street, their eyes glowing through the darkness. Hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Agnes,” I whisper, “are there any reports of slow downs along this road?”
Negative.
I frown, goosebumps running along my arms.
Something’s wrong.
