The Shadow of Theron, page 4
But even from a distance, he could see that there was no light shining in her eyes. She stood detached from her parents; her whole appearance gave off the impression that she was a ghost, just a shell of a girl who wasn’t really there.
Elias, not realizing his son’s enchantment, turned away from a neighbor he’d been speaking with and addressed Lysandro.
“Shall we go in?”
Lysandro’s eyes didn’t leave the girl as he and his father drew nearer to her. For a moment, he was afraid to say anything, for fear that she might be just a phantom, and that to call attention to her would banish her from his sight forever. He tried to shake off the notion.
“Who is that?” he dared to ask.
Elias followed his son’s unwavering gaze. “That would be Signorina Alvaró, I should think.”
“Alvaró?”
Lysandro knew the name. They were a good Lighuran family, though they had fallen on hard times. If she’d been in the village before, he would have noticed her. He couldn’t tear himself away from her elegant profile now.
“Yes,” Elias answered. “They sent her away to be educated. She must have just returned.”
Lysandro said nothing. The smirk on his father’s face went unnoticed as Elias stepped out in front of him and greeted the girl’s father with a broad smile.
“Good morning, Don Alvaró.”
The stout man seemed surprised to be so warmly saluted. They exchanged pleasantries until his father’s voice became a dull, soft tone in Lysandro’s ear. Close up, Lysandro admired the girl’s delicate features—a sleek little nose, an enticing mouth, set in an expressionless straight line, and warm, intoxicating brown eyes that were rimmed in red. She looked positively heartbroken. It made Lysandro’s own chest ache.
His father’s voice became clear again in his ears as it veered toward a new subject.
“And who is this fine young creature?”
She did not meet his gaze but continued to stare forward and down toward some invisible point. Her mouth didn’t make the slightest twitch in an intention to reply, but the moment went unremarked by all, except Lysandro, as her mother readily filled the void.
“This is our daughter, Seraphine. She’s just returned from Romagna, where she attended one of the finest schools for young ladies.”
“Lovely. How was the capital, Signorina?” Elias asked.
With a straight face, not looking at him, or at anyone, she answered in a subdued voice: “I wouldn’t know.”
Her father shot her a warning look, then laughed awkwardly. “You’ll have to forgive her, Don de Castel. She’s had a very long journey and hasn’t had the chance to rest or get her bearings yet. The ship bringing her back to us just arrived this morning.”
That’s not it, Lysandro thought. Why would a girl who had spent the majority of her life in Romagna claim to know nothing about it?
She settled back into a distant silence, and the subject was dropped as they made their way inside the temple.
The villagers filed into the six long wooden rows at the front of the temple. Lysandro quickened his steps to seat himself next to Seraphine. He put a hand on father’s shoulder and pushed him aside, nearly vaulting over him.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Elias grumbled, but Lysandro never heard it. He tried to catch the girl’s attention as people settled into their seats all around them, but she stared stubbornly at her hands, folded on her lap. It was unbearable to see her so distraught.
Having never conversed with such a beauty before, he was keenly aware of her nearness. It turned his head to mush, made his palms sweaty, and caused his voice to tremble.
“Signorina,” he whispered. “Are you alright?”
He feared somehow that he’d made her mysterious condition worse just by asking. Her eyes took on an added gleam. Despite the steady curve of her mouth, her eyes looked as if tears might burst forth at any moment.
Very subtly, she shook her head in the negative.
He suddenly had the urge to soothe the storm clouds brewing in her eyes, and would have done anything to learn the reason for her silent anguish.
A novice in pale blue approached the brazier near the right-hand wall and stoked it back to life, signaling the start of the service. Lysandro turned his gaze away from Seraphine to reflect on the sacred window illuminated by the flames, and remember why he had come. Cut into nine panes, the window of the Temple Arun depicted the moment the arrow from the Hand of Arun was loosed. Inside the larger panes, bits of colored class were cut up at odd angles to make the window appear shattered, representing the chaos surrounding Argoss. He towered over Theron, who crouched and took his aim. The sky was black, reflected in smoked glass. Lysandro thought the heat shimmering against the window made the figures look sweaty and alive, caught in a mortal struggle. The brilliant diamond at the tip of the arrow lent the scene that magical, Goddess-blessed quality.
