A/N: Hello other Septimus Heap fans! I'm Isadora, and I have been reading these books for a loooong time! I have written multiple fanfictions for Septimus Heap, but this will be the first I've posted.

Bit of background on this story: the second word in the definition of the word Angie Sage gave for Marcia is gypsy...meaning Marcia is gypsy by blood. This plays a lot into my story, and since she's said the Milo is from the same place as Marcia, I've decided to make him half gypsy. You'll see what I mean as you read my story. Anyway, read and review! Reviews are really helpful and I like them! Oh and even though the title says dancing, I've realized that I don't contain too much of the dancing. The first two are mostly from Milo's POV, and then it kind of goes into normal third person. So yeah.

Oh, and I've only just now realized I uploaded the wrong one, so this is the replacement! Sorry

Disclaimer: Septimus Heap and its characters belong to Angie Sage. Only character I own in this is Juliet. I'm pretty sure she's the only one.

Milo didn't understand his mother. Some days she was completely loving, and asked him how school went and helped him with his homework. Sometimes he was even allowed to invite friends over. Other days his mother refused to talk to him, and treated him as if he wasn't there. Those were the days he struggled through his homework alone and made himself dinner. He didn't know why she did this, but he suspected it had something to do with his father, and why his skin was darker than his mother's. He asked about his father once. She told him he was a no good gypsy and to never ask again. So why, he wondered, are they on their way to meet him? And why did his mother pack all of his things, but none of hers?

"Mama?"

His mother stared out the carriage window, not acknowledging his presence.

"Mama?" he tried again. She still didn't answer him, and he sighed. So it was one of those days then. He'd probably have to make his own food when they got to where his father lived. Or maybe not. Maybe his father would be really happy to see him, and play catch with him and teach him how to ride a bike. Milo was seven now, and his mother still hadn't taught him how to ride a bike. He had tried to learn on his own, but wound up with a broken arm. Since his mother was ignoring him, he did what he always did when his mother ignored him. He talked to her as if she was there, and pretended that she answered him. "I hope dad likes me. Maybe he'll play with me, and teach me to ride a bike. I'd like to learn."

Of course your father likes you, and that sounds like a great idea, she would say on one of her better days. Milo kicked at the seat in front of him. "We could play catch too. And maybe there are boats where he lives and we can go watch them."

This time his mother grunted. "They don't have boats where he lives?" he asked, confused. Once again, he received no answer from her. An uncomfortable silence followed his question until he asked another one. "Will dad be coming home with us?"

This one prompted his mother to laugh bitterly. "No. And neither will you. You'll be staying there, with him."

It all made sense to him now, why all of his belongings were packed and none of hers were. She was leaving him with his father, a man he had never met before and she hadn't heard from since before he was born. "And you won't be?" He already knew she wouldn't be, but he'd like to hear her say it.

"No. I can't stand the man. Or you, you ungrateful little half gypsy whelp."

Her words stung, and Milo found himself trying hard not to cry. He didn't even know what a gypsy was. It must be pretty terrible though, if his mother was using it as an insult. It also meant his father was a gypsy. Was that a bad thing? Did that mean his father was a horrible person? Mean, even? He hoped not. He had always dreamed of meeting his father, and he had always pictured a fun reunion. But maybe that wasn't going to happen.

The rest of the carriage ride to where his father lives Milo didn't breathe a word.

Upon arrival, Milo was pushed out of the carriage and into a village he had never been to, or even seen. There was nothing of technical origin here, not like the Castle and its Wizard Tower. In fact, the only thing this village had that even resembled a place of severe importance was a long cabin with an important looking flag waving in front of it. That was where his mother disappeared to after shoving him toward a group of younger children who were dancing along to music, instructing him to wait there and not to talk to anyone.

He stood in front of the younger children feeling very much the outsider. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel very much at home here too. A lot of the children had dark skin like him, some even darker. All except one little girl, whose skin was lighter than all of theirs. She was the only child who paid him any attention and didn't act afraid of him, and the only one not currently dancing in the Circle with the others. Her hair was long and curly, and she stared at him with the largest, greenest eyes he'd ever seen. Milo stared back at her. She couldn't be more than four, he thought, judging by how small she was.

Yelling from the long cabin with the flag distracted him and he looked over. His mother was screaming at someone. He felt bad for whoever that someone was. It wasn't a good thing when his mother yelled.

When he looked back at the girl with the pretty eyes, he found that she had moved closer to him, observing him with interest. He didn't know what to say, which worked out rather well because she suddenly started to talk.

