Bela opens her eyes.
She knows she is warm and content, though it takes her moment to remember the reason why. To realize she is still in Erika's arms. She revels in it. Savors each breath that brushes against her temple, feels the press of Erika's fingers along her lower back. A calm settles over her, as foreign as the feeling of true blood flowing through her hollow veins.
Erika awakens soon after, giving her a sleepy, sated smile. It softens into something tender, vulnerable, and for long minutes, they lay there, staring at each other, Erika idly brushing her hand along Bela's arm. Caressing turns into fervent touching, and as soon as dawn breaks, they tangle again, their lovemaking thorough and unhurried.
When she again lies sweating and panting beside Erika, running a finger down the pane of her stomach, Bela murmurs, "Good morning."
Erika giggles, the sound as delicate as a summer bird. "Good morning to you, too." She glances towards the mantel – the small marble clock in its center, then lurches upright. "Shit."
Bela frowns. "What?"
She is already hopping into her pants, scanning the floor for a salvageable shirt. Within seconds she abandons the search and strides over to her wardrobe, yanking open a small drawer and pulling out a faded grey tunic. "I have a quota to keep, remember?"
"Oh, right." Bela sighs with a roll of her eyes. "But it's nearly the end of the season. There isn't going to be much left for you to hunt." The eldest daughter snorts as Erika sticks one foot in one boot and hops towards the couch for the other. "Hasn't my mother given you other tasks to substitute hunting?"
Bela could've sworn Erika stiffened at the mention of her mother. She had gotten used to it by now, especially among the other servants, but for Erika, it was . . . noticeable. Of course, she'd still harbor fear towards her mother, but it's the quietness that has Bela pondering.
Not for very long though, as Erika bends over to tie her laces, Bela notices a thin sliver of her underwear breaking past the lining of her pants, like a whale tale breaching the surface.
Erika says, "It was mentioned, but there hasn't been much discussion yet. I'd planned on following up with her."
Bela sits up, hair sliding over her breasts. Erika turns around, and her eyes immediately dip lower, a muscle pounding in her neck. For a heartbeat Bela hopes she will lunge for her again. Bela, too, can see the need that boils in Erika's teal eyes.
The eldest daughter shifts her thighs in an attempt to get a bit of friction, to ease the desire that roils in her just at the sight of Erika's gaze roving freely over her body.
She stretches herself across the bed, hoping she looks as enticing as she feels, with the short, red nightgown bunching at the valley of her hip.
But Erika shakes her head, as if emptying the mischievous thoughts tangling within, and turns to grab her jacket from the back of her desk chair.
Slouching with disappointment, Bela flops back onto the bed, savoring Erika's scent that has been embedded into the fabric. She rolls until she's just at the edge, dangling her foot over like a fisherman's bait.
"Are you just going to stay there all day?" Erika asks, effortlessly braiding her cornsilk hair over her shoulder, gazing at Bela in the reflection of her vanity mirror.
"Isn't this all I'm good for?" Bela smiles as she stretches long.
Erika rolls her eyes, despite her matching grin. "Anything we need to get done today?"
Bela ponders. It truly has been a while since she had Erika by her side. Though they didn't really do much to begin with, it was nice having her company. Beforehand, once she was done with the chores her mother had assigned, Erika would always seem so . . . glazed, as if every breath was an effort to keep exhaustion at bay when it was Bela's time with her. So, Bela never bothered to really do anything other than lounging. Erika never complained, or just never noticed.
"Not that I can think of," Bela says, flinging the corner of the sheet over herself. "You go to your fitting?"
Again, that noticeable stiffness. "Yeah. I'm all set. You?"
"I have to correlate my ensemble with my sisters, but I am set to go."
"Can I ask for your permission to head to the marketplace before I come back?"
Bela tilts her head. "Will you be able to carry the game with you around town?" Erika shrugs. Not an answer, but Bela adds, "Sure. Get whatever you want. Just be back before your allotted time."
Erika nods, tightening her braid, and adjusts her jacket, aiming for the door. As she opens it, she spares one final look at Bela. The eldest daughter flutters her eyes, despite how useless it will be.
"I'll see you once I'm done with all my other chores."
Without so much as a farewell kiss, she vanishes.
Bela did spend most of the day in Erika's bed, actually. Rolling around and cocooning herself in the sheets that smothered her with the huntress's scent. One pillow in particular reeked of something familiar that had Bela's teeth on edge. Enough that she bit into the corner with a feline smile on her face.
