“You are.”
“I’m regretting.”
“Same face, apparently.”
The music slows. Not a waltz exactly, but close enough for tourists and street corners. I place one hand at her waist and take her gloved hand in mine.
The first step changes everything.
She’s still unsteady on the snow, but she follows well once I guide her. Her body remembers instruction. Wealth teaches daughters many useless skills, and apparently dancing is one of hers. She moves carefully at first, eyes on my chest, then dares to look up.
“There,” I say. “You can follow orders.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I never get used to temporary things,” I say without meaning to.
Her expression flickers. I almost regret the words.
Then she steps closer because the pavement narrows near a patch of slush, and regret loses importance.
The crowd blurs around us. Music fills the cold air. Her hand rests lightly on my shoulder, and my palm fits against the curve of her waist through the coat I bought her. This should be harmless. A dance on a Moscow street in front of strangers.
It’s not.
Nothing with her seems to stay harmless.
She keeps her eyes on mine now, and the smile returns, slower than before. Less playful. More aware.
“Do you dance often?” she asks.
“When required.”
“By whom?”
“Women with poor judgment.”
She laughs softly. “Many of those?”
“A few.”
“Should I be jealous?”
The question is light, but the answer in me is not.
“No.”
Her fingers tighten slightly on my shoulder.
The music carries us another turn. Snow lands on her hair, on my coat, on the dark wool between us. She looks too alive in my arms, too warm against the cold city, and for a brief moment I forget the men watching, the meeting waiting, and the family name I came here to destroy.
I turn her once, slow enough that she does not slip.
She comes back into my arms laughing, breathless.
The crowd claps again, but she barely notices.
Neither do I.