The music swelled, a grand, sweeping waltz that seemed to pull the very air from the ballroom.
Maegel didn't wait for the conductor's signal; his hand tightened around my waist, firm and proprietary, as he swept me into the center of the polished marble floor.
The crowd parted like a retreating tide. The rows of noble daughters—those 'puppets' in their pastel curtains—shrank back to the edges, their faces a gallery of shock and defeated silence.
We were the only ones on the floor: a drop of blood and a specter of midnight, spinning in a cathedral of gold.
I could feel the heat of his gloved hand through the velvet of my dress, trembling slightly as he pulled me flush against his chest.
His gaze stayed on mine, never wavering for a second, as though he were a drowning man finally reaching the shore.
Not for a second did he lift his gaze, not to look at the King or the scandalized wives; he was scanning me with a frantic, silent intensity.