She helped herself around the room, familiarizing with all the little pieces that combined into what made Erika . . . Erika. Browsing about the space as if it were a museum. And yes, maybe she did rifle through the drawers to see if Erika actually did own a particular rose-pink negligee.
Nothing.
Bela thumbed through the rather large book collection gathered in the glass cabinet, surprised to find that Erika was a big fan of fantasy . . . and romance. That will be a juicy little secret to tuck away for later.
But despite all the things gathered here, nothing truly felt like Erika. Nothing felt like it belonged to her minus the clothes she came here with.
The thought still saddens Bela as she takes a sip of wine, lips puckering at the sour taste. Sitting in one of the castle's reading rooms, sprawled across the armchair, legs dangling over an arm, her back against the other, she flips the page of the book she'd stolen from Erika's cabinet.
It had been eleven by the time Bela finally emerged from Erika's room. Dressed once again in her favorite black gown. And after helping herself to Erika's bathtub and lovely smelling soaps despite never really needing to bathe at all. If she ever did take a bath, it was in blood – for the warmth and for the drink.
Bela takes another sip of wine as she rests her head against the inside of the armchair. Her mouth purses as the thoughts begin to weave together.
The only thing that truly belonged to Erika were the clothes on her back, and that one knife. Everything else had been given to her; likely even the homespun dresses had been paid for by someone else.
Bela frowns thinking when about what little else Erika might've had at her old home.
Things only for necessity, never for desire. And even then, she probably put her little sister's wants and needs ahead of her own. What else did she have to call hers?
Perhaps, Bela could be hers.
The eldest daughter bites her lip, covering her face with the book despite being alone.
She manages to sink into her book for a few more chapters before hearing the sounds of the castle front doors banging in the distance. She doesn't bother getting up, not when she knew Erika's next task involves her sister.
Bela bites the inside of her cheek, grabbing her glass and chugging the rest of the wine.
If it were up to her, Erika wouldn't even be near Cassandra, but her sister was clever in using Bela's courting task to swoop in and steal some of Erika's free time. As if she wasn't busy enough with her hunting in the morning, then training with Cassandra, then orders from her mother, and finally leave her to Bela for the rest of the day.
Bela grits her teeth, forcing herself to stay rooted in the chair as footsteps approach the room. To her disappointment, the footsteps carry on without even a pause. That is, if that even was Erika.
She should try to enjoy her free time, before she's set for restless hours getting ready for her mother's party, but she can't help but think about what Erika and Cassandra are doing. Of the compromising poses they could get into. And knowing her sister –
Bela thwacks the book shut and slaps it on the table, grumbling to herself as she sinks deeper into her armchair. Something about the way Erika is acting is so noticeable, and yet she can't figure out what.
It must have something to do with her courting that nobleman's son. Perhaps her ruse had been too successful. Bela isn't as flattered as she thought she would be. After all, she did have to put a lot of effort into stomaching that bastard that she had to fool even herself. She lost herself in the sex for a while, but the man was uncreative, and she figured out his routine rather quickly. He would often leave her unfinished, and she had become so desperate for Erika that her hand slid between her legs in the bath, the bed, even during lunch in her room. But release left her empty, as if her body knew it needed Erika, needed her scent and her taste filling every inch of her.
It does bring to mind though, what does this now mean for them? After nearly a month of not seeing each other, Erika stared at Bela as if she were a ghost. Though they'd gotten their fill in the end, though Bela slept next to the woman for the first time – something she's never done with anyone else – though the action itself was as effortless as breathing, a wall still lingered between them.
Bela would be lying if she said she didn't feel dirty after having to court that man for a month. Even three blood baths, and two minutes standing out in the cold – shedding her flies as though she could shed all the ones he touched and tainted – still left her feeling ruined, as though he will forever be a permanent stain on her soul.
Then there's the consequence of her mother should she find out Bela has fallen for a servant. Would she ever accept?
Daniela had brought it up before, but Bela just snarled at her.
Now . . . now it's a distinct possibility. Bela's feelings aside –
Well, what are her feelings?
She knows she cares deeply for Erika and would rip anyone and anything apart if she's taken from her. She loves to see her happy, she her eyes lighten with joy at something that ignites the passion in her soul. She loves her attitude and fiery temper – Bela thinks she might've loved that the moment she found her cleaning the fireplaces.
