.
.
"Goodness be, Alina!"
Alina winces, clumsily backing away when Marie pouts.
"You insist on stepping on my toes!"
"I did not mean to…" Alina says mumbling, hearing Marie's frustrated but gentle huff. "I did not mean to again," she amends.
Nadia joins them in the center of the gallery, patiently retrieving the huge, heavy book fallen off Alina's head.
They've secreted Alina from the Little Palace's guards, laughing shoulder-to-shoulder and feeding each other handfuls of freshly picked blueberries. Marie discovered this rather large gallery-room with not a soul to disturb. She beckoned them in.
"Let me teach her," Nadia says cheerfully.
She places the book on top of Alina's head once more.
Alina wrinkles her nose, trying to focus on her balance while moved by Nadia's hands.
"After all," Nadia says smugly, "Zoya knows how to dance the Petrazoi Circle because of me."
Marie sends Nadia a wry look. "It is the only thing Zoya knows how to do right," she comments, folding her arms.
Alina's lips thin, managing to stifle her laugh.
She likes this. She likes spending time with her new friends. They care for her.
Nadia prattles on, demonstrating this traditional Ravkan ballroom dance with Alina. Their palms hold out in front of themselves, with Alina's left resting on top and Nadia's right on top of their opposite hands. Two steps backwards, one step in.
Alina guesses correctly about stepping in with her right foot on the beat Nadia hums, but she knocks her knee painfully into Nadia's own.
Marie wanders the gallery. She stares at the brightly coloured paintings of flowery, grassy meadows surrounding the Grand Palace.
Through an opened window, Alina glimpses butterflies hovering in and out.
They must be looking for a home.
Alina can understand. She is not sure where home is either.
Marie lurches away from one smaller butterfly with splendidly violet wings, as if frightened.
There's a polished redwood desk gleaming in the sunlight, and Marie hops up on it. Her legs cross.
"What is he truly like, Alina?"
At Marie's thoughtful question, Alina loses the book's balance. She slaps a hand over her head but it lands onto the dusty floor.
Nadia sighs.
"Whom?"
"I believe Marie is referring to The Darkling," Nadia tells her, dropping her brown, shapely hands from Alina's.
The Darkling…
Alina's heart thunders in her breastbone.
"He…"
It was many miles away from Os Alta, carted off by the King and the Queen's Corporalki and ambushed by Drüskelle.
Alina remembers her enemy's body falling into bloody pieces over her. She remembers being dazed, slowly shaking her head and witnessing as a horde of writhing, black shadows manifested round her. Aleksander needed to use The Cut on someone to save her life.
"He has been kind to me," Alina whispers, unsure of how to express all of this.
Marie gives her a doubtful stare, her chin propped in hand.
"Kind?"
Alina notices her and Nadia suppressing smiles, and a knot of irritation forms in Alina's throat. "General Kirigan made me feel welcome when no-one else did in the Little Palace," she barks. "He listened to me. He understood. I met him before I met you both."
All goes quiet.
Regret follows her irritation, consuming her, as Marie solemnly slides off the desk. "I should not have said that—" Alina insists.
"Good morning, Miss Starkov."
Even in darkness, even in dreams, Alina knows his voice. She turns at the heel, wide-eyed. "Good morning," Alina breathes out, lowering her head in greeting as Aleksander strides in her direction. His dark, formless cloak billows as his shadows would.
Nadia and Marie faintly echo Alina's greeting, bowing her heads.
"May I trouble you for a moment alone?"
His eyes remain on Alina, gazing from her scuffed boots to her tangled, curled hair, and lingering on Alina's obviously dirtied fingernails. Alina uncomfortably shifts, keeping her stare, grasping her hands firmly behind herself to hide them.
"You…"
"You may trouble her as you like, General," Marie interrupts, nudging Alina's back encouragingly. Her face smiling. Nadia smiles with her, clapping her hands and giggling to a dumbfounded but relieved Alina. Losing her friends, upsetting them, is something Alina cannot bear the thought of.
Marie then tugs onto Nadia's hand as both young women disappear into the long corridor.
Alina peers to the corridor, as if nervous. As if pleading for Nadia and Marie to return before she makes a fool of herself.
"Dancing lessons?" Aleksander murmurs.
"Yes," Alina blurts out, turning to him and laughing weakly. "No, but yes… yes… was there something you needed of me?"
"I needed a moment alone with you. And now, I have it."
He paces, no longer looking at her, approaching Marie's desk and placing a hand upon it. A yellow-winged butterfly lands onto the redwood desk, crawling onto Aleksander's thumb. It's as sun-yellow as the threads glimmering in Alina's royal blue kefta.
Alina watches on eagerly, grinning to herself, as he inspects the butterfly with a hint of melancholy before shooing it away.
"How are your lessons, Miss Starkov?"
"Rather poor," she says sheepishly, twisting her fingers loosely behind her. "I am certain I am not meant for dancing."
"Did you learn any form of training as a child?"
"Not unless you believe fighting is comparable to dancing."
"Of course it is," Aleksander says, his tone brisk.
However, she catches the furrow of amusement in his brow. Alina grins harder.
"As a member of the First Army, I can show you how we learned dancing." This interests him, and Aleksander waits for her to elaborate. Alina does not move an inch, standing high-shouldered and erect. "You see," she admits, "we did not learn dancing."
