“Varen? Where is he?”
“Really, cheerleader. I’m beginning to think you have a one-track mind.” He pushed her away violently, and Isobel stumbled outward, nearly toppling into a pair of courtiers dressed as what she thought must be a pair of black spray-painted toucans. She stared at them confused, and in return, they glared at her until Pinfeathers yanked her once more into the dance. She crashed flat against him and he spun her again.
“I meant your other friend,” he said. “Then again, you have so many. It’s been hard just to keep them all straight! I wouldn’t exactly say he’s much of a conversationalist, though. Kind of the strong, silent type. At least until he screams. You look beautiful tonight, by the way, have I told you yet?” He smiled.
Distracted by his words, trying hard to read his meaning, Isobel forgot for a moment about the world spinning madly around her, forgot about the dance. She stared at him, searching.
Grinning, he stared back as though waiting for her to get the punch line. But she didn’t. If he wasn’t talking about Varen, then who could he mean?
He swept her into another spin. This time Isobel felt herself twirl effortlessly into the movement. Somehow, while she hadn’t been paying attention, her body had picked up the dance.
Her feet followed through with the steps. She looked down at her pink slippers, confused at the sight of them gliding over the floor. It was as though she knew the dance perfectly, even though she’d never waltzed in her life.
“There now, that’s better,” he said, drawing her back to him. “Look at that, you’re a natural.” They spun again to the trill of bells, and Pinfeathers, tilting his head back, hummed along.
Beneath the mask, she could see the jagged outline of the hole in his face, the sharp red teeth within.
Something in her told her to pull away. To run. But her feet remained locked in the dance. He spun her so that her back faced him and linked clawed fingers with hers, one hand at her waist as he guided her into a promenade.
She followed his lead helplessly, her eyes trailing to the white hand that rested on her side, the red claws clutching the pink ribbon. She wanted to recoil, to pull away, but someone’s lavender skirt swished against her own, startling her to press back against him. He gripped her tighter.
“Look,” he hissed.
Her head popped up. Dancers churned around them like storm-tossed flowers, their heads held to either side as they whirled with abandonment.
“Look at them,” he whispered, his voice in her ear. “Have you ever seen anything like it? They have everything, don’t they? Everything except a single care to dwell on.”
Isobel ripped her hand from his cold clay grasp. He gripped her and twisted her to face him once more, throwing her into a low dip. The world reversed itself, then he righted her too fast, and she came up with her vision swimming. He captured her hands again. His foot pushing hers, urging her back into the dance.
“Don’t you see, silly girl? Don’t you know that you can do anything here? You can have anything.”
“It’s not real,” she said. “None of this is real.”
“You’re real, aren’t you? Try it. Think of something you want. Think of something you want more than anything. Wait. I know . . . but first you have to close your eyes.” He stopped the waltz and lifted a clawed hand toward her face. Involuntarily her eyes fluttered shut. When she opened them again, Varen stood before her.
The bruises and the cut on his face were gone. There was no sign of kohl beneath his eyes or the slim silver loop through his lip. And his hair was not the stark black she knew, but a gentle wheat color. He smiled down at her, his eyes somehow warmer, green like a forest. Each difference in him was subtle in and of itself, but combined, the overall change in him was dramatic. He seemed so . . . normal.
She lifted a hand to brush her knuckles against his jaw, as he had done that night outside her house. He linked fingers with her free hand, and she was surprised not to feel the sharpness of his dragon ring or the hard corners of his class ring. His skin felt so warm against her own. She glanced at the front of his button-up shirt. It was blue—her favorite shade—and it looked good on him.
She lifted her eyes, searching his face.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
“But I—”
“Just let go.”
40
In a Vision
“Isobel, did you hear me? I said, let’s go.”
“What? Where are we going?”
He laughed, and a dimple appeared that she never knew he had, but it seemed to make sense on him now that it was there. “Swanson’s class, where else?” He turned, their hands still linked, and began to wade through the crowd.
