“A pleasure, Emma.”
In the lobby, the air reeked of floral perfumes, cigarette smoke and the perpetual stink of Tropps Street. Groups in ruffled gowns and tuxedos shuffled between the restaurant and the casino rooms, but they all parted for Sedric as he approached. Enne couldn’t tell if it was out of respect or fear—in New Reynes, they both seemed like the same thing. She tried to avoid their wary gazes in her direction to keep herself from trembling.
“The performance doesn’t start for a half hour,” Sedric said. “Do you like dancing as much as you like watching it?”
In order to poison him, she’d need to stay with him until he bought himself a drink. But the way he held her, his arm linked so tightly with her own, her side pressed against him, she felt the urge to flee. It was nothing he had said, but the way he looked at her. It made her feel...wrong.
“I love dancing, but only if I have a good partner,” she said, swallowing down her longing for escape. She had lasted this long. She could do this.
She had to.
He smiled. His teeth were alabaster white. “I promise you will find me more than acceptable.”
He steered her to the dance floor of a grand ballroom of twinkling lights and waxy floors. The other couples danced chest-to-chest, and Sedric pulled her close. His breath warmed her forehead, and she wished she was tall enough to look him in the eyes, or at least anywhere above his neck.
She did her best to follow his steps—they didn’t have this dance in Bellamy. Left. Right. Right. Turn. A left kick. Repeat. She caught on quickly, and he smiled as she accidentally turned tighter than intended and pressed her back into his chest. His cologne smelled sweet, like toffee.
He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t tell me you have a dancing talent.”
“You never asked.”
“Are you a Tanzer? A Glisset?” Those were the names of wealthy dancing families at her school. Enne had attempted to compete with them her whole life, even when her toes blistered and her muscles ached. She knew his words were flattery—Saltas and Tanzers were simply incomparable, no matter how hard she practiced—but the compliment still sent a thrill through her chest.
“A Salta,” she corrected him.
“There’s no need to keep secrets from me.” Left. Right. Right. Turn. “You’re too graceful for a Salta. You’re a rarer form of dancer. Or your parents must spoil you with lessons.”
Her annoyance piqued. “My name is Salta.”
“I’m sorry,” he amended quickly, but he looked more amused than apologetic. “I meant no offense.”
The song ended on a low minor chord, saving Enne from responding. He took her arm and led her to a near-empty side of the room, to a lone velvet love seat in a shadowy alcove. It felt awfully private here, so far from the other dancers. Enne felt a prickle of unease. What exactly was he considering?
“Why here?” she asked.
“Away from prying eyes. I’m determined to learn more about you, Emma Salta. I don’t usually meet girls your age quite so...”
“Quite so what?”
“Confident.” He gave her that snare of a smile. “You must give your teachers a lot of trouble.”
He truly thought her to be young, treating her as though she weren’t old enough to be a teenager. As he leaned forward, the way his gaze roamed over her delicate hands and her small chest, she realized with horror why the dress was nonnegotiable. And she felt ill. She couldn’t decide who was more of a monster: Sedric...or Vianca?
Oh...he would like you, she’d said. This was the part Vianca had designed for her to play. She wanted to leave him in disgust, but then she felt the omerta squeezing her lungs, coercing her forward, trapping her. She had no choice but to continue the act.
“My teachers love me,” she played along, feeling vile inside and out.
“Of course they do.” Sedric snapped his fingers at a footman. “Two glasses of your house’s finest wine.” Her heart lifted for a moment. A drink meant the opportunity to poison him and be done with this despicable man—something she was feeling less guilty about by the minute. “Once he returns, we can make our way to the theater.”
“I didn’t realize you were so interested in dancing,” Enne replied with an attempt at a girlish smile.
“I don’t mind dancing, but I’m more interested in sitting beside you. A person’s first show at St. Morse is always a treat. But...” He smiled, a hint of arrogance in his expression. “I’d love to show you Luckluster. Our shows are spectacular.”
“What do you mean ‘our shows’?” she asked, as though she didn’t know he also owned a casino. “Do you run them?”
“Not exactly,” he answered. “Your parents wouldn’t mind me showing you, would they?”
“No, they wouldn’t.” She attempted to feign excitement to hide her revulsion. No, perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to poison him.
The footman returned with two glasses of red wine. She’d never had it—alcohol was illegal in Bellamy—but she recognized it from the bottles other girls had smuggled into their dormitory. She sipped it and tried not to wrinkle her nose; it was horribly bitter.
“Have you ever had wine before?” Sedric asked conspiratorially. “I was twelve when I tried it for the first time. Didn’t have a taste for it then, either.”
“No, I haven’t. It’s...” She didn’t want to sound rude and risk ruining her charade. “It’s nice.”
“I wouldn’t tell your parents, if I were you.”
“Why not?”
He scooted closer to her until their legs touched. “That’s how parents are. They won’t like how fast you’re growing up.”
Enne had always been a good liar. She’d lied to Levi about the volts. She’d lied to her mother’s house staff about how she was spending her summer. She’d lied over and over to her classmates about where Lourdes always traveled. But there was no lie as disgusting as this one. Because the truth of it wasn’t that she’d been selfish, or that she’d run away to the City of Sin, but that, probably many times before, there’d been a real girl who sat where she sat, who smiled as she smiled. This game was a familiar one to Sedric.
She was suddenly grateful for the vial in her pocket. Before, she was going to poison Sedric Torren because she had no choice. Now, she was poisoning him for the girls who hadn’t known better. For all the girls fed to the wolves.
She was still scared—she was still terrified. Sedric wasn’t simply a predator; he was one of the most powerful people in the North Side. He was a beast wearing a man’s skin.
But she was also decided. There was no shame in poisoning him.
“Shall we go?” he asked, offering his arm.
She took it, her wine in her other hand. “We shall.”
In the lobby, three lines waited outside the theater. According to the posters on the wall, the dancing show was only one of the many varieties that St. Morse offered.
“Where do you take your dance lessons?” Sedric asked as they took a place in the back.
“I’m looking for a troupe, actually.”
“That’s awfully ambitious of you. Looking to dance here, maybe?” He took another sip of his wine. She’d better hurry, or soon his glass would be empty, and she would miss her chance. She didn’t know what the omerta would do to her if she failed, but she refused to die in this city.
“Yes, I’d love to dance here,” she responded, “but I don’t think Ms. Augustine wants to give me the job.”
“Why not? You’re an excellent dancer. Though I suppose she might want someone older—”
“My split talent has nothing to offer her, and Saltas are a volt a dozen in the casinos.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she’d been in this city for more than a day.
She must’ve sounded convincing, because he squeezed her hand comfortingly, and Enne felt weary with nausea. “She doesn’t know the talent she’s missing. But you wouldn’t want to work here, anyway.”