His mouth twitches. Whether it's to disguise a chuckle or a scowl, Alina does not know.
Aleksander walks for her, disrobing his cloak and sweeping it aside like a dark whirlwind.
"The key, Miss Starkov, to a perfect dance is choosing the right partner." His hand extends to her. Alina gawks, slightly open-mouthed, at Aleksander's hand. "I have chosen you," he affirms. "Therefore, you will be nothing less than perfect."
One-and-a-hundred thoughts… they storm Alina all at once.
"You think very highly of yourself," she concludes, beginning to frown. Aleksander's fingers give a little spasm.
"… Is this your refusal?"
"It would be if I had refused you, sir," Alina quips, clasping onto his hand haughtily and bringing herself in. His warmth, coupled by Aleksander's softened smirk, thrills her. No-one would ever let her speak this way to them. No general, no king and no Saint.
He guides Alina's hand to rest lightly on his upper arm.
"What do you know of Ketterdam?"
Alina's eyebrows furrow.
"It is the capital of Kerch," she recites. "Corruption lies in the heart of its heart—every person in Ravka knows that."
"Indeed," Aleksander says expressionlessly, "but they do have a hand in lavish celebrations and they do dance." He slips Alina's other hand into his, raising their arms. She already feels horrified, imagining herself stumbling and stepping on his toes. "In the smoking banquet halls of The Geldstraat, they pay the most brilliant musicians with their lutes and violins and horns for as much kruge as can be spent."
He urges Alina to step towards him, her left foot in front of her right. His right hand presses on her shoulder-blade.
Alina resists, her cheeks burning.
She can't find her voice. She can't face more of this humiliation.
Not when it's him.
Alina shudders out a low, astonished noise when his left hand releases her, touching her chin.
"Focus on me, Alina…"
His voice…
Aleksander's hand re-grasps hers, building her confidence.
She can't let him down. He did choose her, as much as fate chooses who is Grisha and who is not Grisha.
This time, Alina steps forward when urged, mirroring him with a pivoting step. It feels like a naturally spinning dance, without falter, without limitations or cares. She focuses on Aleksander's dark, smiling eyes. They dance, losing track of time.
Without missing an invisible beat, Aleksander side-steps Nadia's fallen book, leading Alina from it.
He drops a hand from Alina's shoulder-blade, opening up the dance and turning to the side with his arm raised.
Alina does the same, if not less magnificently.
"That is how Ketterdam's wealthy merchants dance," he declares. "Pretending they are of noble blood and noble intentions."
A high, delighted laugh escapes Alina's mouth.
"Saints, where else?"
Aleksander chuckles so low that she strains to hear it.
"I should think Cofton, deep in the upper northwestern regions of Novyi Zem…"
Both of his arms fiercely take her, pulling Alina's entire back against his chest to a whole-bodied embrace. He rocks them, like a tight, sensual dance. Aleksander lowers his head against Alina's reddening cheek, brushing his nose and warm, wet mouth to her skin.
"The fiddlers and the tin whistlers parade through the streets, accompanying ballads of daring heroism…"
"Can you see them…"
"Can you hear them from here…"
His hands flatten up against Alina's stomach, wandering down to her hips.
She whispers Aleksander's name, panting and forcing herself to arch out of his grip. Her blood pounds.
Alina scolds herself mentally for the constant throbbing between her legs.
"Or be it the Ice Court in Djerholm," Aleksander murmurs, circling her intently. Damn him, she aches for more than his touch. "The rhythm of drums and stomping feet… where lovers are entranced in by the scent of pale winter roses…"
Without thinking, Alina returns to him.
She's hoisted off her feet, twirled while held upright in the air, Aleksander's fingers clutching her waist.
Alina holds his face in her palms, gazing into Aleksander's eyes seeming so moonstruck by her.
How…
"Women lead the dance in Shu Han… women lead the governing bodies and the armies…" Aleksander tells her, slowing their twirl into a halt. He hasn't let her go, and Alina doesn't need or want him to. Her dirtied nails scrape against his jaw.
"And the men?"
"They honour to their women. They belong to them."
Alina flashes an impish grin. "As they should," she announces, feeling him lower her and never tearing her eyes from him. Alina inclines towards Aleksander's mouth closer than ever before. Her eyelashes flutter together.
He nods along with her, smiling instead of smirking, half-mumbling "as they should…" when Alina's chapped lips seek his.
A soft, girlish laugh rings out.
From the gallery-room's entrance, Marie and Nadia peek in around the corners. They groan, having been caught, and flee into another long corridor. The palace guard with them also retreats, pretending to not have been a willing attendee in their mischief.
Alina makes an outraged noise, forgetting herself, heading after everyone.
"OI!"
She doesn't get far when a calmly frowning Aleksander seizes her wrist. "Never attack an unarmed opponent," he reminds her.
"I was not going to attack my friends…"
"Friend or foe."
"You are being ridiculous," Alina mutters, not meaning to scowl. He doesn't seem to mind it, gentling his hold on Alina's wrist and slowly slipping their fingers together. Aleksander bends in to fetch his dark, wool-thickened cloak from the ground.
"Being ridiculous or being thrown into the brig… I would sooner pick the former."
"Naturally," Alina says, eyeing him more softly when Aleksander's mouth pushes devoutly to her wrist.
"Naturally."
.
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