The high priestess entered the chamber and ascended to her place behind the altar. All eyes turned to her. Throughout the series of songs, Lysandro did not once hear the voice of the girl beside him join in the chorus. As the high priestess led them through a litany of prayers, Seraphine still did not join the swell of supplicants. But her lips did move.
What she said to herself was a prayer not to the Warrior Arun, but to Faelia, the Lover. Faelia was no more the favored face of the Goddess in Romagna than She was in Lighura. All Andran cities, large and small, gave homage to Arun. But Faelia was the predominant aspect found in the temples of Mirêne. His thoughts lingered on it, but he turned his attention back to the high priestess as her voice increased, and her tone deepened.
“We must never forget the story of the hero preparing to fight Argoss. From the humblest origins, he took upon himself the task of challenging the mighty sorcerer with a black heart, second only to Morgasse in power. He commanded an army of monsters and unspeakable things, pulled up from the Abyss to do his bidding. And yet, even as Argoss grew in skill, Theron prevailed. He saved his own defenseless village with no weapons but his bare hands, his cunning and his wit, and his unfailing courage. Armed with only these, he killed the goblin that threatened to ravage this village and raze it to the ground. In this way he gained the attention of the Honored Warrior, the Mighty Arun, the Defender of Men, who rewarded his bravery by bestowing upon him the weapons that cleaved through the wicked sorcery of Argoss. All that Arun had given Theron, and all the blessings of the sorcerer Morgasse and the lover Faelia, are our windows into the realm of the Three-faced Goddess. Those blessings are kept in sacred trust by our sisters and brothers, protected by her high servants and the Council of Three. That sacred trust has been broken. The temples of Andras have been robbed of their relics.”
A murmur rippled through the temple. Lysandro noticed that she did not mention the fact that some of the pilfered items were forged with an evil intent, and could still be used to prey upon the vulnerable.
The high priestess allowed her words to sink in before she continued.
“It is our duty to protect and retrieve these relics and return them to those chosen by the Goddess to safeguard them. The Council of Three has therefore called for Examiners to be sent from the Temples Arun and Morgasse to seek out these sacred gifts, restore them to the temple, and punish those who would challenge the Goddess by seizing her powers for themselves.”
There was another round of whispers at this. The notable absence of a Faelian Examiner meant there would be no escape from Morgasse’s gaze, no tempering of Arun’s rage. The message was clear.
Lysandro scanned the gathering, looking for Marek. He wanted to see his reaction to this news. But he wasn’t there. Come to think of it, Lysandro had never seen Lothan present in the temple. He considered the possibility that Lothan couldn’t enter the temple.
Nothing would give Lysandro greater pleasure than to hand Marek over to the Examiners to await their judgment. Nothing, perhaps, except to see Seraphine Alvaró smile.
The high priestess closed the ceremony with a prayer for the Examiners’ success in their solemn mission and a departing song. Again, Lysandro noticed that the girl next to him remained silent. His gaze happened to fall on the prayer book she held limply in her hands. He cocked his head. As he inched closer, he caught the fragrance of citrus coming from her hair. He savored it, but before he could make a fool of himself by leaning forward for no reason, he cleared his throat in a soft, deep way that only she could hear, took the book from her hand, and flipped it around.
She looked down at the pages before her, now sitting upright, and one eyebrow went up. She nodded subtly, as if Lysandro had just solved a most perplexing conundrum. Her lips remained motionless, but the amusement was evident in her eyes. A light flickered on inside. She turned to Lysandro, and met his gaze for the first time.
He swallowed hard, caught in her intense expression. Never had he beheld such perfection. Lysandro was afraid that the pounding in his chest was audible.
The song and the service concluded, the villagers exited their seats and made their way back out again into the square. Lysandro’s father resumed his conversation with Don Alvaró as if it had never been interrupted.
“I’d be honored if you and your family would join my son and me for dinner tonight.”
Lysandro could have cut out his father’s tongue.
Doña Alvaró answered. “We’d love to, but we can’t tonight, I’m afraid. Tonight is the first dance of the season, you know.”
Elias rocked back on his heels, with his hands folded behind his back.
“Ah, yes. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to such a thing myself. So easy to forget these things at my age,” he said with a foxy smile.
Lysandro snorted. If they had professed not to know, Lysandro was sure his father would have remembered for them.
Elias ignored him.
“Oh, yes,” Seraphine’s father chimed in. “She’s missed her own season here, but it was well worth it, to have given over a child in exchange for a well-bred lady.”