"You look lonely," she told him bluntly. Her words couldn't be closer to the truth, he thought. He was a long way from home, and his mother would offer him no comfort of any kind. Before he could agree with the girl, she continued. "Do you want to dance?"

Milo wasn't so sure he liked dancing, but he wasn't about to turn the little girl down and took her small outstretched hand in his, smiling sheepishly. She grinned toothily at him and tugged him into the Circle. When he didn't start dancing like the others, she frowned. "Do you know how to dance?" she asked.

He shook his head no, the tips of his ears turning red. She pulled him out of the Circle, away from the fire and the music and the laughter. "That's ok, I'll teach you. You'll be dancing in the Circle in no time."

He briefly wondered how she could speak so well. The four year olds he knew back at the Castle had a hard time with that sort of thing.

"Step forward," the girl ordered. He did. "Alright, now clap your hands." He did that too. She continued to instruct him, and he continued to do as he was told.

She pulled him out of the Circle once more, laughing breathlessly as she ran down the pathway to the edge of the village, dragging him with her. He laughed too, and couldn't help but think he made a new friend. She suddenly stopped and fell into the tall grass. At first he thought she had fallen, but then she tugged him down to lay in the grass with her.

"That was fun," he told her, and she nodded.

"I like dancing."

Milo didn't think he liked dancing earlier, but he definitely does now. Maybe, since he had to stay here, they could dance again sometime. "I like dancing too," he decided, turning his head to look at her. She really did have pretty eyes.

He didn't realize he had said it out loud until she spoke. "They're Wizard eyes. All Wizards have them."

He doubted that was true. He had seen the green eyes of the Wizards back at the Castle, and hers were nothing like them. Hers were shinier, more intense. And they glittered more. "Yours are prettier," he said sincerely. She didn't say anything, so he figured that she hadn't heard him and decided to talk about something else. "You're a Wizard then?"

"Not yet. When I'm older maybe. I'd like to be one. I even know a little Magyk, see?" Just as quickly as she had laid down she sat up again, and he did too. The little girl held out her palm and bit her lip. Slowly a flower appeared, and she held it out to him. "I'm learning to not say the incantation when I do it," she said proudly. He took the flower and it crumpled to dust in his hand. She frowned. "But that keeps happening."

"You'll get better," he promised, and picked a flower out of the field they were laying in. A lily. He handed it to her and she took it, smiling at him.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly his mother was there, dragging him to his feet. "Milo Banda!" she screeched. "I told you to stay put!"

"I'm sorry Mama—"

She whirled on his new friend. "And you, you little gypsy urchin, how dare you talk to my son!" She confused his friend,and her pretty eyes welled up with tears. She didn't understand why this woman was yelling at her. Neither did Milo. If his mother was leaving him here, why did she care who he talked to? And why had she called his friend a gypsy urchin? Weren't gypsies bad? His friend wasn't bad. "We're leaving. Now." His mother grabbed his arm tightly, her nails digging into his flesh. She was causing a scene, and the music stopped as adults and children alike stopped what they were doing to observe what was going on.

"I though I was staying here with dad—"

"Your father," she snarled, "died three years ago and none of the other gypsies will take you." She glared at his friend, as if it was her fault. "This girl's kind is trouble, Milo. You'd best remember that."

Milo didn't see how the girl could ever be trouble. She had been nice to him, nicer than his mother ever was, and had even taught him how to dance. He suspected that his mother was lying to him. She did that sometimes.

"You're being mean!" the little girl suddenly shouted. "I am not trouble!" She stood up and stomped her foot at his mother and Milo was awed by her bravery. Her shouting attracted the attention of two adults who had been watching the scene unfold and now realize that it was their daughter the woman was yelling at. The two adults ran over, and the woman scooped his friend up in her arms while the man stopped in front of his mother. This man was obviously a man of extreme importance, and Milo wondered if he might be the leader of this village.

"I told you to leave, Juliet Banda. We do not want your kind here," the man growled. By this point, Milo understood that he was not lumped into that statement, so he wondered what the man meant.

"Don't worry; I wouldn't want to stay here any longer than I needed to. Come on, Milo." His mother turned sharply on her heel and tugged him along with her, back to the carriage and away from the village he suddenly wanted to stay at. As they reached the carriage, he looked back. His friend was waving at him, her eyes sad. He waved back, and then was shoved into the carriage and he could no longer see her. He wondered if he would ever see her again, but knew the answer was no. His mother would never allow it.

As the carriage pulled away, Juliet began to rant and rave her hatred for gypsies and Wizards alike. Milo ignored her, for he now knew his mother was wrong.

He thought about his friend with the pretty Wizard eyes and her dancing the entire way home.