What started as a sense of life returning to her through Erika's singing, she's come to love this mortal woman as if . . . as if . . .
Did she just think that . . .?
That she, she loved, Erika?
That she loves, Erika.
She doesn't even know what love is. How could she possibly make sense of the emotions she's feeling. She's been head longer than she'd been alive – did she even love someone before that darkness?
Did someone else love her? Did they mourn her?
And what of the lifestyle that she's led until now? She can't expect Erika to willingly be apart of it, nor does she expect Erika to be her sole source of sustenance. Could Erika even look past Bela's blood trail?
Can Bela ever truly wash the blood from her hands?
Bela hisses as she clamps her head between her hands.
One thing at a time. She first needs to figure out what the hell Erika is to her, as the latter had said as much before she'd left for Beneviento's estate. Of which she'll be leaving again for in – shit, pretty soon, actually.
That thing in Bela's chest – her heart – begins to beat faster and faster. As hollow and as wretched as it is, it still works. It still, lives within her. Its existence only brought to her attention when she first drifted through a daydream from Erika's singing.
But it's there, it's still apart of her. And it sings for Erika.
Bela grunts in aggravation stomping her feet before shooting to a stand.
She can't just sit here and think, she needs something to occupy herself. Like, knitting or something. Gods damn it, why didn't she ever pick up a hobby? Even Dani knits in her spare time.
Well, maybe the tailor won't mind if Bela visits her early. Perhaps they can get through any extra finishing touches for her dress before the party. Besides, it'll be nice to watch that cunt tremble after what she'd said to Erika.
Hours pass without seeing Erika, and Bela's mind was distracted enough during her final fitting to not count the minutes.
The tailor was more close-lipped than normal; only asking Bela the necessary questions, avoiding eye contact, and seemingly giving her apprentice more of the lead.
Erika had mumbled about the older woman being hostile towards the assistant – Gabriella, her name is – out of fear of getting dragged to the dungeons. Bela didn't mention to Erika that it was to be done, if not expected, because that is the nature of the beast of this castle.
The older servants really don't have much else to offer, so they're brought to the dungeon for their final purpose – sustaining both Bela, her sisters, and her mother. Of course, it was a fairly new rule that Bela herself had introduced to her mother, at a time when they were killing more than they were keeping. And no doubt the villagers would've noticed.
Sitting at her vanity, an older servant woman focusing on patting Bela's cheeks with rouge, the eldest daughter can see the housekeeper lingering in the corner, as if she expected to blend in with them.
The housekeeper notices her stare, and looks back. Holding Bela's gaze longer than most would deem wise.
Bela offers one of her smiles – one that usually sends other women scurrying like rats.
Helga's face reveals nothing.
She is somewhat of an enigma to Bela. The woman is no doubt one of the elder servants, seemingly in the same range as the former head chef, and the tailor, but her mother left the housekeeper off limits for the longest time. Maybe she actually did run the castle in a manner that her mother approved of. She certainly proved her worth in loyalty and specificity – having taught all of the maids the routine of the castle chores and its denizens, including Erika.
Still, the woman's time is bound to be approaching, but perhaps instead of bleeding her dry, her mother might actually allow the woman a proper burial, if minimally be returned to her family.
The servant before her – a woman of faded copper hair and jaded green eyes – clears her throat as she prepares to apply a red lipliner. Bela blinks, taking a deep breath before opening her mouth slightly. The woman begins to draw with a steady hand.
Bela flicks her eyes towards her reflection, batting her lashes to herself and reflecting the thundercloud grey shadow tinted with glitter.
Though Gabriella had introduced the concept of their gowns weeks in advance, Bela is still amazed – if not impressed – at how well they turned out.
Opalescent wings that mimic those of the flies they turn into stretch from both her sides to cover and cradle her breasts; their pink middles fading out into the shimmering membrane and silver lined veins. The dress itself hugs every curve and hollow of her body, the greyish tone of the hidden bodice mingling and fading into the crimson-colored skirt that matches her usual blood-red ruby. The grey comes through into her gloves that reach her biceps, they and the torso of the dress speckled with black sequence, as if the flies have settled upon her.
Her hair has been swooped and pinned into a flawless chignon, sections of her bangs framing her face in delicate waves. She wears no jewelry; the vacancy of her usual necklaces somehow accentuating her elegant neck.