Lysandro noticed Seraphine’s ears prick up at her mother’s next pronouncement.
“They always do such a nice job planning these events for the young people. I believe this year they were inspired to do a Mirênese theme, with their connection to the Maghreve Desert.”
“Of course,” Elias replied. “Another time, perhaps.”
“You are very gracious to think of us,” Don Alvaró said. “We look forward to the day when we can all dine at the same table.”
“Indeed.”
With that, Seraphine and her family departed.
Elias had just sat down to supper when Lysandro entered the room unannounced. The pains he had taken with his person were obvious—his long, dark hair was prim and glossy, and his clothes were finely cut.
“Good evening son,” Elias said evenly.
Lysandro’s reply was clipped. “Can I borrow your sapphire studs?”
Elias wiped the beef drippings from his lips. “I thought you had no interest in going out tonight.”
“Father, do you want me to go, or don’t you?”
Elias swallowed his meat and grinned. He rose from his chair and retreated to his wardrobe, returning in a moment with the requested jewels. He stood in front of Lysandro and helped affix them to the cuffs of his sleeves. He could feel the tension in Lysandro’s muscles.
“I did rather like Signorina Alvaró. She’s the right age for you, and from a good family.”
“Mm.”
“Lysandro, you’re a handsome young man. You’re a don. You’ve got land, and
wealth—”
“I’d rather a girl didn’t choose me for my wealth.”
“Yes, yes, but…it never hurt. You can have any girl you want. You’re a fine man, with a good heart.”
“Father…”
Elias clapped him on the back of the neck. “Alright. Good luck tonight, and have fun.”
“Thank you.”
Elias sat down again to his meal as Lysandro left, and found himself humming a love ballad through his next mouthful.
The largest ballroom in Lighura had been transformed into an oasis. Sensuous purple, indigo, and gold silks were draped across the austere marble pillars lining the circular dance hall. Soft cushions replaced the chairs, and low platforms had been brought in to serve as makeshift tables. The orchestra included additional players on the sitar and drums to inject a more authentic sound into their repertoire.
Lysandro scanned the crowds for Seraphine. He didn’t see her amber tresses among the cacophony of satin, ribbons, and lace.
As he made his way through the ballroom, another young woman stepped into his path.
“Good evening, Don de Castel.”
“Good evening, Signorina.”
“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it? Perfect for dancing.”
“Yes.”
An awkward silence ensued. This was meant to be the moment when he asked her to dance.
“Excuse me,” he said, and rounded past her shoulder.
He moved along the edges of the room, circumnavigating the central space occupied by countless dancing couples. Then he saw her. At the far end of the hall, the normal view out over the coast had been replaced by a painted backdrop of the Maghreve Desert, at the very farthest border of Mirêne. She was leaning against a pillar marking the boundary between the hall and its balcony. With her arms wrapped around herself, she looked out over the artificial horizon. She wore a sleek ivory dress covered gold and copper crystals that left her shoulders daringly bare. It was a tasteful and simple silhouette, not overwrought in bright bows or flounces. That now familiar ache that hadn’t left him since this morning grew more pronounced.
As he observed the faraway, wistful look in her eyes, he realized he recognized it—homesickness. He took a deep breath and called on well-used skills to smooth his nerves and keep them tightly tucked away under a charming façade.
He inhaled the hypnotic scent of her hair again as he stood close to her, and almost lost his nerve. He agonized over what to say, knowing he might have only one shot to get her attention.
“Is the city of stars as beautiful as they say?”
She turned to face him, and he saw the truth in her eyes.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, her attention drawn away from him. He followed her gaze. At the edge of his vision, a gaggle of young women were mulling about near the banister. More than one pair of eyes darted quickly away as Lysandro took notice of them.
He turned back to Seraphine and extended his hand. “Would you care to dance?”
He closed his fingers over her smooth skin and pulled her into the privacy provided by the swell of dancers. He pressed his luck again.
“You’ve come from Mirêne, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Your parents said they’d sent you to school in Romagna.”
“They did. I had to leave for my own safety.”
Lysandro gaped at her. “Why didn’t you ask your parents to bring you home?”
“They’d already sent me away, even though I didn’t want to go.”
Lysandro saw sadness return to her face at her confession of feeling unwanted.
“Don’t tell them,” she pleaded. “Don’t tell my parents.”
