Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace #1)(18)

“Are you finished?”

My eyes fly open. My mother is gone. Bastien is staring back at me. He fidgets in his fine clothes like they itch him. “You said I had a part to play,” he prompts, and darts a quick glance around us.

Is he nervous or eager? The breeze tousles his dark and glossy hair. My fingers twitch, longing to touch the wild strands that grow long and shaggy over his ears and the nape of his neck.

“Will you show me?” he asks, his voice treading between gruff and soft. “Will you . . .” He looks down and scratches his sleeve. Even under the night sky, my graced vision captures the flush rising in his cheeks. His gaze crawls back up to me. “Will you take your time?”

My blood quickens. I begin to understand why the gods chose Bastien for me. Beneath the tame sea of his eyes lies a tempest, a strength to match mine.

I sweep my hair back so it conceals my knife harness again. I take Bastien’s hands and place them on the circle of my waist. I arch my brow at his tentative hold, and his fingers settle and tighten, seeping warmth through the cloth of my dress.

I lift my palms to his face and trace the bones in his cheeks, jaw, and nose. Every movement carries rhythm, every touch a part of the dance. I’ve shown myself to Bastien, and now it’s my chance to consider what he can offer me.

My falcon vision focuses, and I see every green and gold fleck buried in the depths of his blue irises. He even has a tiny freckle in the lower rim of his right eye. My gaze drops to his lips. I’m supposed to touch them right now, study their shape and texture, as if my fingers can tell me what it would be like to kiss him.

The sixth sense from my tiger shark thrums like a second heartbeat from all this nearness to Bastien. It pounds harder as my hand floats to his mouth and my fingertips skim across it. Bastien shuts his eyes and releases a breath of quivering heat. It takes all my ibex grace to keep me balanced. I want to kiss him, not just imagine it. Kissing isn’t a part of the danse de l’amant, but Bastien wouldn’t know that.

Sabine would.

She’d think me cruel to cross that line of intimacy, when I mean to kill him on this bridge.

I lower my hands to Bastien’s neck and chest, and his eyes open. My nerve endings stir at the hungry look he gives me. My body flashes hot then cold.

Can any part of him sense how this will end?

My bone knife. His heart. My proof to the gods that I’m ready to become a Ferrier.

Keep dancing, Ailesse. Keep dancing.





7


Sabine


PAST THE ASH TREE IN the forest, I watch Castelpont and the progress of the danse de l’amant. My heart pounds faster. My best friend is that much closer to killing a human being, and I’ve sworn to witness every moment of his death.

Don’t dwell on the horror of this, Sabine. Think of the good that will come from it. Ailesse will be a Ferrier. She’ll help the souls of the departed find their new home in the Beyond. They’ll be at peace—at least the ones destined for Paradise will be.

Ailesse extends one of her amouré’s arms and slowly twirls outward along its length, then inward to his chest. She stops when her back is pressed against him. Her arms rise like wings and fold behind his neck. The boy eases into her movements, becoming one with her. They’re beautiful together. My eyes prick, but I hold back the tears. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry tonight.

I scrutinize the boy who arrived only moments after Ailesse started playing the flute. Did the gods choose him out of convenience, or is he truly her perfect companion? I frown, finding nothing wrong with him. Any flaws at first glance are only virtues in disguise. His awkwardness is charming as she spins around him. His solemn nature reflects a life of discipline.

I begrudgingly accept that the gods chose him well, but my chest aches. Ailesse has always done everything before me, and now she has something far more valuable than another grace bone. She has the promise of love. She has met her amouré. I fear I’ll never have the courage to do what it takes to meet mine.

A flash of black winks out from the fog across the bridge—just enough that I see something creep down to the riverbed. If it’s a predator, it will be drawn to the blood when Ailesse kills the boy. I worry at my lip. I’m not supposed to intervene tonight, but that rule probably means I shouldn’t interfere with Ailesse’s amouré, not whatever it is I just saw.

I hang my friend’s shoulder necklace on a branch, duck under it, and tiptoe to the edge of the riverbank. Ailesse’s amouré doesn’t notice me. He’s watching her walk around him and trail her hand around his torso. I have to hurry. I need to return to my post before the dance is finished. By then, the luring spell of the bone flute will dwindle away, Ailesse will withdraw her bone knife, and I must be back in time to witness her completion of the rite of passage.

The fog churns thick again. I move as fast as possible down the steep bank. At last, I reach the bottom and scan around. I can only see seven feet or so in each direction. The rest of the riverbed is a blanket of white. If I were out hunting, I’d have my bow or dagger, but as a ritual witness, I’m defenseless. The Leurress performing the rite must prove she is adept on her own.

I continue forward carefully. My salamander grace steadies my feet on the uneven ground. It also heightens my sense of smell, an ability I’ve often rolled my eyes at for its lack of helpfulness, but now I’m grateful. I let the scent of leather and wool and light perspiration guide me to the other side, where I hear a small grunt of exertion. It comes again, this time accompanied by faint scraping. The fog parts around a crouched figure—a girl. She jerks her head to me, and her hood falls back.