"You look lovely, My Lady." Helga chimes from the corner.
Bela averts her eyes, pissed that the housekeeper caught her staring. Ignoring the housekeeper's compliment, Bela asks, "How long am I expected to stay?"
The copper-haired woman before her opens a tube of lipstick and begins filling in the precise outline she'd drawn.
"As long as your mother deems it." Helga answers.
"Of course." Bela answers blandly.
After a heartbeat of silence – and possibly because she notices the makeup woman getting tense, Helga says, "If you're lucky, you might be able to dance with someone."
Bela blinks, closing her mouth into a doubtful frown, a nostril curling as she looks towards the housekeeper. The woman only spares a ghost of a smile.
Bela looks to her reflections, popping her lips and observing the fill of red. "I think I'm actually going to be hiding tonight. Just in case anyone wants to ask me how I feel about that poor nobleman's death. Killed right before his proposal to me."
Both of the women stiffen, and Bela gives a feline grin towards Helga in the mirror.
"Yes," she says with a clearing of her throat, "how unfortunate."
That is enough to the makeup woman hurry through the rest of her craft, while keeping Bela looking presentable, before scurrying off out of Bela's room.
Rising from her vanity, Bela brushes her gloved hands along her thighs, adjusting the skirt so the high slit reveals the long expanse of her leg. She might not be able to do much dancing in this, but perhaps she could entice Erika into a shadowy alcove for a bit.
Bela can't help her smile.
With a warning peal from the clock on her fireplace mantel, Helga ushers the eldest daughter out of her room and towards the party. Her mother had said it was to be held in the castle's formal ballroom – the space itself designated for nothing more and nothing less. That alone spoke of the grandeur of the party. Though Bela can't remember when her mother's parties were anything less.
Bela can't help but giggle to herself at the thought of hosting a grand party in the ballroom she converted into a shooting range for Erika. Of which they still have to fix the chipping Erika made.
Bela mind submerges in her thoughts as they meander through the halls, the idea of luring Erika away from the crowd becoming more appealing, more tangible, until Bela is actually trying to remember the corners of the ballroom that are usually cloaked in shadow, until she's recounting all of the exits and servant doors to slip away in to steal a kiss or more.
The noises reaches her ears, then the smell, and then the music. Guards that she didn't recognize stood at the double-gilded doors into the ballroom, and they took one look at Bela and reached for the handles, opening them wide. They spared a glance at Helga, to glared right back.
Whoever they belonged to, they recognize she is of House Dimitrescu. Probably belong to some other noble family. A foreigner from the look of their uniforms, though armed to the teeth. Bela spares a smile – no curtsey, not in her own home – and slips inside.
Everyone who is anyone is here. That is, everyone without royal blood, though she could've sworn she saw a few members of nobility mingling with the bejeweled crowd.
This ballroom is enormous and decorated with such a contrast to the autumn season outside. Its towering ceiling is strung with garlands of wisteria, branching wide and reaching to mingle with the climbing hydrangea enveloping the pillars lining one side of the room. On the other, curtains of beaded crystals arc and swoop, twinkling in the light of the chandeliers. The tables are covered in picnic baskets overflowing with food and wine. Bushes of moonflowers scattered about the space in a tasteful fashion, pink petals lie scattered about the tiled floor, dancing and swinging with the passing skirt or foot of a guest.
Bela has attended dozens of extravagant parties in her time at the castle, has seen this castle host everything from local nobility to foreign dignitaries; she' seen everything and anything until she thought nothing could surprise her anymore. But still, she can't help but gasp and stare, mouth agape, at the transformation of the space.
There is a small orchestra accompanied by two singers – both young woman, both dark-haired, and both equipped with ethereal voices. They have people swaying where they stand, their voices tugging people to the packed dance floor.
Bela easily spots her mother amongst the crowd, her form, and her very essence, taking up mush space, even when sitting down.
She seems to be chatting with some marquise when her mother's cunning eyes snap to her, a gracious smile on her red lips. "Odette," her mother croons, half turning to beckon Bela. "Allow me to introduce my eldest daughter, Bela."
Bela tries not to frown as she curtsies.
Her mother wears a dress of pale gold, one arm enveloped in a sparkling sleeve while the other is bare, but a black-jeweled broach has a shaft of fabric falling off her shoulder like a cape. The color fades into a pale cream at the skirt, bringing attention to her mother's polished black heels. Her slit travels high up her thigh as well, her cleavage thick, giving shape to her breasts.