It had not yet been five minutes, and already she was asking him to keep her secrets.
“You can trust me, Signorina.”
“Sera.”
“Hmm?”
“My friends call me Sera.”
He feared staring too long into her eyes and being ensnared by her gaze. But he couldn’t bear to look away.
They fell more fully into the dance. Lysandro’s senses came alive everywhere their bodies touched. Every brush of their hips as they spun round the other dancers, and the press of her fingertips against his shoulder sent shockwaves of desire straight through him. The dance ended all too quickly.
“I’m sorry, Don de Castel.”
“Lysandro, please. What are you sorry for?”
“I haven’t been a very good dance partner, I’m afraid.”
She started to break their frame and step away from him, but he didn’t relinquish his hand on her waist. Instead he pulled her closer, closer than she was before. Her cheeks flushed a glorious shade of pink.
“Can I have another?”
They floated across the floor. At the end of each song, they were interrupted by other gentlemen seeking a turn with her. Every time, Lysandro steeled himself to acquiesce to her wishes, even if it killed him. But she refused them all.
More than her blinding beauty and flawless grace, it was her words that had his blood racing as they danced the night away.
“So, if you can’t tell me about Romagna—”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me about Mirêne.”
Her eyes took on a dreamy quality. “It’s the most beautiful place in all the world.”
“Do you read?”
She pierced him with a scrutinizing look. “I may not be a graduate of some overpriced finishing school, but I did manage to learn to read. In two languages.”
Lysandro’s face turned scarlet.
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, do you read for pleasure?”
“Very much,” she answered, not seeming offended in the least. Lysandro stopped holding his breath.
“I prefer mysteries.”
“Oh no. Not those sordid tales of spurned mistresses, bastard children, and nefarious plots to gain a fat inheritance?”
“Those sordid tales are the only thing worth reading. If someone isn’t missing or murdered, I’m not interested.”
He flashed a curious smile. “What a morbid sense of taste.”
“It’s not the violence that intrigues me, it’s the grand puzzle. Following the clues, discovering the culprit…”
Lysandro spun her around; when she came back into his embrace, her hand slid up the length of his arm and came to rest on the back of his neck.
“What sort of reading material would be more to your liking, Don de Castel?” she asked with an upturned nose. A shiver ran through him as he met her fiery gaze.
Elias, not realizing his son’s enchantment, turned away from a neighbor he’d been speaking with and addressed Lysandro.
“Shall we go in?”
Lysandro’s eyes didn’t leave the girl as he and his father drew nearer to her. For a moment, he was afraid to say anything, for fear that she might be just a phantom, and that to call attention to her would banish her from his sight forever. He tried to shake off the notion.
“Who is that?” he dared to ask.
Elias followed his son’s unwavering gaze. “That would be Signorina Alvaró, I should think.”
“Alvaró?”
Lysandro knew the name. They were a good Lighuran family, though they had fallen on hard times. If she’d been in the village before, he would have noticed her. He couldn’t tear himself away from her elegant profile now.
“Yes,” Elias answered. “They sent her away to be educated. She must have just returned.”
Lysandro said nothing. The smirk on his father’s face went unnoticed as Elias stepped out in front of him and greeted the girl’s father with a broad smile.
“Good morning, Don Alvaró.”
The stout man seemed surprised to be so warmly saluted. They exchanged pleasantries until his father’s voice became a dull, soft tone in Lysandro’s ear. Close up, Lysandro admired the girl’s delicate features—a sleek little nose, an enticing mouth, set in an expressionless straight line, and warm, intoxicating brown eyes that were rimmed in red. She looked positively heartbroken. It made Lysandro’s own chest ache.
His father’s voice became clear again in his ears as it veered toward a new subject.
“And who is this fine young creature?”
She did not meet his gaze but continued to stare forward and down toward some invisible point. Her mouth didn’t make the slightest twitch in an intention to reply, but the moment went unremarked by all, except Lysandro, as her mother readily filled the void.
“This is our daughter, Seraphine. She’s just returned from Romagna, where she attended one of the finest schools for young ladies.”
“Lovely. How was the capital, Signorina?” Elias asked.
With a straight face, not looking at him, or at anyone, she answered in a subdued voice: “I wouldn’t know.”
Her father shot her a warning look, then laughed awkwardly. “You’ll have to forgive her, Don de Castel. She’s had a very long journey and hasn’t had the chance to rest or get her bearings yet. The ship bringing her back to us just arrived this morning.”
