I never danced at Midsummer’s Tide or Winter Feast; the taunts from others were too much of a deterrent. The few times I went, I left before the fiddles and citterns and drums played in full swing. Now I look around at the awe and glee on so many faces. The desire to be more like these happy strangers beats through me in time to the locals’ dance steps.
“Do you want to dance?” Cohen’s deep, clear voice catches me off-guard and I jump, giving him reason to release a full, throaty laugh. I turn away from the dancers, embarrassed by Cohen’s teasing and, in the same breath, angry with him for making me feel that way.
There’s a break in the gathered group where I can escape and wait till we talk to Duff Baron. I weave away from Cohen and out of the festival crowd, passing jugglers and children playing stick games and arm-wrestling men.
Once I’m beyond the throng of people, I stand in the shadows and watch the two women who have a bucket of fire displayed at their booth much like a keg of ale would sit on a tavern table. One woman is tall and lithe, the other short and button-nosed. Curiosity pulls me to step closer, but I remain hidden as a young girl sitting on the shoulders of her father approaches the booth.
The scarecrow of a woman holds her hand over the bucket’s flame until a ball of fire leaps into her palm. It makes little movements of bobbing while the woman holds her arm still. Is the fire not burning her?
How does she do that?
I gasp. She’s a Channeler. For a moment my muscles bunch in anticipation of the townspeople turning ugly accusations on the woman or red coats swarming over. Instead, the little girl and her father clap and laugh and cry for more. I’ve forgotten we’re in Shaerdan—?this woman’s life isn’t at risk. The woman holding the flame flips her hand over a jar and drops the walnut-size fireball inside. The flickering orb bounces against the glass as the jar is passed to the young observer and her father.
“Amazing,” I murmur.
“Want one?”
My attention snaps away from the women. The dark lane Cohen has found me in shadows most of him, so I cannot make out much of his face other than the genuine smile on his lips. For a moment, my mind goes blank.
Then I remember his earlier question.
“No, I don’t,” I say, even though a jar of Channeler fire sounds like the most intriguing thing in the world.
“Why’d you leave? Weren’t you enjoying the music?”
“I didn’t enjoy you teasing me.”
“What? When?”
My arms cross over my tunic. “When you asked me to dance.”
A smile spreads cheek to cheek, his white teeth reflecting the festival lights. “You’re upset because you thought I wasn’t serious. What if I truly wanted to dance?”
Why is he pushing this? My cheeks grow hot. “Regardless, I wouldn’t have danced with you because I’m dressed as a boy. And that surely would’ve drawn notice.”
Cohen’s eyes narrow in thought, and then without warning, his hand snakes out and steals my cap so my braid tumbles down my back. “Now you don’t look like a boy. Will you dance with me now?”
I make a move to take back the cap, but his arms are too quick. He holds it behind his back and lifts his brows in silent question. As if he honestly wants to dance here in the street.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, the no evident in my tone. He chuckles and steps closer until I’m completely swallowed by his shadow.
“No one will see us here.” His arms spread invitingly.
My entire body tingles with wanting to step forward and drop my hand in his. We should be keeping watch for Duff Baron, not dancing in a back alley. Although Kendrick, the innkeeper, said Duff Baron and his wife don’t come out until midnight.
“One dance, Dove,” Cohen says. The cottony soft touch of his words bewitches me.
I cannot say no to that. My chin dips in a reluctant nod, and suddenly the fingers of his hand are curling around my hip, and I’m twirling under his arm. He pulls me to his chest and rocks me to the side. Though I’ve never danced with a partner, Cohen guides me effortlessly around the lane. When the tune changes, we spin to the quick saw of the fiddle until I’m breathless and bursting with joy.
When I peek up at him, Cohen is staring down at me. He pulls my hand into the crook of his elbow and walks to the side of the lane. “A man should always escort the lady back to her seat,” he says.
A giggle nearly slips from my lips, which is so unlike me. “I didn’t realize you were such a gentleman.”
He grins wolfishly. “I don’t have to be if that’s what you want.”
I cannot even think of a response to Cohen’s teasing. But it does make me wonder how many other girls have fallen for his charms. Too many, I’m sure. For some reason, the thought is like a bucket of water on a flame.
“Thank you for the dance.” My words lack warmth. I pull my cap from his pocket and put it on, shoving my hair underneath it. “Now that’s out of the way, we can remember why we’re here tonight.”