Her sisters have been given the same style dress as hers, except they only have one set of wings, palced on the same side as their gloves. Cassandra has a glove on her right, and Daniela her left. Their colors matching their usual – though vacant – necklaces. Topaz yellow, and emerald green. Their hair has been swept up too, Cassandra's bangs tickling her cheekbones, and Daniela's just brushing along the curve of her breasts.
"Charmed," Odette says to her, then curtsies. "Your daughters are delightful, Alcina." A pretty, nonsense statement, said by someone used to wielding pretty, nonsense words to get what she wanted.
As the two of them go back to conversation – Daniela seizing the opportunity to slip into the crowd – Bela is about to do the same when a shock of white catches her eye.
And she looks to find Erika standing at the other end of the couch where Odette sits. Her posture showing her status as the Mistress's lady-in-waiting.
Her dress isn't actually pure white, but rather a pale-bluish offset, its skintight bodice outlining a sharpness to her waist before the skirt swoops and blooms like the stroke of a painter's brush. Layers of the shimmering fabric drape and cling to the curvatures of her frame, and it's as though the fabric itself is made from moonlight. Fine threads of black curl upward, and chase one another downward, spreading their way across the sheer off-shoulder sleeves, like veins infused with black poison.
Part of her hair is braided above her head, a crown of white hawthorn blossoms upon it; the rest, silky and shimmering, like liquefied opal, falls in loosened curls behind her back. Gabriella had also dabbed rouge on Erika's cheeks and lips – a slight hint of color. Like the first blush of spring across a winter landscape.
She is beautiful. Luminescent, like a sliver cut from starlight.
Yet, dark beauty perfected, her cheekbones high and regal. Her skin holding the sheen of stardust.
It is her eyes though, that draw the attention of any passerby. That holds anyone so completely transfixed. Fringed with dark lashes, that piercing teal-blue luster, the clear color of oceans beyond horizons, that can cut as much as convince, they trap them – trap her - and Bela finds herself no longer able to blink.
Like a gorgeous nightmare.
It threatens to bring Bela to her knees.
With a grin, Bela makes her way over towards the vacant spot on the couch, a cushion away from Cassandra – who actually seems interested in her mother's conversation – and plops herself down, resting an elbow on the rolled arm and fluttering her lashes.
"Hello little kitten," gods, she hasn't used that nickname for her in months.
But Erika seems to remember it, as a twinkle lights up her teal eyes, but her features remain skillfully impassive. She gives a low, elegant curtsey. "It's a pleasure to see you, Lady Bela."
Bela tilts her head so that the light from the lanterns catch in her eyes, and set them sparkling. Her mother knew well enough which of her daughters' features men tended to notice – and appreciate – the most. Maybe it'll work on her too.
Erika's lips were curving up into a hint of a smile, when a collective gasp ripples through the ballroom.
Motion at the front of the room tugs Bela's stare from Erika. All eyes and heads snap at attention, Bela straightening as she looks towards the gilded doors.
The priestess wore black, as usual. Her face relatively clear of makeup safe for a light sweep of gold along her eyes, and her lips full and red.
Mother Miranda seems to glow with the attention. Owns it. Commands it.
Bela had a feeling the priestess would show, but still her hollow heart palpitates at the thought of Erika –
Bela doesn't dare look to Erika. Doesn't dare reach for her hand.
The priestess' pale blonde hair is pinned back with twin combs of pearl, the blue of her eyes seeming to glow with the liner and lighting.
And her dress . . .
Golden thread embroiders the skintight gilded bodice; no straps, leaving nothing but the expanse of moon-white skin. The neckline plunges nearly to her navel, where the gold stops and whorls of flowers twine and weave along the slim skirt. The sleeves are pitch black, shaped and crafted to look like the wings of the many ravens the priestess keeps; the feathers almost emerging from her skin before a long, black cape ripples behind her in an ebony wave.
Mother Miranda's chin remains high, accentuating her long, lovely neck. Her red-painted lips cock into a feline smirk as her gold-lined eyes take in the room watching her every breath.
Rather than greet her mother – the damn host of the event tonight – the priestess aims for the center of the room, the crowd giving her a wide berth. More so the local nobility while the foreign dignity follow their lead.