That’s not it, Lysandro thought. Why would a girl who had spent the majority of her life in Romagna claim to know nothing about it?
She settled back into a distant silence, and the subject was dropped as they made their way inside the temple.
The villagers filed into the six long wooden rows at the front of the temple. Lysandro quickened his steps to seat himself next to Seraphine. He put a hand on father’s shoulder and pushed him aside, nearly vaulting over him.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Elias grumbled, but Lysandro never heard it. He tried to catch the girl’s attention as people settled into their seats all around them, but she stared stubbornly at her hands, folded on her lap. It was unbearable to see her so distraught.
Having never conversed with such a beauty before, he was keenly aware of her nearness. It turned his head to mush, made his palms sweaty, and caused his voice to tremble.
“Signorina,” he whispered. “Are you alright?”
He feared somehow that he’d made her mysterious condition worse just by asking. Her eyes took on an added gleam. Despite the steady curve of her mouth, her eyes looked as if tears might burst forth at any moment.
Very subtly, she shook her head in the negative.
He suddenly had the urge to soothe the storm clouds brewing in her eyes, and would have done anything to learn the reason for her silent anguish.
A novice in pale blue approached the brazier near the right-hand wall and stoked it back to life, signaling the start of the service. Lysandro turned his gaze away from Seraphine to reflect on the sacred window illuminated by the flames, and remember why he had come. Cut into nine panes, the window of the Temple Arun depicted the moment the arrow from the Hand of Arun was loosed. Inside the larger panes, bits of colored class were cut up at odd angles to make the window appear shattered, representing the chaos surrounding Argoss. He towered over Theron, who crouched and took his aim. The sky was black, reflected in smoked glass. Lysandro thought the heat shimmering against the window made the figures look sweaty and alive, caught in a mortal struggle. The brilliant diamond at the tip of the arrow lent the scene that magical, Goddess-blessed quality.
The high priestess entered the chamber and ascended to her place behind the altar. All eyes turned to her. Throughout the series of songs, Lysandro did not once hear the voice of the girl beside him join in the chorus. As the high priestess led them through a litany of prayers, Seraphine still did not join the swell of supplicants. But her lips did move.
What she said to herself was a prayer not to the Warrior Arun, but to Faelia, the Lover. Faelia was no more the favored face of the Goddess in Romagna than She was in Lighura. All Andran cities, large and small, gave homage to Arun. But Faelia was the predominant aspect found in the temples of Mirêne. His thoughts lingered on it, but he turned his attention back to the high priestess as her voice increased, and her tone deepened.
“We must never forget the story of the hero preparing to fight Argoss. From the humblest origins, he took upon himself the task of challenging the mighty sorcerer with a black heart, second only to Morgasse in power. He commanded an army of monsters and unspeakable things, pulled up from the Abyss to do his bidding. And yet, even as Argoss grew in skill, Theron prevailed. He saved his own defenseless village with no weapons but his bare hands, his cunning and his wit, and his unfailing courage. Armed with only these, he killed the goblin that threatened to ravage this village and raze it to the ground. In this way he gained the attention of the Honored Warrior, the Mighty Arun, the Defender of Men, who rewarded his bravery by bestowing upon him the weapons that cleaved through the wicked sorcery of Argoss. All that Arun had given Theron, and all the blessings of the sorcerer Morgasse and the lover Faelia, are our windows into the realm of the Three-faced Goddess. Those blessings are kept in sacred trust by our sisters and brothers, protected by her high servants and the Council of Three. That sacred trust has been broken. The temples of Andras have been robbed of their relics.”
A murmur rippled through the temple. Lysandro noticed that she did not mention the fact that some of the pilfered items were forged with an evil intent, and could still be used to prey upon the vulnerable.
The high priestess allowed her words to sink in before she continued.
“It is our duty to protect and retrieve these relics and return them to those chosen by the Goddess to safeguard them. The Council of Three has therefore called for Examiners to be sent from the Temples Arun and Morgasse to seek out these sacred gifts, restore them to the temple, and punish those who would challenge the Goddess by seizing her powers for themselves.”
There was another round of whispers at this. The notable absence of a Faelian Examiner meant there would be no escape from Morgasse’s gaze, no tempering of Arun’s rage. The message was clear.
