"Be careful," Malen squeaked. "I know you're a dancer, but do you really have to spin near the paints? And for goodness' sake, you really should stay still!"
The ballerina giggled, holding out her hands. "Ah, my dear painter, how are we ever to work together when only one of us is ever free to move?"
Freya's pointe work was flawless, until she saw the figure featured in a neat pile of charcoal drawings. She stumbled, and her smile wilted. "Oh?" she asked softly, holding up a picture of the music student who had led her in a waltz of flowers. "Do you know him, Malen?"
"He's just a boy," Malen said, and flushed. Her charcoal skittered across the page she was working on.
"Ah," Freya said, and winked. "That he is. But he's a sweet one."
"He is," Malen agreed cautiously, trying not to squirm or-even worse!-sigh. She went to bite her lip, but startled herself out of the impulse. Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her lips burn where his finger had pressed.
The dancer gently straightened out the corner of the drawing. Autor was captured loosely, almost relaxed, with a careful hand and large strokes of black. Freya couldn't ever remember seeing him other than tense, except when he'd held her. "Do you ever wonder if—"
"No," Malen said, irritably.
And the dancer laughed. "Let's be friends, Malen."
The painter's jaw dropped, and she shook her head. "Okay. But you'll have to stay still, at least for today."
Freya giggled again, and lay the parchment down.
