Part 1First Dance

To celebrate the end of spring planting and Chauntea's festival day, there was going to be a dance in the village square.

"Rose, you can't wear armor to a dance," my friend Amie told me. She had talked me into spending a chunk of my militia pay on a bolt of cloth from one of the peddlers who pop up like mushrooms around the big festivals and she helped me make a dress for the dance. Amie picked out the material. It was pink. Very pink. If I had known that the only cloth she could find was pink, I would never have agreed to this. The dress we made fit me snug in the waist and flared at my hips. We both hemmed our dresses daringly short for the dancing, almost up to our calves. I might have worried about the big lecture Retta Starling would give me about showing off my ankles, but I was pretty sure she wasn't going to notice, due to the bodice.

The bodice was very tight and laced up the front. It was cut low and showed my cleavage. A lot of cleavage.

"Amie, are you sure about this?" I tugged the neckline up. The gods had built me generously in the bosom department and there sure seemed to be a lot of the gods' bounty showing. I didn't think Chauntea would mind but I wasn't so sure about the village elders. Also, I'd never worn a dress before, ever, and my legs felt terribly exposed and, well, unprotected under the flimsy skirt. I'd be much more comfortable in my leathers. "I feel a draft."

"Leave that alone, you silly, you look great. What, are you worried about what Daeghun will say?" We both laughed. As if my father would come anywhere near a social event without the strictest orders from the village council. We pinned shell roses in each other's hair in honor of Chauntea—real roses weren't blooming yet—and, feeling all pious, sprinkled ourselves with rose water as well and then Amie dragged me out the door.

"I am going to dance and dance and dance," she said happily.

"With whom?"

"Brother Merring, for starts. I hope." Since the arrival of the handsome, soft-spoken and unmarried cleric in West Harbor a few years back, there had been a huge surge of interest in Lathander amongst all the maidens of the village.

Brother Merring appeared a little soft by West Harbor standards, at least until you faced him stripped down in the wrestling ring or felt his wicked staff in sparring practice. He wasn't a member of the militia, but Georg asked him to give us some extra training and he'd knocked me on my rear more times than I could count. It must be true, what they say about those clerics from the Morninglord's Temple.

The musicians were warming up as we arrived. The Mossfeld boys were standing together just like they did at militia practice. Didn't they ever get tired of each other's company? All three jaws dropped when they saw us. They elbowed each other and laughed, and Wyl, my least favorite Mossfeld, sauntered towards me purposefully.

"Well, well, well," he said. "Don't you look fine, Rose Farlong." He ignored Amie and ogled my chest and I suppressed the urge to punch his nose. I ended up having to dance with all three of the brothers and after that, I limped desperately to the mead table. They weren't bad guys, really, just dumb as stones and much too fond of the sound of their own voices.

At home, Daeghun only let me use mead for medicinal purposes, such as head colds or cleaning infected wounds. I figured dance-induced injuries qualified. I belted back a big mug. It was the last of the winter brew and it started down sweet and thick and then kicked like an ox. A dire ox.

Wyl brought me another mug. He was trying to get me drunk and I hoped he would succeed. Problem was, he was getting there quicker than I was.

"How about taking a little walk out to the training ground," he said suggestively. He tried to slide his arm around my waist. "We could practice our…drills."

"I'd rather poke an arrow in my eye." He laughed. Har, har, har.

Amie was dancing with Merring, the lucky rat. She got to twirl around with the attractive, skillful dancer and I got stuck with the three toe crushers. I took another big swig of mead.

"No, really, Rose, I know we haven't been friends but I'm feeling very friendly right now. Very, very friendly."

"Then be a real pal and take yourself off," Lorne said from behind me. He smiled down at me. "Let's dance."

I'd been feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable around Lorne ever since the afternoon when he kissed me in the orchard but saving me from Wyl earned him a dance. I tossed back my mead, pressed the empty mug into Wyl's hand, and followed Lorne to the dance square.

I'd danced with Lorne before, all one hideous afternoon in the Starling's chicken yard when I was 14 or 15, with Retta Starling calling instructions and Bevil clapping the time and laughing at me. "You have to learn to dance", she told me, and ignored my wail of "why?". Now, with the moon bright overhead, and the mead flowing through my veins like thick liquid fire, dancing didn't seem such a dumb idea. Lorne stared down at me with stunned admiration.

Now I'm a big strong girl—I talked myself into the militia when I was thirteen and I'd been knocking men twice my age on their rears ever since. Not Lorne Starling, though. He made me look small. He had to duck his head when he entered a room and his arms were as big around as my thighs. Good fighter, too. You always think those really big guys are going to be slow but Lorne could surprise you.

I'd been hanging out around the Starling farm since I was little, back when all the kids called me Thorn instead of Rose, because I was such a pest. Retta was like the mother I'd never known, and her son Bevil was like my brother. But I'd never had sisterly feelings about Lorne. Back then, he was almost a god to us younger kids. He was the man of the house—his father had disappeared to the gods' knew where—and he was always working, so strong and capable, and active in the militia, too.

As a teen, when my father's cool reasonableness drove me half out of my mind with frustration, it was a relief to be near Lorne's restless energy and hot temper. You always knew where you stood with Lorne because he would holler it out at you in that deep thundering voice like the wrath of the gods. I once saw him throw a wagon wheel clear across the yard when he couldn't get it to fit on the shaft. My father would have been appalled. (Not that he would have said anything.) I applauded.

We danced several reels until I was breathless and then the music changed to one of the slow courting dances. The dance square cleared out to make room for the courting couples. Amie was already at the mead table, with Bevil, of all people. I headed toward them, but Lorne took my hand and said, "Wait," and he pulled me closer.

To dance a courting dance, particularly at one of Chauntea's festivals, was a public declaration, almost as binding as a betrothal. Already I felt curious eyes upon us. A flush burned my cheeks.

"You're all I think about, Thorn," he said, using his old name for me. He was in his festival clothes, with his thick brown hair clubbed back away from his strong, handsome face. His strange, intense eyes bored into me. He's the only man I've ever met that makes me feel small and dainty. "Please. Dance with me."

In a courting dance, you actually touch your partner. I put one hand on his shoulder and he put one hand on my waist. I could feel the heat of his fingers through the thin fabric of my frock and it sent a tingle through me.

Afterwards Lorne walked me home and followed me into the house. It was very dark and quiet, no problem for me of course, since I can see in the dark, but I lit a couple of lamps for Lorne.

"Is your father home?"

"I doubt it," I said. "He never is anymore. Do you want some tea?" My head was spinning in a very pleasant manner from the mead but I was guessing that if I didn't drink something non-alcoholic soon, I would regret it heartily later.

"No, Rose," he said. He pulled me into an embrace. "That's not what I want."