Lysandro scanned the gathering, looking for Marek. He wanted to see his reaction to this news. But he wasn’t there. Come to think of it, Lysandro had never seen Lothan present in the temple. He considered the possibility that Lothan couldn’t enter the temple.
Nothing would give Lysandro greater pleasure than to hand Marek over to the Examiners to await their judgment. Nothing, perhaps, except to see Seraphine Alvaró smile.
The high priestess closed the ceremony with a prayer for the Examiners’ success in their solemn mission and a departing song. Again, Lysandro noticed that the girl next to him remained silent. His gaze happened to fall on the prayer book she held limply in her hands. He cocked his head. As he inched closer, he caught the fragrance of citrus coming from her hair. He savored it, but before he could make a fool of himself by leaning forward for no reason, he cleared his throat in a soft, deep way that only she could hear, took the book from her hand, and flipped it around.
She looked down at the pages before her, now sitting upright, and one eyebrow went up. She nodded subtly, as if Lysandro had just solved a most perplexing conundrum. Her lips remained motionless, but the amusement was evident in her eyes. A light flickered on inside. She turned to Lysandro, and met his gaze for the first time.
He swallowed hard, caught in her intense expression. Never had he beheld such perfection. Lysandro was afraid that the pounding in his chest was audible.
The song and the service concluded, the villagers exited their seats and made their way back out again into the square. Lysandro’s father resumed his conversation with Don Alvaró as if it had never been interrupted.
“I’d be honored if you and your family would join my son and me for dinner tonight.”
Lysandro could have cut out his father’s tongue.
Doña Alvaró answered. “We’d love to, but we can’t tonight, I’m afraid. Tonight is the first dance of the season, you know.”
Elias rocked back on his heels, with his hands folded behind his back.
“Ah, yes. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to such a thing myself. So easy to forget these things at my age,” he said with a foxy smile.
Lysandro snorted. If they had professed not to know, Lysandro was sure his father would have remembered for them.
Elias ignored him.
“Oh, yes,” Seraphine’s father chimed in. “She’s missed her own season here, but it was well worth it, to have given over a child in exchange for a well-bred lady.”
Lysandro noticed Seraphine’s ears prick up at her mother’s next pronouncement.
“They always do such a nice job planning these events for the young people. I believe this year they were inspired to do a Mirênese theme, with their connection to the Maghreve Desert.”
“Of course,” Elias replied. “Another time, perhaps.”
“You are very gracious to think of us,” Don Alvaró said. “We look forward to the day when we can all dine at the same table.”
“Indeed.”
With that, Seraphine and her family departed.
Elias had just sat down to supper when Lysandro entered the room unannounced. The pains he had taken with his person were obvious—his long, dark hair was prim and glossy, and his clothes were finely cut.
“Good evening son,” Elias said evenly.
Lysandro’s reply was clipped. “Can I borrow your sapphire studs?”
Elias wiped the beef drippings from his lips. “I thought you had no interest in going out tonight.”
“Father, do you want me to go, or don’t you?”
Elias swallowed his meat and grinned. He rose from his chair and retreated to his wardrobe, returning in a moment with the requested jewels. He stood in front of Lysandro and helped affix them to the cuffs of his sleeves. He could feel the tension in Lysandro’s muscles.
“I did rather like Signorina Alvaró. She’s the right age for you, and from a good family.”
“Mm.”
“Lysandro, you’re a handsome young man. You’re a don. You’ve got land, and
wealth—”
“I’d rather a girl didn’t choose me for my wealth.”
“Yes, yes, but…it never hurt. You can have any girl you want. You’re a fine man, with a good heart.”
“Father…”
Elias clapped him on the back of the neck. “Alright. Good luck tonight, and have fun.”
“Thank you.”
Elias sat down again to his meal as Lysandro left, and found himself humming a love ballad through his next mouthful.
The largest ballroom in Lighura had been transformed into an oasis. Sensuous purple, indigo, and gold silks were draped across the austere marble pillars lining the circular dance hall. Soft cushions replaced the chairs, and low platforms had been brought in to serve as makeshift tables. The orchestra included additional players on the sitar and drums to inject a more authentic sound into their repertoire.
Lysandro scanned the crowds for Seraphine. He didn’t see her amber tresses among the cacophony of satin, ribbons, and lace.
As he made his way through the ballroom, another young woman stepped into his path.
“Good evening, Don de Castel.”
“Good evening, Signorina.”
