Sister Cities

Part 87: Vi

The musicians go back out pretty soon after that, thankfully, so I figure this should be almost done with. Caitlyn ruins it in a couple minutes by smiling at me and asking, "Do you want to go out and dance?"

A new song has started up outside by then, following a more focal rhythm than the ones before. She told me after dinner was when the dances happened, but I never planned to get involved, and I assumed she took that as a given. "I don't know how," I say, since the obvious response of an outright "No" doesn't want to come out. Probably because I've spent all evening on watch for the glimpses of her bare legs I get through the slits in her gown and I know a good opportunity when I see one.

"You don't have to know the exact routines," she says. "You just have to keep the beat."

Tables around us are emptying out: Heimerdinger's poro makes a break for the doorway, and Caitlyn's dad is already nodding to the music as he pushes a stray chair out of the way so her mom can get past. While I chew on my answer, Caitlyn tells me and Ekko and Powder about something called a "circle waltz." Powder looks too interested for Ekko's taste.

"How about it?" Caitlyn asks me again. She's on her feet now, one thigh right at my eye level. "I'll teach you a few moves," she says. "We don't have to be out long."

There's no question that I'm overpowered. I warn Ekko to stand his ground with Powder and trail Caitlyn to the ballroom.

Pairs and small groups of Topsiders move across the floor like they rehearsed beforehand— which, in fact, I'm sure they did— while fissure folk either bastardize the moves they see or come up with their own. There's some class mixing going on, unless more people than I thought are pulling a Tei: stiff Pilties being taught how to unlock their joints, undignified trenchers learning what a curtsey is. But people are still mostly sticking with their own kind, so it makes me edgy each time they go for a glimpse of their councilor and see me beside her. I turn her down wordlessly when she tries to hold my hand.

She doesn't seem to take it personal. She finds us a quiet spot near the edge of the room, behind a pillar. A journalist is close by, but she gives him a polite, imperious look and he scurries away, leaving us as alone as you can get in a full ballroom.

She smiles at me, the acute angle of her gaze infuriating and alluring in equal measure. "Ready?" she asks. "Don't worry about being perfect. Just try to have fun."

"Easy for you to say," I retort, making her laugh.

"Firstly, you'll put your right hand on my upper back, like this." She takes my hand and places it. "My arm goes over yours, my left hand on your shoulder. And your left hand...." She gestures for me to put it forward and grasps it, arranging her long fingers so they're hanging off mine. "This is called the ballroom hold. When in doubt, return here, and you'll look as though you know what you're doing.

"Traditionally, there's a standard pattern your feet follow," she says. "You don't need to know it, as long as you can manage not to pinch your partner's toes. Watch their feet if you need to. For a song like this, you take a step each beat: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. I'll start."

She takes a step backward. I cautiously step forward and earn a reassuring smile.

"Perfect," she says. "Keep going. You can actually complete a whole dance using just these moves, you know."

She takes me around in a vague circle for several measures, and I catch on after a second that she's always moving back while I move forward. "How come it's like I'm pushing you?" I ask.

Her eyes twinkle behind her mask. "I made you the leading partner. Would you prefer to be the follower?"

"No," I say. "No, I'm getting the hang of it."