Miranda's mouth curls into a cruel half smile, her voice like thunder at midnight. "Go – eat."
The crowd undulates as people aim for the tables.
She whirls towards the other half of the room, her hair fanning around before gently falling, "What happened to the music? Everyone, dance."
People pair off and fall seamlessly into the music, and the tension seems to deflate.
Finally, Bela looks to Erika, catching a glimpse of Cassandra doing the same.
Indeed Erika has gone pale, yet she just looks bored. Like the woman of her nightmares, the iron ruler of their entire village hadn't just walked into the room.
Perhaps it was because Erika's eyes have drifted towards the dancing, shimmering throng. As if she can't help herself when the music swells. She seems to be half-listening. Maybe music meant more to her than her fear of Miranda – more than riches and power.
Another glance at the gilded, double doors, and they remain shut.
At least they won't have to deal with Heisenberg, either. A small blessing of the Black God. Not that he'd enjoy these kinds of things anyway . . . or really fit into any of them.
Bela stands with as much control as she can master, ready to make up some excuse to take Erika with her, away from this place, away from the priestess.
Soft clicking of heels approach them, and Bela steps between the priestess and Erika, near blocking her from view, as Mother Miranda glides over towards their group.
Her mother looks up and gives a smile, the marquise having gone paler than Erika, fear illuminating her terracotta-colored eyes.
Mother Miranda gives a shallow dip of her chin. As much acknowledgement as she'd give the head of House Dimitrescu. "An exquisite party as always, Alcina." Bela knew the bitch didn't mean a word of it. She stalks over towards her mother's side, flashing a pretty, cultivated smile. "Spot any potential winners for your daughters?"
"I'm more concerned about finding someone for you, Mother Miranda." Alcina drawls, taking a long draw from her cigarette holder. "I'd hate to see you become a wallflower because no man could keep up with you."
The priestess laughs, the sound like silk over skin. Bela shudders. "It takes one to understand one, Alcina."
"Not that I dance much in general, Mother Miranda."
"Shame."
Bela's heart sinks her mother notes the direction of Erika's stare. "My lady-in-waiting shall take my place."
"What?!" Cassandra squawks, Bela having bitten her tongue in time.
Erika barely glances to Mother Miranda, who pulls her assessing gaze from Alcina to stare at the huntress with a mix of intent and want that set Bela's jaw grinding. Or it would have bene grinding, if she hadn't mastered herself in time to keep her face blank as Erika begins walking towards Mother Miranda.
She offers her hand – adorned in gold chains and bands, golden talons protruding over her fingers – and Erika takes it, her face neutral, her chin high, each step gliding.
Just before they slip onto the dance floor, Mother Miranda glances over her slim shoulder and gives Bela a rakish smile. "I'll try not to get us into too much trouble."
From the back, with their similarly colored hair, they could pass for sisters.
But their dresses . . . it's as if Mother Miranda had planned it.
The back and the white. The darkness and the light. Like the stars and the night, orbiting and glimmering.
They halt at the edge of the dance floor, pulling apart to face each other.
Others watch from the sidelines as the dance finishes and the introductory strains of the next begin, a harp strumming high and sweet. Mother Miranda extends a hand, a half smile on her mouth.
As if those strings control Erika like a marionette, she raises it, and places her hand in hers precisely as the last, swift pluck of the harp sounds.
Horns sound and strings sing, summoning the dance in a countdown to movement. Bela reminds herself to breathe as Mother Miranda slides her slim hand over Erika's waist, tucking her in close. She lifts her chin, looking up into the priestess's face as deep-belied drum thumps.
Erika moves as if her very breath is timed to the music. Mother Miranda goes with her, and it is clear that the priestess knew the dance's nuances and exact notes, but Erika . . .
She gathers her skirts in her other hand, and as she is led into the waltz's opening movements, her body goes loose and taut in so many places Bela doesn't know where to look: she is bent and shaped and directed by the sound.
Mother Miranda's eyes widen at it – the sheer skill and grace, each movement of Erika's body precisely turns to each note and flutter of music, from her fingertips to the curving of her neck as she turns, the arch of her back into a held note.
She had seen Erika dance in her rooms before, had seen her dance in the emptiness of the opera hall, but those were nothing compared to this.
As Erika and Mother Miranda finish their first revolution through the dance floor, Bela has the growing feeling that Erika had been holding back the whole time.