“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it? Perfect for dancing.”
“Yes.”
An awkward silence ensued. This was meant to be the moment when he asked her to dance.
“Excuse me,” he said, and rounded past her shoulder.
He moved along the edges of the room, circumnavigating the central space occupied by countless dancing couples. Then he saw her. At the far end of the hall, the normal view out over the coast had been replaced by a painted backdrop of the Maghreve Desert, at the very farthest border of Mirêne. She was leaning against a pillar marking the boundary between the hall and its balcony. With her arms wrapped around herself, she looked out over the artificial horizon. She wore a sleek ivory dress covered gold and copper crystals that left her shoulders daringly bare. It was a tasteful and simple silhouette, not overwrought in bright bows or flounces. That now familiar ache that hadn’t left him since this morning grew more pronounced.
As he observed the faraway, wistful look in her eyes, he realized he recognized it—homesickness. He took a deep breath and called on well-used skills to smooth his nerves and keep them tightly tucked away under a charming façade.
He inhaled the hypnotic scent of her hair again as he stood close to her, and almost lost his nerve. He agonized over what to say, knowing he might have only one shot to get her attention.
“Is the city of stars as beautiful as they say?”
She turned to face him, and he saw the truth in her eyes.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, her attention drawn away from him. He followed her gaze. At the edge of his vision, a gaggle of young women were mulling about near the banister. More than one pair of eyes darted quickly away as Lysandro took notice of them.
He turned back to Seraphine and extended his hand. “Would you care to dance?”
He closed his fingers over her smooth skin and pulled her into the privacy provided by the swell of dancers. He pressed his luck again.
“You’ve come from Mirêne, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Your parents said they’d sent you to school in Romagna.”
“They did. I had to leave for my own safety.”
Lysandro gaped at her. “Why didn’t you ask your parents to bring you home?”
“They’d already sent me away, even though I didn’t want to go.”
Lysandro saw sadness return to her face at her confession of feeling unwanted.
“Don’t tell them,” she pleaded. “Don’t tell my parents.”
It had not yet been five minutes, and already she was asking him to keep her secrets.
“You can trust me, Signorina.”
“Sera.”
“Hmm?”
“My friends call me Sera.”
He feared staring too long into her eyes and being ensnared by her gaze. But he couldn’t bear to look away.
They fell more fully into the dance. Lysandro’s senses came alive everywhere their bodies touched. Every brush of their hips as they spun round the other dancers, and the press of her fingertips against his shoulder sent shockwaves of desire straight through him. The dance ended all too quickly.
“I’m sorry, Don de Castel.”
“Lysandro, please. What are you sorry for?”
“I haven’t been a very good dance partner, I’m afraid.”
She started to break their frame and step away from him, but he didn’t relinquish his hand on her waist. Instead he pulled her closer, closer than she was before. Her cheeks flushed a glorious shade of pink.
“Can I have another?”
They floated across the floor. At the end of each song, they were interrupted by other gentlemen seeking a turn with her. Every time, Lysandro steeled himself to acquiesce to her wishes, even if it killed him. But she refused them all.
More than her blinding beauty and flawless grace, it was her words that had his blood racing as they danced the night away.
“So, if you can’t tell me about Romagna—”
“I can’t.”
“Tell me about Mirêne.”
Her eyes took on a dreamy quality. “It’s the most beautiful place in all the world.”
“Do you read?”
She pierced him with a scrutinizing look. “I may not be a graduate of some overpriced finishing school, but I did manage to learn to read. In two languages.”
Lysandro’s face turned scarlet.
“That’s not what I meant. I mean, do you read for pleasure?”
“Very much,” she answered, not seeming offended in the least. Lysandro stopped holding his breath.
“I prefer mysteries.”
“Oh no. Not those sordid tales of spurned mistresses, bastard children, and nefarious plots to gain a fat inheritance?”
“Those sordid tales are the only thing worth reading. If someone isn’t missing or murdered, I’m not interested.”
He flashed a curious smile. “What a morbid sense of taste.”
“It’s not the violence that intrigues me, it’s the grand puzzle. Following the clues, discovering the culprit…”
Lysandro spun her around; when she came back into his embrace, her hand slid up the length of his arm and came to rest on the back of his neck.
“What sort of reading material would be more to your liking, Don de Castel?” she asked with an upturned nose. A shiver ran through him as he met her fiery gaze.
